by Erik Lewin

Los Angeles. The sun-kissed taste of sandy freedom, smoggy alleyways and city tenements, stars, the heart of plastic grandeur, an American Dream personified.

I was holed up in a pad on Venice beach in between jobs. I had no furniture. It was after a break-up.

On my new street I came across a house with its front yard strewn with junk an antique dealer would wince at, but there were beautiful paintings there too. In fact, I had met the artist in the neighborhood recently, and she had invited me to take a look. One of the pieces was a playful face blot of a young Elvis Presley. I was interested in that Elvis head, though the yard lay silent, its wares unsupervised. The creaky house was reminiscent of Boo Radley’s, a ramshackle affair with split wooden siding and a tiny front door.

With two quick knocks, after a long pause, a figure shuffled out.

“Yeah?”

The man was, most curiously, an albino. Not too many of those running around. He wore unevenly cut trousers, with errant paint drops covering every inch of him.

“I’m Erik, just moved in, right down the block.” I pointed an arm in the general direction.“Uh, that Elvis one –is it for sale? Is the artist home?"

The albino squinted at me, tucked a burnt marijuana roach in his mouth, and took a sharp hit. On exhale he said, "Nah, she’s not. You like it?"

So off we went to the albino's work shed nearby. Turns out he and his artist wife tag team the work, where he does the framing. Under an open garage door, he fumbled around with different frames, and we contemplated the options.

"You could go with a deep inlay, really let his face pop. Here." He ducked under a plank with an electric saw's teeth and dug out a large, thick wooden frame.

"That looks cool, but I don't know how it would sit up on my wall.”

"No problem, " he scratched at his oily, knotty hair, and grabbed a hammer and drill. "We'll take it to your place and see."

We schlepped the giant Elvis head down several Venice blocks. A couple kids on skateboards skirted past. At my apartment, we experimented with hanging it up in different places.

"I gotta say, it looks good right there. How much was it again?”

“Three hundred,” he said.

“Wait, can I give you the money –because your wife painted this."

"It’s okay, we're married.” He shook his head and sank into my couch. "She knows all these euro trash dudes and I think she's fucking, like, all of them."

I nodded sagely, just wanting to buy a painting, but not without a little sadness for my masculine albino brother.

"That sounds tough. So, was that the total price?"  

"Like I said, three hundred."

I leaned back on the couch and admired the portrait.

“You and Elvis will be very happy together,” the albino said, looking around. “Hey, you think I can shower here? Not like, with you,” he grinned. “I just need a towel. . . and shampoo too.”

“Uh, I don’t think-”  

Right then I got a text, from the artist/wife:

Do not buy any paintings from my husband! They are stolen property!

“Your wife says this painting is hot!”

“Let me use your phone,” he said.     

I handed it over and he called his wife.

“You bitch! It’s my work and I can sell it if I want to! Why don’t you get your money from that piece of shit, Carmelo!”

I took my phone back. “What the hell, man?”

“Screw her. She stole my phone.”

He leapt to his feet and without a word, ran out of my apartment.

I sat in stunned silence. The giant Elvis head stared back at me. Stolen property was in my possession. The albino’s tools were on the floor.

Later that evening, I received a text message from the artist/wife:

“It’s $300. Bring over tonight.”

The king looked so fresh and innocent. It was strange to think of it as the baby of such ugly acrimony. I couldn’t help it, I bought it from the artist/wife. I even left the albino’s tools and extra cash, to make sure he got paid for his framing work. It seemed to end well, until my phone started getting bombarded with texts, to this effect:

“You traitor! I told you she was a bitch and you still bought from her! You’re probably fucking her too!”

These messages continued for weeks. I contemplated changing my number, but worse, this albino was everywhere in my neighborhood.

I didn’t move or get a new phone, but I knew bad karma when I saw it, so I sold the painting. Elvis had left the building, and as if by magic, all its madness did too. 

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