Montana Story with Bruce Weber
Written by Marc Balet
I unfolded myself out from the stuffy confines of a puddle jumper clutching my Prada bag to my chest. I hailed the lone cab like a true New Yorker and asked the listless driver to head to town, or whatever Bozeman, Montana was. When a solitary, shimmering phone booth appeared on the broad horizon I halted the cab, tipped the driver quite handsomely, and hopped out. The booth, familiar silver with red plastic, shimmered like a beacon in the lackluster, semi-urban landscape. Its letters read PHONE but, for me, it spelled OASIS. One dime would re-connect me with the world. I slid open the folding door, put a thin, shiny coin into the slot and called the photographer Bruce Weber.
Bruce had bought a large ranch – there seemed to be no small ones – outside of Bozeman, and had summoned some pals for his partner Nan’s summer birthday celebration.
“Bruce, I’m here. In Bozeman. Come, get me!” I pleaded into the phone. “I’m a stranger in a strange land!”
“It takes a little while to get there, Marc. I’ll send someone right away.”
“What’s ‘right away’ in Montana, Bruce?”
“About an hour and a half.”
“What the hell am I going to do for an hour and a half in Bozeman?”
“You’re a creative director. Be creative. See you soon.”
An annoying corn on my small right toe had been annoying me for months. I could never find the time to get it removed in New York. I assumed it would be a major expense for a minor toe. I let it go until now. Now was the time and place to get it fixed. My feet, oddly shaped, both wide and flat, battled daily with my beloved Timberlands. The boots were most often victorious, hence, the combat scar, my corn. I peeked out from my small oasis and looked down the road to nowhere, then, towards the opposite nowhere. Fearful of leaving my enclosure and any means of contacting the outside world once I did, I ducked back in.
It was August, and the summer heat had found Montana and most certainly this booth. A phone book bound in faux leather, linked to its spot by a chain forever too short, had been tauntingly placed for local reading. I opened it to P and, following a manicured finger, soon spied a listed podiatrist. There was but one.The printed address had no meaning, of course, but my decision to find it was easy; go left or go right.
So, I did.
After a few blocks’ walk, the exact street appeared and within seconds my destination was reached. Before me stood a very simple, cozy looking cottage with the mandated picket fence beyond which a small, verdant lawn led to one step up to the front door. Summer flowers somehow bloomed.
I rang the bell.
A tall, austere woman, late thirties with neat auburn hair, answered. Dressed appropriately in a white uniform and nurse’s cap, she explained sternly that office hours were over for the day and to come back another time. I explained that I was visiting from New York City and that I had no other time. Peeking in, it appeared that the office was part of a home, the doctor’s home I assumed, and thus the doctor should always be at the ready. Corns have no season. I explained that I was an art director fresh from the east and that I had an unwanted growth on a toe. I had a bit of time waiting for someone to come from a ranch, most likely a large one, and thought this the perfect moment to rid myself of the annoying growth. I lifted my right leg as though she could see it through my shoes. At the mention of New York her mood changed, her brow unfurrowed and, without further hesitation, she let me in.
I found myself standing within the confines of a small waiting room–once a small living room. The nurse suggested I sit and find some reading material, and she would return with the doctor. I sat in a corner chair. Next to me, on a stubby wooden table, lay a bible. Beneath that were some religious periodicals. Across the narrow expanse there stood a very mismatched table with yet another bible atop it. I realized that all the reading material throughout the room was of a very Christian nature.
That brought to mind an experience I had in North Carolina while on a business trip some years before. A New York business associate and I were eating in a small local restaurant. While waiting for our meal to arrive I sauntered around the periphery of the establishment. On one wall hung a map of this small, rural town. The map was drawn in the manner of an aerial view. As my gaze wandered over the map’s terrain, I spied where the town tailor was situated. His site was made prominent by a large Jewish star in bright yellow and blue atop it. Thus, on the printed map, distributed to all inquisitives who might visit or live there, the local town Jew could be quickly ascertained. We ate in haste.
The doctor appeared. I got up and shook hands. We locked eyes. He gazed at me as though searching for something. I re-explained my situation and thanked him in advance for seeing me on such short notice.
“So, you’re from New York City, are you? Is it Marc?”
“Yes, I came out here for a few days. A friend bought a big ranch, I guess there are no small ones, and he’s having a birthday party for his partner. His partner is a woman, of course.” I cleared my throat to make sure he heard the woman part.
“Our son’s name is Mark.” He smiled as he glanced at his wife, the nurse. I looked beyond him to check his medical set-up.
In what was once a dining room now sat a single professional tilt-back chair. Too new? I didn’t see any educational certificates on the wall. No emblems of any kind apart from one framed photo. It was a black and white portrait of a woman staring out lugubriously. She appeared to be either a very ornery granny or a very unsatisfied former patient. Something was not quite kosher here in Bozeman. I looked back at the tables supporting the stack of Christian items lying about like last week’s invitations. The doctor and his wife stood staring at me in silence in the doorway between the living room, which seemed to be getting smaller every second, and the awaiting surgical chair looming ever larger. One of my favorite toes was at stake. I hesitated, fearing the worst.
“How much is the procedure, Doctor?”
“It will come to 30 dollars, Marc.”
I leapt into the chair.
The nurse, the doctor’s wife and Mark’s mother, did some nursing things and arranged some very sharp toe tools on a metal tray. I took off one sock, two seemed showy, and readied myself for the ensuing pain.
“I’m going to freeze the corn now, Marc.” For winter? I closed my eyes. And, before I could recite my Hail Marys, the growth was off. I watched as the nurse (wife and mother) placed one small Band Aid on the treated toe. I wiggled it in satisfaction. I paid $30.00 cash without haggling and thought, “Now THAT’S a doctor! This is how America ought to run.”
As I gathered up my few belongings, I heard the wife speak very quietly, “We knew you would come, Marc. We were waiting for you.” Was the AC up high? I felt a shiver. They knew I was coming? Odd. No greeter met me at the airport.
“We summoned you.” This, in a very flat tone. Summoned seemed too strong. I’m in the book. I side-glanced at the door knob and then the wall portrait. Did that portrait’s eyes just move? When I looked back at the doc and nurse, they were standing side by side in the middle of that extremely small ex-living room with their hands folded in front of them. Who the hell picked out that rug?
“Well, again, thanks for the summoning. It worked. Win-win for us all. Did I thank you?”
“We’d very much like to introduce you to our son, Mark.”
“OK, is he home?”
“He’s always home.” Yeah, where would he go, out to the phone booth? The doc only charged 30. I felt I owed him.
“OK, love to…”
“We’ll get him for you.” Get, not summon.Looking back over her shoulder she reiterated with a smile. “We knew you would come to help.” That Bruce, I thought, what a gossip.
A young, thin, shy boy entered the room very silently, very slowly.He stood between his parents with his head lowered. I never got to see his face. He never lifted it. Typical shut-in.
“Hello, Mark.” There might have been a mumble in return.
“Hmmm” I said. “Is Mark ok?”
“Well, Marc. That’s why we knew you would come. You came here to help our son.”
“No, not actually, just to get a corn removed. I did thank you, already, in cash.”
“Mark wanted so much to go to school in New York. It was his dream to go to art school there. He begged us for the chance. We finally said yes and off he went, our Mark.”
“Oh, how great. Art school in New York, big city. What could be better? Lucky him, er you, Mark.”
Mark never moved. He might still be standing there for all I know. I leaned towards the door. “Did you like it? Did he like it?” I wasn’t sure who should respond.
“We thought he was doing very well,” his mother began, “Until that day.”
“There was a day?”
“Yes. It went well until the day they asked him to draw a nude woman.”
“A nude, female model, that seems kind of normal for art school.”
“Mark was never the same.”
“You mean as an artist?”
“When he told us that he had to draw a nude woman we knew immediately that we had to get him back here to safety. Away from New York. That life. Those people. There was no other way to go on.” She was reliving that day right before my eyes. Except my eyes were glued to the door.
“Were you happy to come back home?” That question was for you, Mark.
He did not respond. His mother did, though. “He needed to be here with us. We didn’t understand that way of life. We need to understand. We need you to explain it to us.”
Wow, that would take a lot of therapy, I mean, conversation. Too much in return for one corn removal. I thought 30 was fair. I looked at poor Mark. Can you be a standing catatonic? I could not get over this rug. I shuffled nervously on it.
“Help us to get our son truly back here to be with us, to be ok with us like before.”
That was a big ask.
“Damn, er, darn, where does the time go?” I looked at my wrist and wished I had worn a watch.
“They’ll be looking for me by now.” I hoped. The three of them stood there all with their hands clasped in front of them. Had they seen The Shining?
“Can you explain it to us? Did you come here to explain it to us?”
“I went to art school, too. I drew nudes every week, very badly. I could never get the hands right.” Their eyes went wide. She took a step towards me. How did you ever survive that? They shook their heads.
“Why didn’t your parents care for you and take you away?”
“I’m not sure my parents even knew where I was but that’s a story for another time.” Hopefully, in another place. That woman on the wall was really glaring at me now. “I suggest still life art for Mark from now on. That will prepare him for a life without human interaction.”
Mark would never lift his head up again. He’d eventually need a neck brace. And, perhaps, a coloring book.
I backed away to the door.
“Thank you” Was that 3 or 4 times now?
I turned the knob, threw open the door and, not looking back just like in the Bible, made my way briskly into the hot sun, through the gate and back towards nowhere. At the street’s end someone waved to me from a car. Bruce had sent a familiar photo assistant to retrieve me. Although, anyone could have recognized I was a foreigner. As we escaped, I explained to the kid what had occurred.
“Oh damn, you ran into some of the GETS. That’s some serious shit.”
“Are the GETS a group of roving maniacal podiatrists?”
“Marc, It’s a completely crazy cult.”
“Which isn’t?”
“They are led by a woman (the photo!) who preaches the End of Days. They are buying up all the real estate here and trying to take over the whole town. They even blasted out a huge cave somewhere so when the time comes, they can all hide from the apocalypse.” That did not seem sanitary. “Did they try and get you to join, Marc?”
“Not really, but at thirty dollars for a corn removal I’ll definitely be referring them”.
