‘The Artist’ SHORT FICTION CONTEST RUNNER-UP

PHOTOGRAPHER - Tobi Brun

The Artist

It was a warm day at the market. The sunlight came down through the tall oak trees and lay slotted across the stalls. The man picked at his fingernails with a paring knife, humming to himself. He shared smiles with patrons walking by and glancing at his wares, coming and going.

He got up from behind the table and reorganized the wooden staffs leaning there, turning their showier sides toward the walkway. He paced back a few feet and stood looking at them, his hands on his hips. They looked good. People were walking up and down the path and he would move out of their way while judging the stall’s presentation.

It was a busy day, the townsfolk chatting with vendors and inspecting melons, soaps, and candles. Children ran by with honey sticks in their hands and the park smelled of sweet earth and wax. He placed a few of the staffs in different positions and inspected them from the pathway again. Satisfied, he walked back over to sit down in his chair.

He pulled the knife out of his pocket and went back about his business, watching the skin and dirt fall to the ground in little flecks. His nails were clean quickly and he stuck his legs out and crossed them over each other, tipping his broad hat a little lower on his face. He dozed in the humid morning, the conversations around him middling into a sweet hum.

“Whatcha got here?”

He jumped at the voice and pushed the hat up his head, standing and dusting his pants.

“Howdy howdy, sorry about that there, this warm weather just puts me right to sleep.”

“Oh I don’t blame ya none. Ya make these?”

“Yessir you bet. My ol grandpa taught me when I was a youngin. Been whittlin since.”

The visitor picked up a staff. “Ya mind?”

“Go right ahead. Stern stuff.”

The visitor hefted the walking stick up and inspected it from its rubber tip at the bottom all the way to the top. It was smooth and lacquered but honored the wood’s natural from.

“I’m Carl.”

“Hess.” The visitor inspected the knots and put it on the ground, his arm out in front of him.

“That one’s lookin too tall for ya. Here, try this one.” He counted down the sticks from the side of the table till he found the one he wanted and grasped it by its handle. “That’s it.”

The visitor took the stick and placed the other one back.

“Oh, yeah. That feels right. Sturdy, too.” He put his whole weight against it, the staff bowing slightly. He inspected it thoroughly and then placed it back. “Thank ya, much obliged. I’m gonna head on over to the square. You comin?”

“What’s goin on?”

“What’s goin on? You ain’t heard?”

“Nope. I just sit here and whittle away.” It was then that he noticed most of the market was empty. The booths were closed up and only a few people rushed on down the path. The dull roar of conversation in the distance met his ears.

“They done locked a fella up in a rock.”

“They did what now?”

“They locked this fella up in a big ol rock and kept em in the museum. He’s been in there a week and ain’t been out yet. They’re bringin it to the square. They’re fixin to open it up and get him out.”

“Today?”

“Lord, right now.”

“Shoot. I got to see that.”

“I’ll see you there.”

The man hurried down the path with the others. Carl bounded to the front of the table and collected the walking sticks in a big bundle in his arms, shuffling to the back of his stall. He lowered them on to the ground in front of a storage chest and they clattered against each other. Finding the key in his pocket, he unlocked the rusted padlock and opened the chest, placing his merchandise inside. Then he locked the chest and put the key back into his pocket, leaving the stall. He strode down the pathway.

When he was out of the park he walked down 22nd until Jefferson street and then took a right. He could see the large crowd gathered there around the obelisk. Their roar filled the plaza and rebounded off the marbled buildings. He stopped and looked at them, confined by the tall stone pillars on one side and brick storefronts on the other. A man was selling hot dogs on one end and an ice cream truck was parked at the other. Music box Joplin cut through the din and children pulled at their parents. He sauntered up and stood at the back of the crowd, now able to see it. In front of the obelisk was a gray boulder. It was mottled with whites and blacks. The crowd encircled it.

“What’s goin on?” Carl asked.

The man beside him turned to look at him briefly then brought his eyes back to the rock. “They’re gon let him out.”

“He been in there seven days?”

“Yes sir,” a man on the other side of him said.

Carl grunted and pumped up his ankles to get a better look. It was very sunny and the rock reflected some of the rays. He put his hands on his forehead to shade his eyes and then brought his heels back down.

“You think he’s alive?”

“Oh lord, I sure hope so,” a woman in front of him said in return, her large hat now blocking some of his view.

Another woman standing next to her nodded and said: “He better be. I just don’t know what I’d do if I saw a dead man.”

“Aw, honey, ain’t nothin to be afraid of. I seen plenty,” one of the men said. “Mister Wilson, have you forgotten that I’m a lady?”

“My apologies ma’am, didn’t mean nothin by it.”

“That’s alright, sugar. One of my girlfriends said he lived in a bottle.”

“He did what?”

“Mhm, you heard that right. A whole month. Lived in a little bottle out by the beach.”

“You’re tellin me he lived all alone inside a bottle by the beach?” Carl asked her. She turned her big hat around now, showing her face.

“Wouldn’t never lie.”

“Takes all kinds I suppose.”

The men and women all nodded in agreement about that and fixed their gaze back upon the rock. The obelisk’s shadow grew shorter and then was gone. The men scratched themselves and shifted the weight on their feet and the women fanned themselves with their hats and their hands. Carl’s stomach rumbled.

“When’re they openin him up?”

“Beats me, but I ain’t missin it.”

Carl looked out over the crowd again. The boulder still sat there. There were people

behind him now.

“I’ll be back,” he said to those around him, and edged his way out of the crowd. He walked over to the museum underneath the big pillared building and went through the doors. It was cool and dark and he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. He walked down the hall, following the signs, to the bathroom. It was empty and he urinated and walked back out of the building into the light again. The crowd was growing. He went over to the hot dog stand.

“Howdy.”

“Howdy, what can I get ya?” “Guessin I’ll take one of those dogs.” “Two dollars.”

Carl handed him the two bills and the man took his tongs and grabbed a hot dog from inside and placed it on a bun in some wax paper. He handed it to Carl.

“Thank ya.”

“Help yourself,” he said, pointing with his head to the ketchup and mustard. Carl squirted a line of each down the hot dog and stood eating it in the shade of the hot dog stand’s umbrella.

“You gettin good business today?”

“Best in a long time.”

“I could use some myself.”

Carl stood out of the way while another patron came up to the stand and the man helped him.

“You gonna go over there and see this?”

“You know it.”

“You don’t think you’ll miss it over here?”

“Aw, I’ll hear y’all start roarin over there and come over and see.”

“Fair enough, fair enough.” Carl finished the hot dog and licked his fingers, cleaning them with a napkin, and threw the refuse into the trash can next to the stand. “Thanks again.”

“Ain’t nothin but my pleasure.” The man smiled at him with his big yellow teeth.

Carl left and walked back to the crowd, shoving himself back into where he was before. The shadow of the obelisk had come down on the other side now, short and stubby.

“When they openin it?” he asked.

“Dunno.”

“Aw hell.” He looked at his watch and then put his wrist back down and continued to wait, staring forward at the heads in front of him.

“What’s he doin it for?”

“Dunno.”

“Hell.”

“He’s an artist,” a voice to his side said. “An artist?”

“It’s all I heard.” The man shrugged and kept peering over the others to steal looks at the boulder.

“Gotdamn but it’s hot.”

“Oh, please don’t say that now,” one of the women said. “He just must be so gosh darn hot in there.”

“Suppose that’s why they kept him down there in that museum till it was time. Next to all them ol grey coats.”

“You think he’s okay?”

“Hell if I know.”

The woman fanned herself again, beads of sweat dripping down her temples. “Why don’t we go head and get these folks back to the market and the shade while

they wait?” Carl asked.

“He could come on out any minute now. We ain’t missin it.”

It was then that the doors to the museum opened up and four men dressed in black walked out. One of them carried a canvas duffel bag. A few people turned to look and after several nudges and murmurs the crowd then watched them as they walked down into the square. The people parted and the four men walked through them toward the boulder. They sat the duffel in front of the rock and opened it up. One man took out a thick hammer and the others began pulling out railway ties. They held them in place while the man with the hammer struck them all into the rock. The pegs ran in a line that went up from the bottom of the boulder and around the top and back to the bottom again. Once they were all in place, the man with the hammer began to swing. He swung over and over, driving each railway tie deeper. The other men stood on each side of the boulder, arms crossed and facing the crowd, glasses shading their eyes. The clank of the hammer filled the square, echoing off the angled marble all around.

The boulder cracked.

The man with the hammer set it down and motioned to the other three. They began to pry the boulder open, the crevice growing bigger.

“My lord,” one of the women said.

One of the men stuck his head into the crack and spoke something. He nodded and the men continued to heave and then he reached his torso inside, pulling him out. He turned around and faced the crowd, holding him.

He was ashen and limp and clothed only in his drawers. His smell spread across the square and his eyes opened in slits. He turned his head slowly, looking at them all there staring back at him. The man holding him leaned down to his mouth and then nodded again and they began to walk through the people. His legs and arms dangled down and he shielded his eyes from the sun light in the man’s chest.

Once they had walked out of the square, his carrier let him down and he swayed on his feet, holding tight to the other man’s frame.

“Hold up, tell that man to wait!” Carl shouted. “I got just the thing.” He turned around and shoved his way through the crowd, running back to the market.

GRANTLAND KILGORE currently lives in Alexandria, VA, USA with his wife and dog. An alumnus of Clemson University, he grew up in South Carolina, spending many summers in the Western North Carolina mountains. His work has appeared in storySouth and and Half and One. He hopes to someday publish a short story collection centered on the American South. Outside of reading and writing, his passions lie in camping, hiking, running, and writing music.