I DON'T KNOW ART, BUT I KNOW WHAT I LIKE TO VACUUM
My real estate agent tore up the corner of the carpet, took a look, and then made a sound similar to one she'd make during orgasm (I imagine).
"Oh, Danny."
"Yes?"
"Oh, Danny, Danny."
"Yes, Katherine?"
"The floor under the carpet is beautiful."
"Thank you."
Silly of me to thank her, I suppose. The carpet was there when I bought my New York apartment five years ago. I had nothing to do with the floor other than walking on it and spilling beer on it.
"You think the floor is a selling point?"
Katherine looked at me with great sadness.
"Danny. It's hardwood."
"Ah. Okay."
"Hardwood."
I wanted to respond before Katherine said "hardwood" again and had another orgasm.
"So I should just tear out the carpet-"
"No!" she said, protecting the corner of exposed floor with her body.
"You can't just 'tear out the carpet.' It has to be removed surgically. Then the floor has to be sanded and refinished. Also surgically."
"So let's call a doctor," I said grinning. She didn't crack a smile.
"I just want to get a good price for my place. Do you know a floor guy?"
Katherine got a glazed, religious look in her eyes.
"I know a master."
"A master floor guy?"
"His finished floors look so good, people have them framed and hung on the wall."
I moved into a cheap hotel for a couple days while the master worked.
His name was Wallace Woodward. I was cautioned by Katherine not to call him "Woody," even though it seemed natural, what with his last name. No, he was sensitive about his wooden leg, as well as his several wooden internal organs.
But still, I couldn't stop thinking of him as Woody. I was careful never to address him that way.
Woody's first act was to pick up where Katherine left off, surgically removing the carpet to reveal the glorious hardwood underneath. He took the carpet to a park at 72nd and Broadway and put it on display in the stocks, so Upper West Siders could throw tomatoes at it and subject it to verbal abuse. (Tiles from a linoleum floor were in stocks nearby, also enduring public chastisement.)
I'd drop by my apartment now and then to pick up clean underwear. I'd watch Woody work, biting my lip so as not to shout, "Woody! Woody!"
Finally, the day arrived for Woody to reveal his completed floor. I received an engraved invitation in the mail. Katherine was there, trembling with excitement. She gave me a bottle of champagne as a floor-coming-out present. She was accompanied by a photographer who would capture the glamorous new surface for Vanity Fair.
I must say, Woody did an outstanding job. Words failed me because I never talked about floors.
His work was pleasing to look at. Less pleasing was the sensation that the floor was staring back at me.
If being stared at by a hardwood floor made me squirm, being verbally berated by a hardwood floor made me question my sanity.
"Bastard!" said the floor in a wounded female voice.
"He's a bastard," continued the floor, taking the others into her confidence. "He's the one who did it."
"What did I do to you.you?" I said, unsure of how to properly address a lady floor.
"You covered me! You covered me with carpeting!" the floor shrieked.
Woody, Katherine, and the Vanity Fair photographer advanced on me with disapproving looks.
"I didn't, I swear," I stammered. "The carpeting was here when I moved in."
"Floors don't lie," said Woody, a statement I found difficult to process.
"You won't get away with it," continued the master refinisher, brandishing his sander in a threatening manner.
The photographer was madly taking photos, hoping now to get an action shot for TMZ. I dashed for the door, but Katherine tripped me. As I fell, I grabbed Woody's false leg for support.
"Ow!" I said, getting a splinter in my right hand. With my left hand, I smashed the champagne bottle on the floor.
"I'm wet, I'm wet," said the floor.
Katherine and Woody, momentarily distracted, were a little too grateful for the opportunity to lick up the bubbly.
The photographer took more shots. I made my escape.
I strolled down Amsterdam Avenue, reflecting on my recent conversation with a hardwood floor. It was a one-sided conversation. I wished the floor had been more receptive.
I walked slowly, perhaps too confident in my champagne bottle diversion. Good thing I still had that splinter; the pain kept me alert and aware of my surroundings.
Before long I heard behind me the sound of a wooden leg clomping on the sidewalk. I quickened my pace and glanced back.
Woody was chasing me. He was followed by Katherine and about twenty other real estate agents, as well as an assortment of carpenters, woodworkers, and lumberjacks.
I stopped counting the members of the posse when I reached fifty and realized that if I didn't watch where I was going I would fall on my face.
I turned and ran for my life.
You wouldn't think a guy with a wooden leg could move that fast. The real estate agents had to pour on the gas to keep up.
They were gaining on me.
I halted at 96th Street. My lungs were burning. I couldn't move another step. I felt I had no choice but to throw myself at the mercy of the wood-crazed throng. Then.
A Mini-Cooper stopped in the crosswalk in front of me.
"Get in!" shouted the driver.
I dove headfirst into the passenger side and the car sped away, leaving the mob behind.
"I'm Rachel," said the young woman at the wheel. We were cruising down the West Side Highway.
"I'm Danny. Why did you stop?"
"You looked like you were in trouble."
"That's an understatement."
"Plus."
"What?"
"There's something very familiar about you. Have we met?"
"I don't think so."
"At school? SVA? School of Visual Arts? I'm an art student."
"Never been to SVA.ow." I fingered the splinter in my hand.
"You want me to pull that out for you? Or do you want to leave it in while we make love?"
"Huh?"
"I'm pumping adrenaline, aren't you?"
"Yeah. I'll leave the splinter in if that means we can make love sooner."
Rachel exited the West Side Highway at 14th Street and headed for her apartment.
"Your face is so familiar," she said.
Later, we lay on Rachel's queen bed, side by side, facing each other. She stared long and hard at my face, her brow wrinkled.
"Ha! I got it!" she said. "You're a dead ringer for that artist. The famous one who does those huge installations, at the Kremlin, at St. Paul's Cathedral in London."
"Yes!" I sat bolt-upright in the bed. "I know exactly who you mean. What's his name again?"
"Jesu-Christo."
"Exactly. The guy who covers everything.in carpeting!"
I threw on my clothes.
"Jesu-Christo," I said. Of all the artists in the world who covered things with other things, none were more famous than Jesu-Christo.
"He's the one who carpeted my apartment. How awful that must have been for the floor. Never thought I'd care about a floor's feelings, but there it is."
"Jesu-Christo carpeted the Great Wall of China. Why would he bother with your little place?"
"I don't know. I need to find him and ask him."
"And then what? Turn him over to an angry mob?"
I thought about that for half a second.
"Yes. Turn him over to an angry mob. I'm not an art lover."
Rachel was on her laptop.
"Jesu-Christo is currently in New York Harbor. He's carpeting the Statue of Liberty."
"Then I'm off."
"I'll drive you."
"No, it's my floor. I need to do this on my own. You may be in danger. You should hide."
"I have class."
"Then sit at a desk behind somebody."
I kissed her.
"I love you," I said and dashed out the door.
I hurried downtown, preparing to confront the man who had carpeted two pyramids, one in Egypt and one on the Vegas Strip.
Why would he bother with the floor of my tiny co-op? It didn't make sense.
On every corner, it seemed the suspicious eyes of real estate agents were following me. And always behind me, the sound of clomping on the sidewalk.
I dashed all the way down to Battery Park, bought my ticket, and boarded the ferry to Liberty Island.
While I was hiding in the ferry bathroom, Woody and his posse boarded the boat.
I guess they thought they had me trapped. They were so confident, they ordered hot chocolates and gathered on the upper deck, enjoying the view.
Before the boat docked,...
