Dialogue in a Coffeehouse

Dialogue in a Coffeehouse(Jeremy McCool) A smart-looking chap in black pants and a white shirt enters through the seldom-used coffeehouse door. His eyes adjust slowly to the low light in the dank house and he begins to look around.

“Aha! Thom!” He says, recognizing a friendly face.

“Madden! How do you do old chap? Fancy seeing you in a pit like this.”

Madden briskly crosses the small house to the back stale corner where Thom waits impatiently.

“They’ve got a hell of a bean for a junk heap, what?” Says Madden in defense of his, in truth, favourite beverage distributor. He sits. “How have you been? How’s Esperanza?”

“Everything, to be brief, is going smoothly,” comments Thom as he sips his hot tea. “Espie is out of her head about this wedding business. I do not understand the fuss, what? Weddings happen every day. Divorces twice a day. She seems to take things a bit seriously if you ask me. It’s just a formality, anyway, really.”

Madden listens patiently to the rant. He is used to such abuse from this particular acquaintance. The moment drags in Madden’s head as he goes over the shopping, and the laundry is left to do. He catches Thom’s eye and, the precise moment before arousing suspicion of his cruel apathy, remarks quickly that he is drained.

“I quite understand, old chap. I stopped in for a spot dry as the Sahara. Said like I’ve been there, what? Ho ho ho. Go relieve yourself of this wretched drought. I say, don’t let me keep you one moment longer!”

Madden thanks him gratuitously and heads for the barrister. He nods at the wet clerk and says, “Usual, then.”

The barrister smiles decidedly and marks up Madden’s tab, which is slightly overdue as of late.

Sipping his coffee drink unabashedly, Madden strolls back to the table. “Hey there, what?” He says as he seats himself once again. “Continue, by all means. Pardon the interruption. I was dry as hell itself.”

“Nothing of it, old man. I wouldn’t dream of letting your throat burn while you listen to my drab tales and general self-righteousness.” He smiles, reassuringly. “Please, tell me of your days. Have you pieced lately?”

Madden waved the question with his free hand. “Oh, my penciling career never even began.”

“Nonsense. I’ve seen that orchestra piece you did. Puts DeMarco to shame. Quit with the false modesty now. Do tell.”

Madden sips his coffee apprehensively. “My latest piece involves a wedding tuxedo on a corpse. A bit morbid, maybe, but it serves its semi-ironic purpose well enough I suppose. Please forgive. You understand why I did not volunteer such things.”

“Oh bash. Madden, old friend. I have had one hundred such sleeping dreams, and one thousand such drunken nightmares. ‘Tis a common vision I’m sure. I don’t believe in the fates anyhow. Such dreadful bores I always supposed; knowing all of the time what is going to happen. Preposterous. Hate to be them, eh?”

“Well I certainly am pleased that I have not offended you. Marriage was never a high point for me. I express it as I see it. Death of freedom is as good as death.”

“Say no more! Classic as Gorgias himself, I say. I have reconsidered too many times to note, chaining myself down. But the constant nagging…it’s exhausting. Espie won’t let me have a moment’s peace. Even teatime with her is like a damned Mass. Preaching and nagging all the time. The more I pull away the more she gets her tendrils inside my head. I’ve long since given up. Common expression in France, eh? ‘I surrender.’ Ha ha ha. Bloody good joke, what?”

Madden chuckled quietly. “My sketches are good enough, I suppose. I’ve got an agent interested in Manchester. He claims he would like to see more but I made the mistake of showing him my best work first, stumbling the orchestra bit. It’s not finished and I wouldn’t want to bore him. Agents are leeches anyhow. They suck you dry before you feel the prick.”

“That orchestra piece is as finished as it needs to be. Show the chap. He’ll make a fortune out of you. You may not be too –”

“The cellist isn’t finished. His legs are missing completely.”

“I think I know a thing or two about art. I am a member of the society, you know. The cellist is marvelous. Ironic if there is a thing. It’s obviously symbolic-”

“My lead broke and I didn’t have a sharpener at the ballet. Once it was over I lost my inspiration completely.”

“You oughtn’t to interrupt old boy. Nobody knows that work better than you do. Puts DeMarco to shame, what? You’ve seen the shading. You marked it. Perhaps the darkness of the song being played is making him disappear. Who knows? Have you asked the cellist? If you want my opinion, rub out half of the cymbal man too and you’ll have a hit. It’s the new wave, old boy. Nobody does a full sketch anymore.”

Madden puts down his drink and squares his fists on the table. “I don’t think like an artist I’m afraid. I think like a mortician. I do not see the beauty in half a cellist. I draw from my eyes only, not from my mind. Sketches are only as beautiful as life itself.”

“Bash! You tell the truth, though. Half a cellist is ridiculous. But it will sell, you’ll see. Take Picasso. He never finished some of his finest sights."

"Death, not lack, hindered Picasso. I drink to his health nightly, although he is dead."

"Madden, If you draw what others cannot see it will always be original to them. If you do not draw what they can see, you give them the fun of doing half the work. The eye, as taught by human nature, is trained to focus on what is missing, not on the drab details of what it can comprehend. Half a cellist is ridiculous, yes, but it draws the onlooker into the frame. He has to fill the gaps, what? And each sight will be fresh and alarmingly original.”

“But I cannot see it either. I've tried, by God I've tried. I have tried to see only half a cellist. I have covered one eye, looked through a dirty glass, my vision is too exceptional, I’m afraid, to see anything differently from what it is.”

“You cannot see at all until you can see with your eyes shut,” Thom says. He sucks the last draught of tea from his glass and sets it down. His hand out for Madden to shake, he says “Dash it all, I’m afraid I must be off, old chap. Espie will start to think I got a girlfriend. I must apologize for my lack of sensitivity to your situation. An artist without an eye for art is a bit cliché, to ask me. You have the ability but not the sense to use it. I say, half a cellist is better than a whole cellist, no matter the detail on the legs. Rub out half the cymbal man and you’ll have a hit. The day you stop looking at things with your eyes and see with your mind and your fingers and your broken lead your agent will call you Jesus.”

They shake hands abruptly, yet fondly. Something in their locked eyes sparks and Madden utters the words of his salvation: “I will always look to you for your advice, Thom. Even if you are an utter bore.”