EKPHRASIS : Art Describing Art : 2015
California Writers Club, Mendocino Branch : A Collaboration : Artists Co-Op of Mendocino
Writers Responding to Visual Artworks
Doug Fortier “Winning Smile”
Responded to visual artwork by
Debra Beck Lennox “American Soldier in Korea”
"Winning Smile" by Doug Fortier
Martin and I answered the same ad for a rental with “peace and quiet,” away from downtown San Jose. He wanted distance from his anesthesiology residency at the hospital, and I refused to become an accounting student clone. The landlady scheduled us for the same time. He drove up in a four year old BMW and parked next to my junker VW bug. A motorcycle appeared under his carport a day later.
Over the next two years, the roommates upstairs with me, a guy and a girl, hung out in the converted basement of Martin’s studio overlooking a narrow creek. He’d make margaritas and sometimes we’d bring beer if we had money. The high contrast picture I took reminds me of the two sides of Martin we came to know. The five of us were playing penny poker the Saturday he drew five hearts and took the pot with a royal flush. He wouldn’t stop laughing, almost as if he were being tickled.
There were many times we could hear him from upstairs, when he wouldn’t answer a knock at the door or a phone call, and weekends when he’d stay in bed. We asked after him, if he should be at work. He’d say he was fine and, “That’s who I am.” Just as abruptly, he’d invite us down for margaritas and poker on a card table by the creek, or accept our invitation for dinner upstairs.
The motorcycle became the weathervane of Martin’s state of mind. If he rode it to work, he’d have good days, and the BMW signaled his withdrawal. For weeks, he braved rainy weather to be on two wheels, to immerse all his senses. The weather made no difference in the BMW times.
Martin finished his requirements and went into practice in Roseburg, Oregon. After we all moved on, Memorial Day became the roommates reunion weekend, but Martin couldn’t make it, year after year. Long after we stopped asking, his sister called to say he’d been hit on his motorcycle, that he’d had brain damage, and that he was in a coma. Through her, we asked about him during his recovery. The last we learned was that he’d moved from Oregon.
Decades passed and my wife and I made a progression of moves to Northern California along the coast. It’s an interesting place, one where the Baptist minister can be found at a table out front with a sign that says, “Free Prayers.”
Our home is north of town along Highway 1, a busy road for travelers. I’d seen a heavy set guy in a wheelchair waving at cars and trucks from the edge of his long driveway and one day I stopped to talk with this bearded long-hair. I wondered if he’d be as interesting as the preacher.
The winning smile coming from within the picture flashed into reality. Martin.
Martin and I answered the same ad for a rental with “peace and quiet,” away from downtown San Jose. He wanted distance from his anesthesiology residency at the hospital, and I refused to become an accounting student clone. The landlady scheduled us for the same time. He drove up in a four year old BMW and parked next to my junker VW bug. A motorcycle appeared under his carport a day later.
Over the next two years, the roommates upstairs with me, a guy and a girl, hung out in the converted basement of Martin’s studio overlooking a narrow creek. He’d make margaritas and sometimes we’d bring beer if we had money. The high contrast picture I took reminds me of the two sides of Martin we came to know. The five of us were playing penny poker the Saturday he drew five hearts and took the pot with a royal flush. He wouldn’t stop laughing, almost as if he were being tickled.
There were many times we could hear him from upstairs, when he wouldn’t answer a knock at the door or a phone call, and weekends when he’d stay in bed. We asked after him, if he should be at work. He’d say he was fine and, “That’s who I am.” Just as abruptly, he’d invite us down for margaritas and poker on a card table by the creek, or accept our invitation for dinner upstairs.
The motorcycle became the weathervane of Martin’s state of mind. If he rode it to work, he’d have good days, and the BMW signaled his withdrawal. For weeks, he braved rainy weather to be on two wheels, to immerse all his senses. The weather made no difference in the BMW times.
Martin finished his requirements and went into practice in Roseburg, Oregon. After we all moved on, Memorial Day became the roommates reunion weekend, but Martin couldn’t make it, year after year. Long after we stopped asking, his sister called to say he’d been hit on his motorcycle, that he’d had brain damage, and that he was in a coma. Through her, we asked about him during his recovery. The last we learned was that he’d moved from Oregon.
Decades passed and my wife and I made a progression of moves to Northern California along the coast. It’s an interesting place, one where the Baptist minister can be found at a table out front with a sign that says, “Free Prayers.”
Our home is north of town along Highway 1, a busy road for travelers. I’d seen a heavy set guy in a wheelchair waving at cars and trucks from the edge of his long driveway and one day I stopped to talk with this bearded long-hair. I wondered if he’d be as interesting as the preacher.
The winning smile coming from within the picture flashed into reality. Martin.
