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Exodus Twenty I

"But you are not doing well! I talked to Margo and she says you guys are barely getting by."

"Ma, stay out, alright? I don't need help. I think I have a commission coming soon. We'll be all right. I hate it when you butt in."

"Listen, Margo knows what is going on. She can hardly go to the store and?"

"Ma, that's enough."

"Here, lemme get your father on the phone." I heard a click.

"Hello?" said my Pa's gruff s voice.

"Pa, tell Ma to lay off the money situation."

"Son, I can't do that. You are renting a puny second floor of a dingy house down there; I don't know how you even manage. Let us send you some cash."

"I already told you guys, I don't want it!! Jesus, do you guys ever even listen!"

"Son," said Ma, "why are you afraid?" Oooh, that was rough.

"Ma, why do you say that to me. You make me madder than a damn hornet. I ain't afraid of nothing."

"Well, it sounds like it," said my Pa.

"Alright that's enough. I'm getting off the phone now."

"Son, listen," said Ma calmly. Vivaldi was playing vaguely in the background at their apartment.

"What."

"I was talking to Margo, and-"

"I don't care."

"Just listen to me," she said, soothingly. "She said you don't have any money. She works her ass off at night to get the tips in, and says you do nothing."

"I don't give a shit."

"Son," said my Pa, "you gotta grow up. That drawing stuff you do is just not enough to make a living. Why don't you think about trying something else?"

My rage returned anew. He never liked my being in the arts.

"I don't draw, I paint," I said pointedly.

"Whatever. You don't make any money with that stuff."

"God damn it! It is always a problem with you! You guys bought me a freakin' piano, and when I said I wanted to play music for a living you shot me down. Then I got into writing, and you said that authors had a tough life. Now I paint and you say that can't be done. What the hell do you want from me!?"

"We want you to be happy."

"Well this sure ain't doing it."

"You sound like you are suffering."

"I am fine. You guys are such a pain."

"Margo said you have thousands on your credit card bill."

"Margo told you that?" I said, the blood boiling in my veins. "That bitch. She always says shit that isn't true."

"Son, what is going on with you? Are you in trouble-"

"SHUT UP!!" I roared. "Just shut up! I'm tired of this shit."

"We are just trying to help you,"

"Fuck you alright!? Fuck both of you! Everyone is always meddling, trying to tell me what to do. Why don't you just lay off? What have you done to make you all so lofty? You, Pa, are just a poor carpenter; all you do is beat shit with a hammer. Ma, you just stay at home and act lazy, and you talk about me. What the fuck!? All I get is criticism, and you guys go around proving nothing. Fuck you.

Leave me alone."

My mother was crying as I slammed the phone down on the receiver.

I let out a breath, and looked up, hearing a noise. Margo was standing in the doorway, a grimace on her face. I got up off the bed and pushed past her, heading for the kitchen.

"What are looking at," I said. "All you do is lie."

***Exodus Twenty, Verse Twelve: Honour thy father and thy mother***

Part II

I poured myself a double-shot of rum. It was a bottle of Mount Gay Eclipse Rum, which my friend Dan had brought back from St. Thomas when he had visited. I looked at the label. It had an outline of Barbados on it, and lettering in black and red. Forty-three percent alcohol, I read. At least some shit never meddles in your affairs, I thought.

Thank God I still have some of this stuff left. Dan had brought me back six bottles of it, the legal limit. It was over twice as strong and an order of magnitude better than what they sold in this damn country. For all our talk of freedom, Americans can't even by decent rum, I lamented.

I once tasted a bottle of Bacardi rum bought at a nice liquor store against this Mount Gay that Dan brought me. It was no contest. The Bacardi smelled and tasted like turpentine, the Mount Gay like heaven.

The taste was as different as Gilbert and Shakespeare, one inspiring laughter and mocking, the other inspiring intensity and passion.

I drained the glass, praising the burning as it traveled down my throat.

"Ahh," I let out noisily, as poured myself another.

This is the stuff life is made of, I thought, as I took another slug.

Goddamnit, why did my parents have to be so stubborn. They really care, I suppose, but they have a thing about their son being rich or famous. Probably because they never were either of those things. Not even close.

I drained my second glass, wondering how I managed to keep my temper with them. Wait, I hadn't, I thought, suddenly. I felt a bit bad, having told them the things I did. I tilted the bottle of amber over a third time.

Maybe I should call back and apologize, I thought, taking another chug of the rum. Thankfully Margo was not in the kitchen berating me.

I finished my third glass, feeling the rum handily now. Wow, this shit is good, I thought. I could live on just this. Never another sugar touch my proud lips, never another syrup bathe my parched throat.

I looked at the bottle again, having some trouble focusing. I held my fourth double shot tightly, a bit shakily even. "World's Oldest Rum: Since 1703" said the label on the neck. I felt honored to be able to partake in this noble achievement. I drained my fourth all at once.

Fuck, this rum is strong as an Olympic weight lifter, I thought, obtusely. Oh Rum-e-o, wherefore art thou oh Rum-e-o. I was starting to feel really fucked up. I held the bottle up again, reading the back label. "Mount Gay Rum has been a 'rite of passage' among the world's finest sailors," I read, "which has earned it the reputation as the 'quintessential spirit of the seas'." Damn straight, I thought. I pulled the tip of the bottle towards my parched lips and took a long swig. I couldn't remember how many times I'd looked at that bottle, even though I knew it by heart.

"Shit," I said, breathing hard. I better call Ma and Pa back and apologize. I was rude to them before, I thought. I messily dumped a fifth or sixth into my glass, who the hell knew how many I was on.

All right, off to call the parents. What's the fuckin' number, I thought, as I staggered out of the kitchen, bottle in one hand, glass in the other. Two-One-Two, wait, shit, that ain't it, that's me.

Two-One-Three? No, you better look that shit up, man. Christ, I'm fucked up.

I held up the bottle to my face, praising its ability to make me see the truth and honesty in me. I had been mean. I was going to call my parents and make them feel better.

***Exodus Twenty, Verse Three: Thou shalt have no other gods before me***

Part III

Suddenly Margo was in front of me.

"Where are you going?" she asked me.

"To the bedroom," I drawled.

"What for? To puke in the sheets?"

"Shut up. I'm gonna call my parents back."

"No you ain't, not like this you ain't." She stepped in front of me, blocking the doorway to the bedroom.

"Move, I'm gonna call my parents, to tell them how I feel."

"You already told them that," she retorted.

"Get out of the way. You don't understand!"

"All I understand is that you are fucked up! You have been drinking like a drainpipe recently, that's all I know!"

"That's very poetic of you," I said sarcastically, trying to push her aside.

"Shut up, asshole, what's your problem? Did they say something that affected your nerves? Or your genteel artist's sensibility?! Oh, poor baby, can't be inspired if you are feeling down or unloved or don't if you don't fuck me every night or don't drink yourself into a coma. What IS your god damn problem?"

"Be quiet! You too, you're just like my Ma and Pa. All you do is criticize my behavior. Just leave me be. I'm gonna call them and tell them what I really feel right now."

"What's that?" she said, mockingly. "That you don't appreciate their love, that you are shunning their compassion, their desire to do you a favor, to help their only son?"

"FUCK YOU!" I tried to push her aside, but I was weak and shaky from the rum.

"You listen to me, all right? All you've been doing for the last half-year is lamenting your position in life. You god damned motherfucker! You sit around this house, doodling bullshit pictures in your god-forsaken notebook, crying about how the public doesn't appreciate your divine inspirations!"

"SHUT UP!" I was feeling pretty shitty.

"No, you shut up," she continued, red in the face. "You have not painted anything in a long time! You are dried up for the time being, just face it, damn it!" She left a stinging slap on my face.

"You treat me like crap. I'm your fuckin' wife for god sakes! All you do is come home from Dan's house wasted and then push me to the bed and fuck me. You are so drunk you cum in a minute and then fall asleep like a shit animal. That's what I mean to you. A hole where you deposit your filthy cum. A slut!" She slapped me again, hard as hell. I tried to shield my face, but I didn't want her to smash the glass into my face. It had happened before.

"I know I ain't no angel," she went on, "but Jesus fucking Christ, grow up will you!? Get a fuckin' job! I wait tables from four to midnight six days a week and all you do is complain how no one digs your paintings. Well, to tell you the truth, your work lately has been shit. Pig shit. Like a gorilla's shit's son's shit. All you do is doodle worthless crap about fire and hell and? and shit! Sometimes I think you are the damned Devil himself!"

"Shut UP!" I said, almost crying. "I don't even know why I married your lame ass. Leave me ALONE!! I am not Satan, I am fucking God, you hear?! I am God of art, and all that shit! So get the fuck out of my way, bitch!"

I somehow gathered enough strength to push her aside brusquely onto the couch and strode into the bedroom, where I promptly fell onto the bed, the contents of my glass and bottle pouring out onto the white sheets. I vaguely remember Margo getting on me and beating me, but I felt no pain.

*** Exodus Twenty, Verse Seven: Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain***

Part IV

The next day I was suffering through a terrible headache, and had a few bruises, although they were not visibly bad. The two-year anniversary of my marriage, next week, was sitting heavily on me as I looked out my window. In my neighbor's yard, which in our poor neighborhood was not twenty feet away, was a most incredible sight:

Keith's wife.

Keith and Annette had moved in a few months ago. I had met them when they were moving in by offering to help unload their truck. Ever since, I had been obsessed with Annette.

Christ, she was gorgeous. She was tall, lanky, and firm. Her long dark hair was the eighth wonder of the natural world: long and so supple as to make ocean waves envious. Her delicate face was defined, yet soft, a contradiction somehow beyond definition.

Her sweet hazel eyes alighted on mine the first time like a Monarch butterfly descending upon a flower by a riverbed: delicately, but with full intent to reap whatever seed the bud offers it. Her small mouth twitched as if wanting to let a gentle obscenity pass though, slightly twisted at the corners but modest in the middle.

Now, I looked at her body in the midsummer's afternoon haze.

She was absorbing the sun's rays openly, arms stretched at her side, dark frames shielding her eyes from the harmful light. I peered though the crack in our curtains as an eagle looks for fish in Alaskan waters.

Her long legs pointed towards me, telling me I was the one. Was I indeed? Her tummy was separated from her legs by the colorful cloth of her floral bikini, a separation I would have given anything to remove.

Her breasts broke the smooth line leading from her toe to her shoulder, but it was a good break. Indeed, it was worth further study. I pulled put the binoculars my Pa had given me for Christmas out of their hard fake-leather case and pushed the eyepieces up to my eyes.

Her breasts were magnified many times and I could see individual threads of the thin strip of bikini that covered those sweet round jewels.

"Hot damnation," I breathed.

I scanned her body with the bins, lingering on her mons, and then traversing the expanse of her legs, which even foreshortened some were of vast length. I was breathing hard.

After a while of bird watching, my sweet dove turned over. Her graceful arms reached behind her. I watched in detail as her thumb and forefinger busied themselves with the latch that opened the top half of her outfit. Success, then, and her back was entirely mine to observe. I scanned down her spine, to the sweet, curved, small of her back, the gentle thin of her waist, the wide curve of her hips, then the perfection of her rear.

What a piece of work is Woman, how noble in breadth, how infinite in depth, in form and moving how tender and graceful; in action how like a muse, in apprehension how like the devil herself: the sweetness before me, the paragon of virtue and decadence - and yet to me, what is this quintessence of beauty? Woman delights me so!

*** Exodus Twenty, Verse Seventeen: Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's ass***

Part V

I ran into my studio, feeling a foreign blood course through me. I threw aside my latest work, a mostly-finished painting of a man holding the world on his shoulders. A small pewter statue of Venus standing on the floor ripped a crack through the center of the canvas, but I didn't care.

I pulled out my paints, choosing watercolors for a change. Oils were just too damn heavy, and I already had a heavy heart, I decided. I pressed the thick colors out of their tubes: Alizarin Crimson, Cadmium Red, Yellow Ochre, Permanent Rose (Ah, that was her indeed!), Phthalo Green, Burnt Umber and Sienna, Payne's Gray, Cerulean Blue for the sky.

In a fury, I ran to the kitchen and filled one cup with water, another with vodka from the freezer. Back in the studio, I threw open the shades with a passion I had not felt for twenty-three months.

There she was. The crystalline form, beckoning to be rendered in the mix of water and colored Dextrin. I took up the brush and painted like the wings of Hell descending upon the damned.

I swallowed a long gulp of one glass and then mixed some of the other with my paint. My throat burnt, but not as feverishly as my heart, so I knew I drank from the right cup.

I began with her soft hair, easily folding to either side of her luscious neck. Then her shoulders demanded my full attention; I gave them the care a baby in swaddling clothes would deserve, rendering their delicate line smoothly with my brush.

The gentle shape of her back called out, neglected. How am I to paint all of you at once? I asked my muse, feverishly attacking the paper with aplomb.

Her bikini covered part of her I'd have rather have painted in the nude, but unfortunately I was denied the opportunity. I deftly figured in blue and red splotches over a pale yellow hue to represent her cloth, and then moved to the infinitely perfect fortunes that were her legs.

I worked for an eon, perhaps more. Even my grace's turning over was no distraction: her image was etched forever in my head.

However long forever is, I don't know, but at least it has lasted this long.

And I saw every thing that I had painted, and, behold, it was very good.

Excellent, I had to admit. I had not painted anything of quality for months, and here was a masterwork. I looked at the paper, amazed.

Divine inspiration?

*** Exodus Twenty, Verse Four: Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above***

Part VI

"What the hell are you doing?" said a voice, breaking my stream of consciousness.

I turned and faced Margo, who was standing in the doorway, looking at the rendering I had produced: "Fiery Mars preying upon Golden Venus."

"What is that?" she said, coming into the room.

"Nothing," I said, softly.

"Is that the woman next door?" she asked.

"N-no," I stammered, feeling the void within that I had lived with for so long starting to return.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" she said, slapping me hard across the face.

"What!?" I said, weakly, shielding my face.

Another whap. "You piece of shit, I go out to get our food for the week and all I get is your piece of shit painting showing some naked lady under - what the fuck is that anyway?"

I stood back towards the corner meekly, holding my brushes.

She came over and slapped me again. "What is all that blue and white shit? Is that your cum?" she asked.

"It's the sky," I offered.

"Fuck you and your worthless paintings. You are a piece of shit!

Get a God damned fuckin' real job!" She stormed out of the room like a bee leaving a spent rose.

I collapsed into the corner, letting out a few tears. Why am I the abused, I thought. I might be a moody son-of-a-shit, but I never hit my wife. I was surprised that I even pushed her last night, harmless as it was.

I went outside to get some air, carrying the still damp sheet of watercolor paper in my fist. Anger was my blood, love was my nerve.

Annette was before me in her bikini, perhaps unfortunately.

"Hi there. You look depressed," she said.

"I'm O.K.," I said. "Just having a tough time at work." I tried to avoid staring at her firm body.

"What you got there?"

"Nothing," I said, pulling the rolled sheet to my side.

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"Shoot."

"I need some help with my dresser."

"How's that?"

"I need to move it. Keith - you remember Keith - (I nodded) well, he ain't home."

"O.K., no prob."

We ascended to her bedroom, where a dresser was partly pulled away from the wall.

"Where are you looking to put it?" I asked.

"Over here," she pointed.

We managed, between us, to drag the piece over to the other wall.

"All set," I said.

"Thanks a lot. I really appreciate your help." She walked out of the room and I heard the screen door slam shut.

I pulled a drawer out of the dresser we had just moved: underwear.

Female underwear. I pulled out a black thong, caressing the thin fabric that would cover her two entries.

After a moment's consideration I stuffed it into my pocket, and walked out the front door and back to my house.

*** Exodus Twenty, Verse Fifteen: Thou shalt not steal***

END OF THE FIRST HALF