Chapter 9.
I’m no expert on human anatomy but I can confidently assess, that Chuck spinning around a swing-ball pole in his underpants, on a makeshift stage in a retirement home, does not exhibit the finest of his species. ‘Art with Chuck’, was a closed room affair –the retirement home’s administrator was strongly advised that it would be best, if the elderly residents shouldn’t be wandering into a ‘life drawing’ session, that featured nude models. “We have Mormons with low blood pressure and high morals in this facility and they can’t be rambling into rooms with naked people,” was the argument that locked the door. However, anyone attending the class had to sign an insurance waiver, ‘should the proceedings prompt a heart attack, stroke, giddiness, shortness of breath and/ or early causation of death, this facility bears no responsibility’. A few of these conditions at the very least, was the goal of attending, Art with Chuck..
The previous art teacher, was arrested for selling very potent marijuana to the residents of ‘Edenvale Retirement Home’. The previous art teacher, also happened to be an ex-girlfriend, of the new art teacher, slash nude model, Chuck. Chuck couldn’t paint the dashed line in the middle of a road but that didn’t matter, as most of the budding artists in the ‘Art with Chuck’ class, had no interest in painting whatsoever. They were only interested in seeing someone, at least a few decades younger than them, take their clothes off. It was a roomful of old ladies, save for Heinrich, the most absorbed member of the art class. Heinrich didn’t have any brushes or paints or even a canvas – he sat behind an easel and watched the proceedings through a small binoculars. Chuck’s insistence on having the door locked during his class might have been overly cautious. Apart from the blue haired ladies and Heinrich, anyone who is aware of Chuck’s physique, would be unlikely to jimmy the door open for a closer look.
I soon realized after the first few encounters with Chuck’s gyrating mass, the old folks were enjoying my company, more than the faux eye candy dangling from the stripper’s pole. The administration allowed me to stay in the room with the art students, as it was seen as therapeutic to have a dog around – they said I was calming. I don’t know if it was just that I was a friendly face but Chuck petitioned strongly to have me in the class with him, so I always figured that I must have had a claming effect on him too – but it could have been just because he made more money, when I was with him. He also did get attacked by one of the old ladies one week. She clawed him like a condor with a fresh kill – those old ladies have very sharp fingernails. She wasn’t interested in lusting after Chuck. It was quite the contrary – she thought she was attending a poetry reading until Chuck got down to business. He might have felt, that I provided some kind of support, should a similar incident occur. However, he had a very strict no touch policy and warned the art class that another episode would result in him leaving permanently.
Chuck’s foray into the art world almost ended when an inspector from the oversight board made an impromptu spot check of the facility. She requested to see art that the residents were making in their life drawing classes. She was presented with oil canvasses of a cactus, a bowl of fruit and a car driving through the desert – it was either a car or a stick. Chuck managed to convince the inspector that the subjectivity of art was not only literal but also conceptual in the interpretation of the subject, or something along those lines. He had prepared surprisingly well for such an occasion and had been well groomed by his pot dealing ex-girlfriend. I did think the bowl of fruit was the best representation of Chuck – although dogs know very little about art. But overall, I preferred the painting of the stick in the desert.
My favourite thing about ‘Art with Chuck’ was that all the old ladies used to give me snacks. They often got members of their own families to pick up special snacks for me. Some even got their sons, daughters, or grandchildren to bake snacks for me. I felt I owed them something in return, so I did my best to entertain them. I ran around the class a little and barked at Chuck when he pointed at me from centre-stage. Chuck’s entertainment was limited to a very repetitious dance routine, accompanied by either Smokey Robinson’s or Bill Withers’ greatest hits. Some days, Chuck used to sweat so much he struggled to drag his clothes off. The old folks seemed to get more entertainment from watching Chuck flounder on stage in a wrestling match with his pants, than seeing him naked. On one occasion Dorothy, or Dot as her fellow inmates used to call her, had to cut his shirt off with a scissors. The room cackled with laughter – it also helped that they had collectively just smoked a ‘medicinal’ joint the size of a Montecristo courtesy of Chuck’s ex-girlfriend. On another occasion Chuck fell off the stage onto the piano, scoring a crazy clanging musical mess for his one man show of madness.
One very old woman used to poke Chuck with her walking aid and make demands.
“Ok don’t let my time coming here be completely wasted,” she said.
“Well we wouldn’t want to waste any time between your naps,” Chuck said.
“Listen Sonny, at my age, my time is a rare treat to be savoured, when at all possible, so get to it. Get ‘em off,” she demanded.
Chuck shuffled around a little more to Smokey Robinson’s, ‘Tracks of my Tears’. She prodded him again.
“Come on, get them off before we all expire,” she yelped.
“Full show is twenty bucks,” Chuck said, gyrating as invitingly as possible for a hairy man of Chuck’s stature.
“Twenty bucks my ass. I ain’t payin’ shit ‘til I see the goods. Come on, cough ‘em over.”
Chuck reluctantly ripped his shiny Velcro Speedos off. The old lady inspected him, like he was a cadaver on a slab. She fumbled for her glasses, that hung around her neck on a chain, big enough to start a street fight.
“Come on grandma, fork it. The art class is almost over,” he said. “Tick tock.”
She threw him five dollars and said, “At my age, you’ve seen the good, the bad and the ugly, but maybe not that ugly. That’s all it’s worth, I’ve seen a lot better.”
“This is only a five,” Chuck protested, as he re-taped his Velcro speedos.
“Let’s just say standards are shrinking,” she said. “I’m not payin’ for steak when I’m getting hamburger.”
She squeaked towards the door in her wheelchair. She hammered at the handle of the door with her walking aid until another patient released her.
“Don’t go falling down any stairs, now will you,” Chuck said.
She flipped him the finger. “Twenty bucks for that. Pah. Cheeky little bastard,” she said.
Chuck weighed in on his audience. Everyone apart from Heinrich was distracted by me. Chuck stopped. He switched off Smokey Robinson and dragged his clothes back on, along with the last of his dignity. He looked hollowed out.
“Show’s over folks,” he said.
“But I’m not finished painting my horse,” a white haired woman named Kitty said.
“You’re supposed to be painting him, not a horse,” Heinrich said, peering through his little binoculars at Chuck.
Not even Chuck understood why she was painting a horse, when there was a naked man writhing around, ten feet in front of her.
“Sorry Kitty, but you’ll have to finish it next week,” Chuck said.
Kitty tried to dry the paint on her horse painting by blowing on it. Kitty’s horse looked nothing like a horse but Chuck told her he thought it was great, while he waited for her to finish up. She asked him for some tips on how to improve it. Chuck frowned and told her it needed more feathering on the horse fur. I’m a dog and I know nothing about art but I do know horses don’t have fur but hair and I’d never heard anyone ever use the word feathering before. She nodded and told him that she’d try harder in the next class. One of the old ladies left Chuck a few extra dollars on the side of his stage. She gave him two thumbs up and a toothy smile, that looked more like an invitation, than gratitude. I received a few parting pats on my head as the posse of pensioners retreated to their next activity. Chuck’s entire body deflated on the edge of the stage. He counted his takings and tucked the crumpled notes into his pocket.
“Chums, I feel cheap,” he sighed. “Jesus, I gotta tell you boy, at this rate, my retirement package is coming in a six foot pine box. I’m not even going to be getting the jelly and bingo years. It’s straight into the hole for me.”
I knew he was not happy. He didn’t enjoy what he was doing but he felt obliged to do it for the sake of earning money for our family. I pushed his leg with my snout. He patted my head. I barked at him.
“What are you up to fella?” he asked.
I pushed him again and again until he began to laugh. He wrestled me until I rolled onto my back. I chewed his hand a little. But very softly. He ruffled my ears.
“C’mon buddy, we’re going to have to go get some ice cream. I think we both deserve a double dollop today.”
Ice cream is a word that I love and a double dollop sounded good. Chuck signed us out of the building and he raced me to the limo – I won. Chuck is not very fast and he probably eats too much ice cream amongst other things. Chuck suited up in his limo driver rags in the front seat. He looked tidy but uncomfortable. I jumped in the back and stuck my head out through the open window and drooled about the thought of eating ice cream. Off we went on our next adventure.