Portrait of an Artist
Fresh out of high school
the first job I got
was to care for the mentally handicapped
in a huge institution with two thousand
inmates
about a hundred per building in outmoded
wards
Picture stark tile
floors
a large room rimmed with benches
gnarled bodies squat
bony knees to their chins
rocking back and forth for hours and hours
intoning moaning mantras of boredom
chanting wordless syllables in limbo
as they measure their time out
in tranquilized motion
I remember one guy...Gullason
He was a small, wiry skeleton of a man
He wore a permanent grimace that twisted
his face
into a creepy sneer of a smile
He never spoke...the
only sound I ever heard him utter
was a gutteral croak from the back of
his throat
a thin gurgled warble of emotion
but though he couldn't speak a single
word
he had his own unique style of expressing
himself
He had a habit of (just when no one was
looking)
he'd grab a suitably moist wad of shit
and smear wild fauvist swirls on the huge
dayroom walls
in vast, sweeping murals as far as he
could reach
He could make a painting at the speed
of thought
faster than a coked up abstract expressionist
I'd look down to jot a note in the log
book
then look up to ponder the next lie to
write
and behold! - an instant masterpiece of
shit!
and Gullason squatting there sneering
a grin
There was another strange character in
that place
who wore white staff pajamas just like
mine
He'd been there for years...since
the army nurse days
and was thoroughly institutionalized
Gansky was his name...he was about sixty
years old
a vicious old drunk with a grizzly beard
and a gap-toothed snarl for anyone new
His presence filled the residents with
fear
One day I learned just how vicious he
was
when we worked the same dayroom on an
evening shift
I was mopping up piss by the north bathroom
toilets
I turned around as I swung my mop through
the door
and saw Gansky dragging Gullason by the
heels
across the cold, hard freshly mopped floor
I heard Gullason's butt squeak on the
shiny wet tiles
then Gansky kicked him hard in the face
I heard the crunch of his boot as it struck
Gullason's cheek
and a viscous red spurt spattered Gansky's
white pants
My spine shuddered shock from tailbone
to brain
as Gullason blinked up at Gansky in pain
yet he still wore his mischievous rebel
grin
so Gansky kicked him in his virgin balls
Even then Gullason never made a sound
He just rolled back his eyes and doubled
up
and curled his small body in a fetal position
cringing for Gansky to kick him again
"What the fuck are you doing?" I shouted
Gansky didn't answer...he just spun on
his heel
jangled his keys and unlocked the door
It slammed shut behind him with a resounding
boom
Then I saw Gullason's latest painting
glistening fresh on the big green wall
I stood there stunned with my mop dripping
piss
as the door echoed fear in the grim, silent
room
Gullason just lay there
splayed like a corpse
spitting blood from his grimacing mouth
for a moment I feared he was almost dead
as I reached down to lift the limp flesh
of his arm
but then he yanked it suddenly free of
my grasp
and lunged like a diver...muscles taut
He plunged both hands into the pool of
his own blood
drew his fingers through the fluid that
spewed from his tongue
and spreading his arms as wide as he could
he painted his blood in the shape of a
heart
© 2006 Gary Lee