The Daiquiri Guineas

The Daiquiri Guineas

"Behold, fellow Arters, I have news!"

"What's Larson soap-boxing about this time?" asked Roy, the painter.

"I don't know," answered Dorian, "but he said news. Usually his tirades are rehashes of old tirades."

"Notice," continued Larson Geribaldi, "I do not address you as fellow artists, and you'll see why soon enough. Instead, I call you Arters."

"Well, that is new," said Roy. "He invented a new word."

"Ha!" continued the writer. "I call you Arters because we have hereby come of age. At this very moment art is no longer a noun but a verb."

"Shall we go?" asked Roy.

"Where?" answered the sculptor. "We're on his tug."

"One way to ensure a captured audience."

"Let me guess who has the ignition key."

"That's right, gang," continued Larson, undisturbed by his guests, "the vocabulary fits the time. We used to be artists -- nouns. People, place, thing. Are we things? Well, you might be, but I no longer belong to that category. From this day forward and forevermore, I do not create nouns, art work, but I act as a verb, I Art."

"I guess we have to listen, Dorian. How long till port?"

"Port. That's a good idea. Or are we out? I'm so dry I'd settle for a generic wine or even a bottle of beer."

"How much has Larson had?"

"Not enough."

"Guys," said the host who lived on his tug along the sound anywhere from Pascagoula to Gulfport, "say after me: I Art. I've been Arting all day. No longer, Iam,but Ido. I am a verb. I Art."

"I know if I ask a question, he's going to go on all the longer," said Dorian quietly, "so I'll ask you. Where did he get this crazy idea?"

"I heard that," answered the speaker. "I got it from the dictionary." The tug boat Captain rummaged through his charts. "Check this out." Larson read. "Art:nhuman creativity; skill, acquired by study and

practice; any craft and its principles; making of things that have form and beauty; any branch of this, as painting, sculpture, etc.; drawings, paintings, statues, etc." See? They're allnouns."

"I hate to admit it," said Dorian, "but it does make some sense."

"And well it should," said Larson, all pumped up. "Verb -- I'm a verb!"

"Say, Larson," interrupted Roy, "if we're headed for Biloxi, how about stopping for some port? I could use a drink. Sort of anesthetizes my brain. Keeps me from noticing the heat."

"Well, my friend," jumped Larson like a mountain goat, "you hit the nail on the head: we're already anesthetized, as in brain-dead. And all because we've allowed ourselves to be seen as things instead of doers."

That's not what the sculpture wanted to hear. But Larson was on a roll.

"Come on, guys, don't you get it? The only way for us to fulfill our destiny as leaders of the New Age is to beverbs."

"Leaders? New Age?"

"Ah," said Larson, nearly exasperated, "there's the landing." But before he docked, he got in a few more harangues. "You know, guys, Mozart himself had to come in the back door and eat with the help. All because his society tagged him a lowlynoun. But we're destined to rule, and the only way to do that is to become verbs."

Larson blasted his horn to let a sailboat know he was not going to yield the right-of-way. "Tourist," he muttered. "I bethethinks we're nouns, too! But I got news for him -- and the entire world -- Our time has come! We will be respected as any Head of State, industrial giant, doctor and lawyer...I tell you, fellow, Arters, our day has come!"

The instant they had secured their lines, Roy and Dorian disappeared into a pub. "I hope it's the busiest," said Roy. "The busiest and loudest. That way we can get lost in the crowd."

"I know what you mean. Be unnoticed like the homely girl in Grand Central Station. How about the Haberdasher?"

"Interesting name for a bar."

"Has to do with their motto: "Our Beer Has The Best Heads In Town." Busiest bar in Biloxi.Everyonecomes here."

The boys began some serious elbow bending.

"Say, Dorian, is Larson always like that?"

"What, talkative or didactic?"

"Bossy. like his thoughts will straighten out the world and it's his duty to inform everyone."

"Goes in spells. Wow, get a load of that blond!"

"You mean whether he's been drinking or finished writing a book or about to begin a new one?"

"Now that you mention it, all three. Tension builds and he gets a bad case of diarrhea of the mouth. Shoots off as long as his voice holds out."

"Do you think we ditched him?"

"Who cares with all these bouncing beauties. Check outthatone!"

Just then the writer's head popcorned above the crowd.

"Ah, there you are. How are the Daiquiris?"

"You know," said Roy. "Last time you finished a book you guzzled a quart of them so I had to drive you to the pier in a wheel barrel."

"Yea, I remember that. At least, I remember you telling me. And I said, 'Oh, like Dickens' Pickwick inThePickwickPapers, and you said..."

"Have a drink, Larson. A double Daiquiri?"

"Sounds good. Then you said, 'have a drink and I said...'"

"Check out the girls, Larson. You don't have scenery like that onThe Cod Fishno matter where you putt or dock."

"Well, I don't know. If I get embalmed like last time I'm afraid I'll never be able to write again. Maybe I should take it easy."

"Easy schmeasy," said Roy, who wanted desperately to quiet his host's tongue. "That quart of Daiquiris didn't stop you last time. Why now?"

The sculptor smiled and said, "What splendid models these girls would make. Hey, sweetie, want to come to my studio and lie around naked for a couple of hours while I do you in clay?"

"Ha! Reminds me of the painter who was having an affair in his studio. He heard footsteps so he said, "Quick, take off your clothes, it's my wife!"

And so went the night. By twelve, the weekend sailors were Daiquiri-logged. They wobbled pierward.

"Does anyone know where we're going?" asked someone.

"Straight ahead," replied another.

"But in kind of a zig-zag," suggested a third.

"That's all right," said a bobbing Admiral hat, "as long as we end onThe Codfishand it's in the water."

"Good thinking. I'd hate like hell to have to row that tub."

"Tug," came the correction.

"Tub, tug," said an unidentifiable voice, "it's all the same. It'srowing."

"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream."

"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily."

"Doesn't a gently down the stream come in there somewhere?"

The three artists, or as the Captain insisted, Arters, slept either on the tug or the pier depending on his ability to maneuver the gang plank.

By the middle of the next day the three roused themselves and headed toward Gulfport where the painter had left his car. It had been a unique trip. Exactly what each had needed after intensive Arting.

Larson never again mentioned his latest soap box theme. Roy and Dorian were glad. But interestingly, the author did write his views in his next book. It was about three compatriots who entertained and sometimes bored each other at sea with homemade stories and theories. The Captain promoted Arters until the others finally agreed with him. The title of the book:The Arter. And it became a best seller.

Then a most interesting thing occurred. It is well known that authors have introduced new words into the vocabulary, such as Heller's Catch-22. Like that, Larson's view on art as a verb began to catch on. By fellow creators first, but slowly book publishers, dealers of paintings, museum curators, so before long, Arting became a household word.

"My God, look at this," said Roy to Dorian at the sculptor's studio. He offered a magazine.

"Arters on the Cod Fish. And it's by our friend. What's new?"

"Nothing," said Roy. "That's the problem. It's all old.Tooold for me."

Dorian read the article. "Why, that scoundrel. I see what you mean. You know what, Roy? It means that whole weekend was a set-up."

"I agree," said the painter. "Because the article is word-for-word from his Tug-Boat Lectures. And the Daiquiris, their purpose was to anesthetize us so we wouldn't throw him overboard when he rehearsed out loud what was already in his mind. Maybe had already written!"

"And to top that, it's now obvious that he invited us not for a pleasure cruise nor to shake down his tug or for friendship, but to try out his new theory on live humans."

"Which makes us nothing but Daiquiri-drinking guinea pigs!"