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I'd not thought of any of this when I first climbed the steps to Clyde's.
But now, leaing against the bottle tree with the sun falling quickly behind, I begin to realize, slowly, as if waking from a deep dream, that Clyde already knew. Knew and didn't care. Myself on the other hand had not the slightest clue as to why I was really there. It wasn't to get a painting. I'd have liked to say it was to know the man behind the art, but that wasn't it either. I'd come under false pretenses. I didn't really care about Clyde, not at first. I was there to use him. Use the artist for monetary gain, because I knew if I could strike a deal with Clyde I could open the doors to future trades and then sell the work I cared nothing about...
That was what I came there to do, Clyde was a master. To me that meant he could remotely work an art community, I didn't really care for folkart, not then. Not until I was invited in and given the terms. Treated exactly as I was to treat him..."take your piece and leave"...I don't think so. There was more to this man and myself.
The backyard had begun to stir questions in me and I didn't dare ask them. Couldn't ask them. I looked at the same pieces I'd seen before, but through slightly different eyes. Not for profit eyes. Eyes that could not have possibly given the narration above without experiencing a sunset in Clyde's backyard first. Eyes that falter all the time and are forever looking away from contact. Eyes that selectively see. It was about that time, when I was breathing in the stale Bynum evening, staring at all around me as it grew more and more grey, that I heard the door to Clyde's close and he was gone...
I took the last piece my eyes fell on. I took the turtle.
I never sold it.
I learned more about Clyde later, but I never spoke to him again. I never saw him again.
The turtle was stolen, but it doesn't matter. It will be there with every other turtle I see for the rest of my life...
goodnight 3.25.98
