Bears Discover Fire

When I’m painting and it’s going well, I forget everything. It seemed like only minutes before the phone rang.

“Well? How’s it going?”

“Borogove, it’s almost four in the morning.”

“No, it’s not, it’s four in the afternoon. You’ve been working all night and all day, Teresa, I can tell. But you really have to call me Mimsy.”

“I can’t talk now,” I said. “I have a live model. Sort of.”

“I thought you didn’t work from live models.”

“This time I am.”

“Whatever. Don’t let me bother you while you’re working; I can tell you’re getting somewhere. The opening is at seven. I’m sending a van for you at six.”

“Make it a limo, Mimsy,” I said. “We’re making art history.”

“It’s beautiful,” Borogove said, as I unveiled “La Rosa del Futuro” for her. “But who’s the model? He looks vaguely familiar.”

“He’s been around the art world for years and years,” I said.

The gallery was packed. The show was a huge success. “La Rosa,” “De Mon Mouse,” and “Los Tres” were already marked SOLD, and SOLD stickers went up on my other paintings at the rate of one every twenty minutes.

Everybody wanted to meet me. I had left Shorty directions and cab fare by the bed, and at eleven-thirty he showed up wearing only my old boyfriend’s trenchcoat, saying that his shimmery suit had disappeared into thin air while he was pulling it on.

I wasn’t surprised. We were in the middle of a Timeslip, after all.

“Who’s the barefoot guy in the fabulous Burberry?” Borogove asked. “He looks vaguely familiar.”

“He’s been around the art world forever and ever,” I said.

Shorty was looking jet-lagged. He was staring dazedly at the wine and cheese and I signaled to one of the caterers to show him where the beer was kept, in the backroom.

At eleven fifty-five, Borogove threw everybody else out and turned down the lights. At midnight, right on time, a glowing column of air appeared in the center of the room, then gradually took on the shape of… But you’ve seen Star Trek. It was Stretch, and he was alone.

“We are—uh—a guy from the future,” Stretch said, starting in English and finishing en espanol. He was wobbling a little.

“I could have sworn there were two of you guys,” said Borogove. “Or did I make that up?” she whispered to me, in ingles.

“Could be a Timeslip,” said Stretch. He looked confused himself, then brightened. “No problem, though! Happens all the time. This is a light pickup. Only three paintings!”

“We have all three right here,” said Borogove. “Teresa, why don’t you do the honors. I’ll check them off as you hand them to this guy from the future.”

I handed him “De Mon Mouse.” Then “Los Tres Dolores.” He slipped them both through a dark slot that appeared in the air.

“Whoops,” Stretch said, his knees wobbling. “Feel that? Slight aftershock.”

Shorty had wandered in from the back room with a Bud in his hand. In nothing but a raincoat, he looked very disoriented.

“This is my boyfriend, Shorty,” I said. He and Stretch stared at each other blankly and I felt the fabric of space/time tremble just for a moment. Then it was over.

“Of course!” said Stretch. “Of course, I’d recognize you anywhere.”

“Huh? Oh.” Shorty looked at the painting I was holding, the last of the three. “La Rosa del Futuro.” It was a full-length nude of a short brown Adonis, asleep on his back without even a fig leaf, a rose placed tenderly on the pillow by his cheek. The paint was still tacky but I suspected that by the time it arrived in the future it would be dry.

“Reminds me of the day I met Mona Lisa,” said Stretch. “How many times have I seen this painting, and now I meet the guy! Must feel weird to have the world’s most famous, you know…” He winked toward Shorty’s crotch.

“I don’t know about weird,” said Shorty. “Something definitely feels funny.”

“Let’s get on with this,” I said. I handed Stretch the painting and he pushed it through the slot, and Shorty and I lived happily ever after. For a while. More or less…

But you’ve seen I Love Lucy.

THE TOXIC DONUT

Hi, I’m Ron, the Host’s Chief Administrative Assistant, but you can just call me Ron. Let me begin, at the risk of seeming weird, by saying congratulations.

Of course I know. I’ve been doing this show every year for six years; how could I not know? But look at it this way, Kim—do you mind if I call you Kim? You have been chosen to represent all humanity for one evening. All the birds and beasts too. The worms and the butterflies. The fishes of the sea. The lilies of the field. You are, for one half hour tonight, the representative of all life on the planet. Hell, all life in the Universe, as far as we know. That calls for congratulations, doesn’t it? You have a right to be proud. And your family, too.

Did you, I mean do you have a family? How nice. Well, we all know what they’ll be watching tonight, don’t we?

Of course, I know, everybody watches it anyway. More than watch the Academy Awards. Eight to ten points more. A point is about thirteen million people these days, did you know that?

Okay. Anyway. Have you ever been on TV before? “Long shot at a ball game”—that’s good. I loved Bill Murray too. God rest his soul. Anyway. Okay. TV is ninety-nine percent preparation, especially live TV. So if you’ll walk over here with me, let’s take this opportunity to run through the steps for our lighting people, as well as yourself; so you will be able to concentrate on the Event itself.

After all, it’s your night.

Watch your step. Lots of wires.

Okay. We call this Stage Left. At 8:59, one minute to Air-time, one of the Girls will bring you out. Over there, in the little green outfits. What? Since you’re a woman it should be guys in bikinis? I get it, a joke. You have quite a sense of humor, Kim. Do you mind if I call you Kim?

Right, we did.

Anyway. Okay. You’ll stand here. Toes on that mark. Don’t worry, the cameras won’t linger on you, not yet.

You’ll just be part of the scene at the beginning. There will be one song from the International Children’s Rainbow Chorus. “Here Comes the Sun,” I think. All you have to do is stand here and look pretty. Dignified, then. Whatever.

You’re the first woman in two years, by the way; the last two Consumers were men.

I don’t know why, Consumers is just what we call them; I mean, call you. What would you want us to call you?

That’s another joke, right? Whatever.

Okay. Anyway. Song ends, it’s 9:07. Some business with the lights and the Host comes on. I don’t need to tell you there’ll be applause. He walks straight up to you, and—kiss or handshake? Suit yourself. After the handshake, a little small talk. Where you’re from, job, etc. Where are you from, by the way?

How nice. I didn’t know they spoke English, but then it was British for years, wasn’t it?

Anyway. Okay. Don’t worry about what to say; the Host has been briefed on your background, and he’ll ask a question or two. Short and sweet, sort of like Jeopardy.

To meet him? Well—of course—maybe—tonight right before the show, if time allows. But you have to