Porcelain Pt. 1

Msr. Taffit Warren, Esq. (and other such things after your name) doesn’t so much walk through as enter every space he inhabits. Eyes, many eyes, ladies’ eyes, dandies’ eyes, the eyes of a seven-year-old boy, dentists’ eyes, the eyes of the very world—if you believed such silliness as the world having eyes—rip themselves from their appointed tasks and zoom in on this wealth of a man as he comes into the periphery of their perception. He penetrates perception, that’s all. Everyone runs to him for approval or opprobrium or some other “uh” word; they can smell the wealth dripping off him. A retarded monkey would jump at the scent of money wafting off his pants. He is flanked by a man in nothing but a clean black suit carrying the kind of portfolio everyone knows contains the important documents. You’d never ever ever—not if your silly little life depended on it!—think the man in a clean black suit would carry something as frivolous as comic books or bubble gum wrappers in such an important portfolio. Taffit would surely have his balls cut off or something equally appropriate if he ever even suspected the man of keeping such things in his portfolio.

Taffit stops.

The whole world suspends breathing for a bit.

Taffit flicks a sinister fleck of lint from his lapel.

The whole world exhales.

A man in a grey wool suit who doesn’t really understand why his detachable collar makes no sense steps forward to greet Mr. Warren. “Good day, Mr. Warren” and so forth… “how was your flight” and other such nauseating pleasantries… “we have a suite waiting for you just past the main lobby. Should you find yourself lacking any necessity” like pearl earrings or bottles of whiskey or toothpaste “while looking over the auction catalog, feel free to notify any of our staff, and we will be certain to fulfill your request with all due expediency.” The man in the grey wool suit, whose name I forget, considers for a moment whether he ought to bow but decides against it, as that would simply be ostentatious.

“Of course,” Taffit laughs off as common.

“May I be of any immediate service, sir?” the wool suit queries.

“A jar of pickles would be lovely.”

“Any specific brand of pickles you desire, sir?”

“Oh, you know me, I’m not particular,” Taffit giggles and gently pushes the wool suit aside. Money changes hands, and within seconds an intern is already quizzing passers-by as to the location of the nearest grocer or gourmet foods store. Most people just walk past trying their damnedest to make it seem as if they hadn’t heard the plaintive cries of the hapless intern. She manages to find an organic grocer a few blocks away, procures a somewhat oblong and overpriced jar of gherkins, and narrowly avoids the ruin to her career in art history, a ruin she never even foresaw, perhaps for her own sanity.

The intern knocks on the suite door, Suite no. 1, the only suite (the sign and the couch and the flowers and the painting had been added to a conference room but three days prior), and waits for Mr. Warren to beckon her in. He does, lazily might I add, after a few more knocks call her in and says, “oh just put those on that table thingy over there” indicating a delicate mahogany sideboard from the American Federalist period. She does as he asks, nervously, not because she has any idea who he is, but because she can feel his eyes looking her over like a side of beef, carving her up into steaks (porterhouse, ribeye, etc.), roasts, and scraps. He pays particular attention to the loin and rump, calculating in his mind how lean they might be. The intern moves over into the corner and puts up a submissive barrier of hands folded at the waist. Taffit rises with greedy eyes, reaches out the narrow fingers of his right hand, and takes firm hold of the jar of pickles. He twists it over in his hand a few times to examine it and pays no attention to the frightened intern who silently flees to a bathroom to throw up her bacon and egg breakfast.

“So… are any of the lots even worth owning?” Taffit asks the man in the clean black suit.

“A few, most are terribly ordinary; expensive, to be sure, but surprisingly common.”

“Oh, well, then, let me have a look.” With a sucking thud Taffit pops the lid off the jar of pickles and tosses one of the vinegar garlic dildos into his mouth. He buffets about pages of paintings, pottery, fans, screens, wines, toys, and violins put together in a catalog mostly for his own benefit. The man in the clean black suit thinks ponderously about the odd mix of items; Taffit just chomps down on another garlicky dildo.

“But certain things are worth having,” the man continues.