A Hole in the Head

Lena found a dead body with a hole in the head. A black hole in the middle of the forehead. She had to run this by herself again. A man’s body. Bullet hole. Forehead. Down a dark laneway, amongst the black rubbish bags and solid grey metal garbage cans, the scurrying mice and treacherous cats, Lena had found a body. After she screamed and got dizzy, after she screamed again and almost regained composure, almost, she stepped closer to the body lying there and saw what seemed like a bullet hole in a young man’s forehead. The repetition of the immediate visuals was stunning. This was all at once and alarming, a savage pop promo she had no business being in and was frightened to be part of. There was blood too, a puddle of it that matted the man’s dark curly hair and flowed a little on the dark concrete, a thin little stream, going nowhere fast, but edging out, it’s own volition, towards the bins and the dirty pipes and gutters. She didn’t scream anymore then because she was curious. The manic pulse of fear was giving way rapidly, strangely. Her curiosity led her to get closer to the body and she began to wonder how all this happened, in this particular place. Murders or suicides happened every day in the city so perhaps it wasn’t unusual to find a body in a laneway. So she got a little closer. Looking at, into, the hole in the head. It was then that the body sat up and said “Boo!” and Lena screamed again.

Her head swirled and for a moment and she must have stopped breathing, so big was the gasp and the thud at her heart; and the back of her eyes stung violently and her ears rang as she screamed and stared at the body sitting up and smiling at her. Since she had seen the body she had screamed several times, and she didn’t know which was more frightening, seeing the body for the first time, dead, motionless, a hole in the head, or seeing it sitting up laughing at her. Her mind was a terrible imbroglio, her face a twisted bark.
“Yours was the reaction I was hoping for. Thank you so much. I enjoyed that.”
Lena relinquished her urges to scream or run, and she winced a confused frown at him. What the hell was going on here?
“I know what you are thinking. You’re wondering what’s going on. Well let me explain.”
But Lena didn’t let him explain. First she kicked him hard in his privates that sent him reeling back down to his puddle of “blood”.
“Now explain, you shit!”
But he didn’t explain. Not just then. He rolled around in the “blood” first, whimpering and emitting piercing little shrieks that may have been deafening to dogs, so high and strange was the pitch. And he was a dog, as far as Lena was concerned; rolling over, playing dead, tail between his legs, now hurt, sore, beaten. Lena was amazed how a kick there could so hurt a guy. And she looked down upon him and was pleased.

He stayed crumpled up in a ball for quite a while and she waited for his explanation. She stared down, angry, eyes seething with derision. When he finally stopped moaning and clutching himself he began to talk:
“I’m an artist.”
“What?”
“I’m an artist. This is my latest piece. Or installation, if you like. I’m a conceptual artist. You’ve just been a part of my new work, and I think, a very significant part of a very significant work.”
He had his hands in his pants and seemed to be arranging himself, his mouth puckered, his forehead still a race of contours.
Lena could hardly believe what she was hearing. She stepped from heel to heel, arms on hips, trying to figure out what she had just stumbled upon.
“Well that’s one cheap trick you’re pulling mister. You frightened the life out of me. Not once but twice. And you call that art!”
He continued his gentle juggling, his eyes widening at directing her to somewhere above her head.
“Right above you there’s a video camera,” he said, “see over there, on the wall, and it has just filmed your reaction to the piece.”
“Piece?”
“Yes. Actually the show is called Reactions, did you not see it scribbled on the wall over there? Look up there, written in chalk.”
“There’s quite a lot of scribbling all over the city, I’ve noticed that much. You’re fucking insane! You know, I’ve probably got a right to sue you for this.”
“Oh yeah, how? On what grounds?”
“You are one sorry individual if you think what you are doing is art. Jesus!”
Lena wiped a stinging tear from her eye, careful not to smudge the dark lines painted there. She wasn’t even crying now, but there was still a well of tears, burning. She didn’t know what she was going to do next, maybe kick him again or call the police? But they’d hardly listen to her; she knew what they were like, in this city.
“People have won prizes for less. You know a guy can win a top prize for having a light go on or off. Think what I can do with this!”
The man got up from the ground and began to dust himself down. With a towel that he took from a hidden bag he groped at the sticky red mess that gripped his hair.
“This is not art you stupid…in fact I don’t care what it is, you disgusting shit! I’m getting out of here. I’ve things to do. I hope I never have the opportunity of seeing you again. Or if I do I hope you’re really dead!”
“Can you say that again? Just move a little here and the camera will be able to get you.”
“That’s it I’m out of here.”
“Wait. I want to hear your views on art. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. It’s the least I can do.”

Lena didn’t say anything for a while; she just let Martin rattle on about art as she sipped her coffee. He genuinely thought he was on to a good thing with this art idea and for a while she genuinely thought he was crazy. She was cold standing out there all night; a coffee would at least warm her up. The diner looked bright, inviting, and there were other people there if he really was a crackpot. Martin told her how he had graduated from college only a year ago and that all he needed was a break. He told her how he had done painting, sculpture, and all kinds of stuff. But it was the high-concept, video art that he did best. It was his dream always to be an artist, and she began, sort of, to like his foolish belief, his naivety. He was much younger than her; perhaps she could forgive his recklessness.
“These days one good idea is enough. Recently a man crucified himself. Did you know that? He actually had himself nailed to a cross and then photographed. His idea was that you had to suffer for art, and you know, it had all the religious stuff going on too, obviously. I don’t know if I could go that far.”
“Oh, but you could easily leave someone else go through some pain. You could, say, frighten the life out of someone and film that, mm?”
“I know it means I have to use people, and that’s unfair, but it has to be done.”
“This has to be done! And I have to be the one to get done. I have to be the guinea pig? Is that it? Or am I just one of the unlucky ones…or, am I the only one you have…”
“Well yes, actually. You are the only one so far. I’ve only just started. You should consider yourself lucky.”
Lena felt an urge to spill her coffee all over Martin’s lovely black curls. They had been freed from the fake blood that had tangled them. He did kind of get to her. But most of her coffee was gone, and it wasn’t that hot anymore now. Perhaps he’d get her another.
“I really am grateful for your help. You showed real human response there, the screaming was so real.”
“Yes. Because it was real.”
“Yeah. That’s what I mean. Wonderful.”
“So this little stunt is going to make you famous is it?”
“As soon as word gets round, as soon as I can show the video to the press, well, yeah. Fame beckons. But it’s not the fame thing I’m after. It’s the recognition. I want my art to be recognized.”
“But it’s my face in the video. I’m the one that should be recognized. Shouldn’t I get a little something out of this?”
“You did. You got a coffee and a sincere thank you.”
“Ooh you art people, you’re so generous.”
She was starting to get tired of all this. Although he looked much better out of the dark laneway and in a bright diner, the whole thing had been a bit much to take, on what should have been an ordinary evening in October. She was weary, had been walking on those heels all evening and was now a little emotionally drained. She hadn’t screamed in, well, in a while she supposed, and she wanted out of it all now. She was thankful that she had given him a good kick where it hurt, and maybe the next video victim would do the same. Hopefully.
“Look, I wish you the best with your project. I just think there could be some way of warning people.”
“If I warned people it wouldn’t work.”
“Yeah, I guess. Well…”
“This piece is also about the violence in the city, and how even as it escalates, as another ten, twenty murders happen every day, it can still shock. We haven’t become completely desensitized. If it hits you right in the face, then it still shocks. That’s the point.”
“If something bad hit you right between the eyes, some day, do you think you would react in the same way?”
“I think I would. Yes, I think I would.”
“Right. Well. I’ll see you around. I’m done.”
“Wait. Here’s my card.”
“You have a card? But you’re a poor artist!”
“Business is business. Can I have your number?”
“Wow, you make all kinds of moves in a day. Fine.”
She shrugged as she wrote. What difference could it make? Maybe the fool would be famous someday.
Martin put the paper into his wallet. He said he would call her. Let her know how the show was doing. Lena laughed when she heard the word show.
“I do have to call you, I don’t know anything about you. This is like unfinished business. I’d like to find out about you.”
“I’m not sure you would.”
“Well, let me try.”
“See you, Martin. Good luck with the show.”

Something must have been niggling at Martin because a day or two later he called Lena on her mobile phone. She knew who it was, his name appeared on the little screen, she had been advised to monitor all her calls; had to do this for all her clients, it was important to know who was calling. Some of them could turn out dangerous.
“Look, you know I do feel a little guilty. Not that I’d abandon the show or anything. But I’d like to meet for a drink or something. You didn’t tell me much about yourself.”
She took a deep breath and decided to talk. What harm could it do? Sure he could turn out to be a bit of a pest, but it might even get rid of him, and his art, for good.
“My name’s Lena, though that’s not my real name, and I’m not originally from this city, and I’m a prostitute. I live in an apartment, right near the laneway where I found you, your body, show, installation whatever the hell! If you were wondering what I was doing in an alleyway, well, that’s where I work. My clientele, fuckers even sadder than you, leave the bars at closing time, and some of them pass through that laneway. One or two come up to my apartment every night. They pay a lot of money.”
The line was silent for a second.
“No, I don’t have any children to support, no man either, except one who calls the shots, financially, and hooks me up with some rich guys who are away from their wives for a night. You know the words for guys like him. I don’t have to say it. I do have a gambling problem, at least I used to, and that’s mostly paid off now. I don’t do drugs, at least nothing that’ll kill me or get me addicted and I don’t have AIDS. I am a whore, a street girl, a hooker or whatever the hell you want to call me. I do sex for money, and I don’t like, or understand, conceptual art.”
Again, a silent second.
“Right. Ahem, I didn’t know.”
“Well, a lady down an alleyway on her own, late evening, in heels and a short skirt, in this cold…well, I know artists aren’t meant to be mathematicians but I thought you’d put two and two together.”
“I was a bit caught up in the show.”
“You know, I should have left you come over here and told you all this. See the look on your face and record it all on video. Perhaps I’d call the show Reactions II.”
“It just might work, the critics would love it,” he laughed.
“I’m sure they would. I can see the headlines – Hooker wins big stupid art award with her amazing show, Reactions II.”
“Well can I see you sometime?”
“Have you got enough money?”
“No, not much. But I’ve enough for a few hours of drinking.”
“Do you think I really need an artist tagging along? I need one of you lot like…I’ve got a few rich old boys who look after me quite well.”
“I’d still like to…”
“Look, artist boy, you’re forgiven. If it’s guilt you’re feeling then don’t. You bought me a coffee and I kicked you in the balls. All seems fair to me.
“Just give me a few hours of your company.”
“Okay, what if…what if you come over here and you find me on the floor in a pool of blood? That would be interesting wouldn’t it?”
“Very.”
“But would I sit up and say Boo! Or would I really be dead. I mean, really. And would you scream?”
“Not now. Because you told me. If I didn’t expect it then…”
“Oh, you are clever after all. And what would your reaction be if I just hung up now, leaving you guessing, if I just pressed this little button here and left you with that horrible dead tone, and left you with your own reaction and nothing more. Well?”

©Collin O Sullivan, 2005