Gary, February 20, 2008

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So this cart, I told him, it's about 4 feet long—actually it's exactly 53 inches and three eighths but I didn't want to waste time with that kind of detail—so I just gestured to him, about like this big? You got me?

I told him it's not like any of your carts here at El Centro, it's not metal, no es metal...

My Spanish is worth shit, it's a total fucking joke that I'm trying to mount a show in this place...

It's made of wood, I said, two by fours, de madera, dos por cuatro...

Shit, I thought, this is getting nowhere, I tried to sketch it in the air with my hands, it's tall and thin like this, and the one piece at an angle, like this, and it's covered with old carpeting, cubierta con moqueta...

Look, I said, it's my cart, I made it, it's for moving paintings, and I left it right here about ten minutes ago.

By this time Erasmo had come up, he's the kid who's been helping me hang the show, a sharp kid, a talented artist, actually he's the one getting paid to hang the show, it’s a dual exhibition, me and that guy from LA, which means I'm the fucking unpaid supervisor on this project. Don't get me wrong, shit, even if El Centro had a pro gallery director on staff, I'd want to hang my own show, and I like working with Erasmo, he listens, like when I tell him about the math of hanging paintings, I mean he's smart enough to know what he fucking doesn't know, know what I mean?

So I told Erasmo the cart was missing, and he turned to the maintenance guy, Curro, his name is, and they talked for a while in Spanish, way too fast for me to follow but not half as fast as Curro talks to the other guys from Venezuela, and finally Erasmo turns to me and tells me that Curro saw the cart, a few minutes ago, the nurse lady took it.

The nurse lady? I said. You mean that gray-haired white lady?

Si, Si, says Curro, and he starts laughing, and the only words I can catch after that are la educación sexual and jovenas, and then Erasmo translates for me that the nurse lady took the cart so she could move her posters for the class she's teaching.

Those foam-core posters? I said. The ones that were over there?

I walked over to the place and pointed, to make sure Curro knew what I meant, because I sure as hell wasn't going to try to translate "foam-core" into Spanish.

Curro nodded.

What the fuck! I said. That cart is for moving stretched canvas oil paintings—what the fuck does she need my cart for to move foam-core posters that don't weigh a goddamn thing!

And Curro backed away like he thought I was about to start a fight, and I thought, oh shit, no, no, this isn't happening. Here I am fucking things up with the community and the opening is the day after tomorrow!

It was a fucking awkward moment. I started to tell Erasmo to tell Curro that I didn't have a problem with him or El Centro—I just couldn't understand why that white lady—

But Erasmo gave me a look and said, take it easy, man, take it easy. So I took a deep breath and stepped back. Then Erasmo said something to Curro, and Curro glanced at me, just once, kind of wary, and started mopping the gym floor again.

Then Erasmo told me he was going to the classroom to get the cart back, and he'd meet me at the loading dock. So I said okay, and Erasmo went off, and Curro kept mopping the floor. I stood there for a moment, but Curro wouldn't look at me, so I made my way to the loading dock. There were three crates waiting for us—from that gay Latino painter in LA. Two fucking days late. We had a lot of work to do, Erasmo and me.

He's a smart kid, Erasmo. A talented artist. A good listener.