Vertical Shift

Chapter 1

Mondo’s phone, hand painted in multi-colors still rang a week after his disconnection notice. He stared at his painting, whispered Shit., and carefully placed his wet paint brush on the pallet table. Still transfixed by his painting, he let the phone ring for a third time. There was no answering machine, and he owned no cell phone.

He had just begun painting the delicious, glistening texture of energy symbols that he had scribed into thick, Mars black acrylic paint. He had inscribed the energy symbols the day before, a quarter of an inch thick, and waited for them to be perfectly dry so that he could begin painting around them in oils.

The energy symbols spoke of two men. The heads of the men were symbolized by an eye like wave shape. The upper wave of the eye symbolized desire, while the lower wave symbolized fear. They cancelled one another, fear negating desire and desire negating fear, to leave Equilibrium, lucidity, a conscious witness, neither desirous nor fearful. Mondo had defined these two particular lucid beings as male. They each held an energy symbol of a large basket of fruit, symbolized by spirals. He was about to paint the glowing, salmon-orange color of persimmons. The phone rang for the sixth time. He pulled himself free of his trance and picked up the phone.

Hello.

Armondo Battaglia? the voice asked. The angry tone pronounced it Ba-tag-lia, which he hated.

Speaking.

"This is Frank Douglas--- again! I said you had to be out of that apartment by yesterday! You’re a month overdue with the rent. You talked me out of a last month’s rent! I’m calling the Buffalo police to put you out. You better be gone when they get there. Do you understand what I’m telling you? I’m calling the police right now!"

Hey, hey, look, there’s a blizzard outside! It’s ten below! Are you trying to kill me, Mr. Douglas? I’d have to sleep in my van.

You don’t have a van! I saw them haul it away for parking tickets two hours ago. You better learn while you’re still young, Mister. You can’t just ignore everyone but yourself! I gave you every chance. I’m through! I’m calling the police right now. Twenty minutes! You’ve got twenty minutes! Good bye!

The phone went dead. He stood there. It came alive again.

If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again. -------If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again. ----If you’d like….

Mondo hung the phone up, weak with shock. He glanced at the window, pounding from wind. Inside him, a little boy was starting to cry, but he pulled himself back to the time and place where he stood.

Stop. He told himself. He wrestled with a hundred conflicting emotions, surrounded by views of himself that were glaring down from Mr. Douglas’ furious point of view. He assaulted himself with the landlord’s hatred, and finally climbed back to a place behind his own two eyes, and looked out at the room. He needed to pack, before the Buffalo police arrived and walked him to the door, empty handed.

He had been through art reviews by clean up crews, five years ago, when he was twenty- five. Eleven of his best paintings, all realistic, life sized paintings had been thrown out by a clean up crew. It seemed that landlords were the real art critics, the one’s who determined which works of art would make it into art history, and which went to the city dump. They had exquisite taste. They chose their clean up crews with an eye for blindness. They threw out everything. If the Pieta was in someone’s bright green carpeted, sliding glass doored studio apartment when a tenant got evicted, they’d have had it broken up with a sledge hammer and hauled away to the city dump at Michelangelo’s expense.

Mondo kept trying to clear his mind, think of just the right thing to do, but his anger at everything, at everyone kept blowing the top of his head off. When he started to cry he grabbed the tears and threatened to strangle them if one more whimper showed itself. He bit off his little boy’s terror, and went to the kitchen drawer, grabbed a roll of black plastic garbage bags, and, hands shaking, tried to open one. He tore the first one trying to find the opening end. How could the plastic trash bags be so weak, and the plastic wrappers for everything else be indestructible? He swore at the bags, and began rolling his paintings into a long cylinder. There were at least fifty paintings, unstretched, that he could roll and take with him. The others, he would hide in the back garage, wrapped in plastic, until he could come back and get them.

Quickly he prioritized his belongings. First, warm clothes in a plastic bag, second, all of his paintings. That was it. He began to empty the warm clothing bag back onto the floor, having decided to wear whatever would keep him alive in the blizzard outside. It was seven o’clock at night. Happy Birthday, he whispered. Happy fucking Birthday.

He was about to hurry out the door to take a pile of his paintings out to the garage when there was a knock on the door. His heart began to pound uncontrollably like a big fish in a metal bucket. It slammed against the inside of his chest. He hurried to the window. Outside a Buffalo Police car slowly double parked in the drifting snow, two stories below. A light went on inside the police car. Piercing blue and then red lights impacted the white snow, hard.

Mondo wanted to pretend that he was not there, but it was not possible. In an instant he hated himself for being afraid. He stopped himself, looked at the plastic bags filled with the paintings he loved in rolls, and saw them as body bags for his children. He suddenly remembered who he was. He was an artist. This was the price of giving everything you’ve got to beauty. He had made his decision long ago. He took in a slow breath, and walked calmly to the door, to face whatever destiny stood behind the door.

He unchained the door and opened it wide. Before him in the hall were two men in clothes that were too thin for the Buffalo winter. Their faces were almost sun tanned. One was tall with a thin gray jacket, no gloves, no boots, and tan pants like a man would wear on a hot summer day. He had a beard that was turning gray, with a thick head of hair, and blue eyes.

The other man was built like a Samurai, strong, Asian, Korean perhaps, and in a brown goose down vest, summer pants and no hat.

We're looking for a Mr. Battaglia. The taller man said. He pronounced it, Bat-al-ya, the way it was meant to be.

Yeah, that’s my dad. He, he died last year.

Armondo Battaglia is dead?

Oh, no, no, that’s me. Mondo said. Look, if you’re selling something, I don’t have time. I mean, seriously, I’ve got to go.

May we come in? The tall man asked.

Ah, look,

We have work for you., the Asian man said.

Mondo stared at them. Then he surrendered and stepped aside to let the two men in.

I don’t understand. What kind of work?

The two men looked at one another, confused.

Mr. Battaglia, we have art work for you. The Asian man said, as if there could be no other kind of work for him.

Art work. You have art work for me.

Yes. It would only last a year, but we would take care of your needs.

Mondo was becoming increasingly confused. My---needs?

Yes, Mr. Battaglia…

Ah, please, people call me Mondo. This respect is scaring me. Ah, look, I have to get out of here. Can we talk about this somewhere else, a coffee shop maybe?

Both men almost bowed to the idea.

Wherever you please.

He looked at them again, Wherever I please., he repeated

Ah, oh, oh-kay, how about---Arby's? he said, stupidly.

Arby’s. You can come with us., the tall man said.

Mondo heard the door downstairs open and the sound of two men walking up the stairs. The sound of police radios made static sounds.

Well, let’s go then. Mondo quickly said. He spun around, grabbed his bags, and they went out the door. He shut the light and closed the door to the apartment behind him.

Please, Mr. Ba---Mondo, the Korean man said, almost embarrassed to refer to him by his first name. Let us help you carry your bags.

Oh, sure. Thanks. , he said, handing one of four bags to each of them.

They rounded the corner, and faced two large Buffalo Policemen. They were dressed in long navy blue coats and winter police hats. They all stopped and stared at one another.

We’re looking for apartment five. , one of the policemen said.

Oh, that’s to your left. About three doors down.

The police nodded in thanks and the men shuffled about, passing one another on the stairway.

Mondo turned back and in passing said. You have to knock loudly. He’s hard of hearing, and he’s in a wheelchair, so it takes him a while to get out of bed and get to the door.

The policemen gave a slight wince as they realized that they would be putting a handicapped person out into the night’s blizzard, nodded again and followed Mondo’s directions to his own apartment.

The three men walked through the snow storm a few houses down and reached a rented car. The Korean man unlocked it and Mondo started to get into the back seat. The taller man motioned with finality that he should sit in the front. Mondo stared at him, trying to figure out whether he should go back and give himself up to the police rather than get into the car with these two men.

Mr. Battaglia put his four bags into the popped open truck, closed it, and then got into the front seat of the silver car. The doors locked automatically, and the Korean man started the engine and the wipers cleared away the snow from his view.

The driver turned his head toward Mondo and looked at him.

Hard of hearing, and in a wheelchair? he said.

Mondo looked back at him. He seemed sincerely surprised by Mondo’s behavior.

They stole my van! he said.

Chapter 2

At Arby’s, Mondo asked for a cup of coffee. The Korean man asked for a cup of green tea, and the tall man with a gray beard asked for a decaf latte, with soy milk. The waitress stared at the two men.

Tea, I’ve got. Green tea, I never heard of it. Is it new? Lattes we don’t have. And we don’t have any of that soy milk. Sorry, guys. I’ll bring the coffee and a tea. You can think about what else you’d like instead of the latte. The waitress left.

Mondo looked at the men. Where are you guys from? The future? he asked. Then he disregarded the question and extended his hand, still stained with magenta-gray paint.

You know my name, but I don’t know yours.

They each shook hands. The Korean man said, I am Kim Sang-gi.

Phillip West.

Mondo gave a quick laugh and looked at them. Phillip West, Kim Sang-gi. There are two famous California artist with the same…

Mondo suddenly saw that these two were they. Is that true? You’re Phillip West, and Kim Sang-gi the painters?

The tall man nodded once, embarrassed. Then he nodded his head to Kim. Mondo had read about both of them at different times in Art America and Phillip West in all of the art magazines, including Art Forum.

That explains it. You guys are from California. He shook their hands again, this time with great enthusiasm and relief that they were not only artists, but well-known artists.

"You have art work for me? Is that what you said?" he was confounded.

It looks like it could have come at a very good time, Kim said.

Ahh, the timing’s good. Yeah, I’m between evictions., Mondo said, with a sigh of great relief.

We want you to come back to California with us.

Four policemen came in the door; two of them were the police who had just been called to evict Armondo. They took seats just behind the threesome in a booth. Kim continued what he was starting to say. We have art work for you. Give you place to live, food, car, some money, what we can, not much money, but other things.

California? Where in California? I don’t travel much. Mondo said, speaking more loudly to Kim.

Kim ignored his question.

Phillip took over the conversation, wanting to keep it more between only them.

We need you to paint your language. Your energy symbols, but it’s not clear where just yet. You’re the one we want. We saw your work on the Internet. We had a meeting about it, and it was decided that you should be the one. We can give you what you need for a year, while you work. Do you have commitments here?

No, I don’t seem to. I tried a lot, but no-one seemed interested in having me commit to washing their windows, or shoveling their driveways. No girlfriend anymore. I’m between everything. When are you guys thinking of going back?

They looked at each other. Tonight, Phillip said. We’ve been trying to find you for a week. If we couldn’t find you by today, we were heading back.

Mondo saw that destiny had placed him suspended on a silk thread, between freezing to death and being escorted to California to start a new life. The slightest wind had blown him toward the latter.

The waitress knew what the officers wanted and brought coffee to the policemen. Then she came back to Armondo’s booth with coffee and a cup of black tea.

So, did you decide what you wanted? she asked.

One of the policemen stared at Kim, then looked away.

We don’t have time. Have to go, Kim said. Please, bring a check.

The waitress shrugged. I'll just cancel the coffee, unless it's to go?

Mondo looked at Kim and then shook his head not to bring coffee."

She left their table and went back to the police officers’ booth.

How are you guys doing tonight? This storm going to last?the waitress asked the policemen.

Two days, they say, said the officer who had stared at Kim. Airport’s shut down completely. No-one’s coming in or going out for at least two days. If they’re lucky.

Oh, brother, the waitress said. you know my sister works at a Savarin restaurant on the Thruway. She said when we get a storm like this people sleep on the floor in sleeping bags, sometimes for days. .

The same officer added, Yeah, we close the Thruway when it gets this bad. You can’t even get to the airport. They’re turning everyone back, even trucks.

Phillip listened with alarm. They stood up from the booth.

Good luck out there, dressed like that, the waitress said to them.

They nodded and in single file left the restaurant, trying to get away from the policeman who had tried to evict Mondo.

When they were out the door, the policeman looked at his partner, and both began to laugh. You’re so good at bullshit I don’t know if I can trust you myself. Shut down the airport! Now they’re gonna try to walk to California. Serves them right.

What? What’s going on? the other policeman said.

They pulled our leg, so I pulled theirs. The storm’s already letting up.

In the car, Phillip took out his cell phone and called the airport to see if the flight had been cancelled. The line was busy.

They started the car and Kim made his way through the snow, skidding with the slightest acceleration until he hit a salted main street out of town. The flights had not been cancelled, nor was there any word of a serious storm on the radio. By the time they figured out that they had been had, they were halfway to the airport.

Mondo turned in his seat. So, where did you say this work was? Hollywood?

Suburb of Hollywood. Oakland. Kim said. A little north of Hollywood.

Cool. Mondo said. Cool. Then he continued. You guys part of some organization? You said you had a meeting about my work.

It’s not an organization, exactly. Phillip said.

We're a group of people who are looking for solutions to problems. We can’t say any more than that. Not yet.

I don’t understand. Why can’t you tell me? Mondo asked, sitting forward and stopped by his seat belt.

There are people who don’t like solutions to problems. They prefer the problems. We’re not public about it. In fact, you can’t tell anyone where it is even when you know.

Mondo was alarmed Is this some kind of a religious cult?

Phillip looked uncomfortable. That is what they are trying to say about us. It’s not good. If they describe us as a religious cult, they can do anything they please to us, and no one will bat an eye. These are serious times. All they have to do is say we are a religious cult that is not opposed to terrorist action, and we are all cooked. Literally.

Well, are you?

Phillip winced visibly. "We are artists, inventors, environmentalists, spiritual