The Story Slice: "Ray and the Razor"

by Brian Hughes

Ray prostrated himself before a candlelit shrine of a blue-eyed blonde; her face memorialized in sketch drawings, Polaroid photos and 8 by 10 glossy prints attached to a large, brass mirror. Some pictures even included Ray holding and smooching the sunny haired beauty. Knees bent, eyes closed, Ray mumbled a few words under his breath then opened his eyes and stood up. He stretched his long frame to the ceiling. A few bones cracked as he let out a groan.

The walls of his cramped studio apartment were decorated with the front pages of famous New York Daily News headlines: Mickey Mantle's death, the Gulf War, the “preppy murderer”, The Steinberg’s, the blackout, Yankees world championships and of course several September 11th front pages - amongst hundreds of others: just headlines, nothing but headlines papered to the walls from corner to corner. A tower of spiral notebooks rested against his dented refrigerator.

Ray was lanky and unshaven, with a chest that was caved in and knuckles that were enormous. His knees gave him trouble and ached like a bitch, dating back to his high school track days. Winter was hard on them. Ray could often been seen gritting his teeth and punching walls because of the discomfort.

He looked over a shopping list, which he scribbled on the back of the small envelope his brother’s monthly check came in: the check that paid his rent and helped him stay afloat. Ray opened his fridge and looked inside – tumbleweeds came rolling out. “What do I need at C-Town? Looks like … everything.” His phone rang. It was one of those wide and flat phones with an answering machine and cassette tape that could be bought at a Radio Shack circa 1991. After the usual “hellos” and “isn’t it a nice day outside?” – Ray asked Rain the really important question:

“You wouldn’t happen to have any Mach 3 razor blades lying around, would you?”
“Mach 3’s … let me check,” Rain said as he rummaged through his medicine cabinet. “Yeah … yeah, I got one. Do you want me to bring it? These shits are expensive.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“Why can’t you buy some?”
“There aren’t any drug stores around here.”
There was silence on Rain’s end.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
“That would be awfully generous of you.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll bring you one.”
“As far as Alberto is concerned, will he be pissed if I’m just standing around?”
“Nah, I don’t think so – he seems to be in one of his better moods. Just don’t mention George Bush and you’ll be fine.”
“Where is his studio again?”
Ray wrote the address down and agreed to meet Rain in front of Alberto’s building at three pm. The sounds of police sirens and young toughs acting up bounced off his Bronx walls. Ray shut his windows and lowered the shades. He put on his record player and placed a forty-five of “In the Still of the Night” by The Five Satins on his turn table. The sound that poured forth was tinny and crackled through two small wooden speakers; but Ray didn’t mind, for he was a dancer of one, swaying in front of the shrine for his doe-eyed, and pineapple color haired darling.

“What’s he doing here?” Alberto asked Rain as an assistant spray painted a canvas with a steel canister. “Are you using the right pigment?”
“Yes Alberto – yellow sash #35.”
“You are aces, you know that. Ace.”
Alberto St. Croix was the hip artist of the moment who was something of a cult figure. Having been the front page story of both New York and Time Out magazines in a one month span, swelled his already self serving head. When Alberto created art he preferred to wear an expensive Brooks Brothers camel hair coat which once belonged to his most despised and deceased father. The coat was riddled with paint, scuffed and frayed all over. “Fuck his ass!” he would say, “What he spent his life savings on with this coat, I can make in an hour. Here – I even spit on this coat!” Alberto would forcefully remove the garment, cough up a yellow string of spit onto the tan coat, and put it back on.

The block long, paint splattered and mahogany floored loft was broken up by thirty-five makeshift rooms which acted as studios for a wide variety of artists: filmmakers could be found in one room, photographers snapping pictures of nude models in another, while another room had two male models engaging in Olympic style wrestling in a small ring awash in Hellman’s mayonnaise. Salsa music blared in one wing, and speed metal in the other. The array of busy artists and wannabes was dizzying as Ray looked around while waiting for Rain.

“Well, I thought I’d bring Ray down because he’d like to read some poetry at the 8th Annual David Wojnarowicz charity event.”
“Poetry is a bore. Let me see him. Call him over.”
Rain, a petite kid with cautious eyes, had been Alberto’s assistant for eight months. One week he wanted to be a model, another week he starred in four independent films and wanted to be an actor, and for several months he attended massage therapy school – of which he practiced extensively on Alberto - to Alberto's utter delight. Rain liked tight fitted clothes and displayed a rose colored pageboy haircut.
Ray was staring at the naked male models wrestling one another.
“Whatcha doing Ray?” asked Rain with a grin.
“Nothing.”
“Come on – Alberto wants to see you.”

“First of all, he smells like funk,” Alberto said.
“Huh?” replied Ray.
“If you could change him, bathe him, and brush his hair – I’ll consider it. Only because I like you Rain, and because I think of Monet’s water lilies when I think of your name.”
“Don’t you want to hear some of my stuff,” Ray asked.
“Poetry bores me.”
Ray looked at Rain. “I don’t need this shit.”
Alberto shot daggers at Ray. “Do you think I have time for this? I have two commissions due yesterday and you stand here and talk about poetry! Rain – I need you to run an errand for me – pronto. Take this down.”
Rain scrambled for his pen and pad, A pad he wrote occasional stuff on. Rain sometimes thought he was a writer as well.
“I need matte acrylic ‘violet light’ and matte acrylic ‘green blue deep’ – along with twelve packs of fresh scent multipax Tampax tampons. You have my charge card. Seeyabye.” Alberto was done with Rain for now. Rain grabbed Ray by his coat, and they hurried out.

“Where does that cocksucker get off talking to people like that?” Ray asked as they perused the feminine hygiene aisle at Duane Reade.
“He is the hottest artist in town right now. I get paid wicked cash to run errands for him. I can deal with his attitude. It doesn’t mean anything anyway.”
“I thought you said he was in a good mood?”
“This is his good mood.”
Ray walked around with a small basket, dropping some stuff in. “Did you bring my Mach 3 razor blade?”
“Ah, shit …”
“Balls.”
“I forgot it.’ Ray shook his head. “Here, help me with all of this. Can you put some of this shit in your basket? My basket is overflowing with tampons.” Rain loaded up Ray’s basket.
“What are you doing?”
“I need help carrying this shit.”
“Don’t put that crap in my basket!” Ray exclaimed.
“I just busted you watching naked guys wrestling.”
Ray stared at the floor for a moment. “Where are the Mach 3 razors anyway?”

At the register, Ray was patting down his pants, inspecting his pockets – he wore a dumbfounded expression. Rain was all ready. His stuff was bagged and paid for.
“What’s the matter?” Rain asked.
“I think I left my debit card at home?”
“So what are you saying? You don’t have any money?”
Ray checked himself again. A crowd of impatient New Yorkers tapped their feet and rolled their eyes behind him. “Yeah, I think that’s what I’m saying.”
“Let me see what you have there.” Rain said as he investigated the items and pulled out his charge card.
“No, I can’t ask you to do that. No. Please,” implored Ray.
“I’ll pay for this stuff, get me another time.”
“I can’t let you, please.”
“WOULD YOU LET HIM PAY FOR IT, WE’RE IN A HURRY!” shouted a customer on line.
“I’m not paying for these, though. I’ll give you some that I have. Here, put these back,” Rain said, handing back to Ray the Mach 3 razor blades.
“Sure, no problem – thanks.” Ray walked off to put the razors back.
On their way out of the store, the alarms went off. Both Ray and Rain showed the security guard their bags. The guard looked inside both and let Rain go through first. His bag didn’t sound. When Ray went through again, the alarms blared once more. The security guard took the bag and ran it over the metallic pad. When Ray walked through a third time – the sirens rang yet again, but the security guard just let him go.

Rain and Ray approach the entrance to Angelo’s studio carrying their bags:
“I don’t think I want to go up there again.” Ray said.
“What?”
“It’s bullshit. I don’t need his benefit. I can read in dozens of places all over the city.”
“Yeah, but all of those won’t equal the audience for this benefit.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah …”
“Come on, come up. I bet there will be a bunch of naked women up there walking around. That’s better than staring at four walls.”
Ray shook his head uncertainly.
“Sure it is!” Rain said.
“Yeah, you’re right …”
Rain and Ray both had a good laugh and walked into the private elevator and took it on up.

Most of the music had died down, and the rooms were less full than before. As if on cue, two tall naked brunettes with long legs and cushiony bottoms strode right past Ray and Rain like eloquent giraffes.
“To be as beautiful as these ladies ... ahhhh...,” Rain said, as he looked around – surveyed his work space, let out a deep and proud exhale of breath, and smiled.
Ray wasn’t impressed.
“None of these women can match Delta. Not a one.”
“Who’s Delta?”
“She is the warm sound of cellos in the vast emptiness of the desert. She is that and more.”
“Come on,” Rain said as they walked over to Alberto. Alberto was on a large stepladder and was painting several bald eagles onto a large white canvas.
“Did you get everything?”
“I did,” Rain said as he placed the bags down on a counter top full of painting accoutrements.
“Open up all the tampons and put them in these buckets,” Alberto said. Rain opened up the packages of tampons. Ray helped dump them into the buckets.
“I’m not paying him, Rain. I’m paying you. I see your friend never found a shower. Why didn’t you take him to buy clothes? You had my Amex card on you.”
“Fuck this and fuck him!”
“I know talent when I see it,” Alberto said as he turned on the ladder to address Ray. “And you don’t have it!” Someone turned up the music just then. It was pop sensation Brenda Burgundy.
“I hate to break this to you St. Croix, but you’re no Andy Warhol. There was only one, and I met him.”
“First Gisela throws up, and then Danny doesn’t pay me, now this ingrate is insulting me in my own studio! Rain – do away with your friend this instant! And would someone turn off that Burgundy shit! I mean really! When is she going to just die already?!” Brenda Burgundy was just another screwed up pop star, ending up in the papers and on television for all the wrong reasons. Alberto had already forgotten about Ray as he moved in on his painting once more.
“I can find my way out,” Ray said to Rain, as Rain turned down the music. On his way out, though – Ray noticed an old piano by the freight elevator. He stared long and hard at it, then looked back at Alberto who was painting swiftly with short strokes. Ray sat down on the piano chair and began: the sounds that leapt from the instrument were as dainty as icicles and as mellifluous and speedy as a hummingbird’s wings. Moritz Moszkoski’s Etude in A-Flat Major, Op. 72, No. 11 is a virtuoso piece in which dexterity and mastery are crucial. Ray handled it with flawless precision. Alberto stopped painting and turned back around on his ladder – watching Ray in amazement; and once Alberto stopped and looked, everyone in his studio followed suit. The piece was only a minute and a half long, but the spellbound look on everyone’s face lasted much longer.
When Ray finished, he shot up from the stool, turned around, gave a look of utter venom to Alberto and yelled:
“George fucking Bush!” then opened up the large heavy door and slammed it behind him – rattling most of the paintings on the wall.
Alberto let out a laugh. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Ray was seated on his torn up sofa bed tearing open a pack of Mach 3 razor blades. A clear plastic bag of hard rolls sat at his side. His kisser was lathered with shaving cream as he placed a new blade onto his razor. He got up and closed the window on the cacophonous sirens and horns of rush hour and placed his stereo needle back down on The Five Satins and their hit making song. Staring into the mirror covered with photos of his blonde Goddess, Delta – Ray began to shave: closing his eyes now and then and swaying his head to the music. Wiping his razor off on his soiled v-neck wife beater, Ray returned his gaze always to his obsession:
“You and I – Delta, we’ll be reunited in this world, or the next,” Ray said as he leaned in and kissed the big glossy photo of the blue eyed, blonde bombshell of his dreams.

For more on these and other characters please visit earlier "Slices" Tudor City, Revival, and The Loan.