From a moment last night:
The man sat on a cement block, near his sculpture. He waited quietly, watching the people waiting for the attendants to finish with their cars. He wasn’t pushy or aggressive, and he kept his gaze mostly on the wet, slick floor. He wasn’t a salesman and he knew this, but this morning, desperate for money, his wife’s own desperate eyes fixed on him, the baby crying in the other room, he had taken his latest piece, three women’s faces, ghostly in their soft lines, carved in precious wood, a heavy piece he had taken much care with, and walked out the door, promising himself he would sell it. He didn’t say it to his wife, but he had been sure that this piece was the first piece he would use in an exhibition, his first, something he dreamed of since learning to carve wood into beautiful images. But then the baby had gotten sick.
He took a public car into the city, carrying the large piece on his lap, avoiding the annoyed stares of the other passengers, four squished on the back seat, and had been walking the streets
since then, continuously lowering his price. He was sweaty and hungry, tired and dirty, and somehow he had ended up in this carwash, on his way to the public car back home. Earlier that day, he had been optimistic and even aggressive, trying to make loud deals with the people he offered his piece to, so against his nature. Now, his silence and reserve had returned, coupled with disappointment. His shoulders were hunched in, revealing both his exhaustion and loss of faith.
He dared to glance up and offer a small, tentative smile to someone who looked his way, picking up the piece to show the man his offering. The prospective client, overweight and a little messy, driving a very large, black SUV, looked away, then shook his head. The same old story. The look in the man’s eyes was apologetic, but apologies could not help in any way. The other people there completely avoided his eyes, even as they spent slightly less what he was asking to wash their own cars. And he was asking so much less than the hours to make the piece had been worth, so much less than even the wood was worth. He just needed enough for his baby’s medicine.
He approached a young couple, bringing his piece closer to the young woman. Women, he knew, were the ones who usually bought these things. She inspected it quickly with her eyes, offering him a soft smile as she did so, looked at her husband, then away. The young man looked it over more slowly, muttered, “It’s a good piece.” But did not offer to buy it. Met with the other man’s impassive stare, the young man said, “If we only had the money…”
The three stood in silence some more, then the young man asked, out of politeness perhaps,
“Are you from here?”
“Yes,” the other man answered, “Haina.”
“That’s far,” the young man said. “It’s a good piece,” he repeated. “I’m sorry. We have to go.”
The young couple got into their car and drove away. The man picked up his piece and kept walking downhill, towards the public cars, in the dark.
Copyright Karina Sang 2008
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