Gold Man

He was the gold man, though that did not pay the bills. To pay the bills he worked in a supermarket. The supermarket had the feel of the 1960s. The gold man was not alive in the sixties, but remembered it fondly, having watched Mad Men and The Wonder Years. He did not like the hippie, tear-up-the-world part of the sixties. No no no. Those damned hippies. He liked to watch the beautiful stoic male: in a suit, hair slicked. He liked to watch him, beautiful and tall, to watch him crumble and be torn down. It felt like watching himself.

So, even though the supermarket had hospital lighting, not reaching corners and ends, and the electric mop dripped and slobbered if you moved fast or slow, and his boss was a kind, crumpled woman who chain-smoked through rotten teeth—despite it all, he liked the place. It was like the 1960s, when Don Draper was a god in cigarette mist. Still safe.

But there were other things.

Once, a friend from high school came: Tom, a shy kid, now an engineer. The gold man was wearing a black polo shirt, embroidered with the store logo, when he saw him.

“Heyyy, Aaron, long time no see!” said Tom.

And the gold man wanted very much to explain that this was all temporary. He was the gold man. The artist. The only one. The others weren’t artists. They were con-artists. Soy boys. Hippies. And he could get money from his parents, but he wanted to make it alone. Like the mighty Ravelko. Ravelko denounced money as a corrupter of the soul, and the gold man feared it.

He wanted to tell all, but alas—you never talk about the art. You let the dreams be vague and nebulous and unconscious. If you talk them out, the people kill them. The people kill them because they cannot see how big something will be, and they limit it—and then you don’t want to do it any more. That’s why the gold man had stopped painting. Fool me twice, as they say.

Tom shook his hand goodbye. He was rich—an apartment with a blonde. They should catch up soon. Yeah. And Tom pushed his tongue against his cheek as he walked off.

Still the same awkward kid, the gold man comforted himself, just doing what the world wants.

He stared at the can of beans in his hand. It was a beautiful blue. Almost green. And the top was copper-gold. The gold man, first not seeing the beans, then seeing, looked at the copper-gold top, smiled trying not to cry, and pushed the can to the back of the shelf.

To escape the drizzle he had to stand under an alcove.

At first he had got ready in toilets, balancing his gold jacket and gold hat and gold shoes in his arms. He did not like the clothes to touch the floor, smeared with mud and piss. Seeing the impossibility of balance, he would fling his jeans over the cubicle—then his gold jacket over that. Put the gold shoes down and the gold hat on top—carefully. Smear the gold paint through his fingers, on his sharp jaw, up to his hair, around his eyes. Pull on the gold pants, and begin the operation of trading his normal jacket for the gold. He took one shoe off and toed into a gold one. It was funny when he had one normal shoe on and one gold. That’s what gave him the idea.

But since he began changing outside, he did not worry about the floor. Other living statues said it was good because people gathered in expectation. But the gold man did not like people seeing him change and always changed in a quiet spot. He did not like the other statues, either. Once, late at night, he was packing up when Captain Cook came over. The street was empty and dark and ghostly. The ghost of so many lives.

“Hey gold man! Good day?” And he peeked into the gold man’s goblet.

The gold man wanted to cover it but he was too far and busy with his jacket—so he nodded.

“You should come to a bar with us. Me and The Statuettes and Mickey Simpson, the big mouse-angel, are goin’ down.” He pointed to the motley group, small with distance.

No thanks, he was busy. And it felt good watching Captain Cook, with his vulgar mask and hat, walking away. Con-artists. The mighty Ravelko had shunned other artists and the gold man felt good doing the same.

But today was drizzling, and in the alcove the floor was wet; so he did the one-footed operation with his shoes. Pulling the pants up, over black thermals, the fabric of the gold leg was stiff and heavy and crackled like plastic. A passing man turned and looked. The unpainted leg came up smoothly and light, with no sound. He sprayed his knee and his elbows and his hat and his shoulder for lustre. The smell in his nose.

When he was ready, he packed his box, and slipped a gold cover over. He walked to Central Shops, placed the gold goblet in front and stood on the box. The goblet was glued to a piece of cardboard—coloured with spreading gold. The goblet looked like it was effusing gold into the street.

Before assuming his pose, he put both arms out and jiggled them. Then he arched his chest forward and pushed his shoulders down. Then he circled his neck and head. And then he took his pose.

His whole body—his suit jacket, his bowler hat, his vest, his tie, his shirt, his neck and face—were gold. A coppery gold. Only one leg of his pants and one shoe were unpainted. You could see there it was an expensive suit. Pinstriped and dark blue, almost green. It was a suit worn by the rich of the 1960s.

The idea was that gold was taking over. Only his left leg remained safe. The gold man’s face was frozen, golden, sombre, looking at his clean leg. Hands outstretched. Like he wanted to save it. But the only part that could move was his clean leg. It shook and wriggled and wanted to break free—but it was just a leg and could do nothing.

In front of the goblet was a sign, black ink on gold. It said: Help! I don’t have time! The good old days are nearly over.

And when an obese man, not having read the sign, clinked fifty cents in, the gold man unfroze and reached for his shaking leg. He gripped it with difficulty, looked at it tenderly and sadly, and after pressing it, turned to the obese man—his leg writhing in his gold hands. And he cocked his head and sometimes a real tear quivered in his eye. And the obese man nodded and smiled and waddled away sipping his drink.

The itches and strains were not difficult any more and did not require attention. Standing, he would watch the women walk. Whenever a beauty came—young and strutting, hips and breasts—the gold man looked peripherally from his leg. And each time they did not look he cursed inside angrily. Eventually he cursed inside laughingly. And finally, he looked with no expectations; and when they ignored him, nothing passed.

Then, on a sunny day—with light sparking off trams and columns, lighting up the gold man dully—a beautiful girl came. She walked from the end of the busy street. Two young boys turned and looked at her skirt as she passed, bright in the sun.

The gold man was watching her peripherally enlarge. You never understood their face but there was always instinct. And her vague shape was tall, white skirt, orange top of thin wool. Long legs, caramel in the sun. Getting longer with her advance. A sadness, subtle, rose as the gold man knew she would not look at him. And her face clarified and it was good (cheeky mouth, narrow eyes, love).

She glanced at him seven steps off and he felt a fool. He felt his face painted with gold. The stupid pose. The stupid expression. The stupid dropping out of drama school. The stupid idea. The stupid dream. And the utterly stupid shaking leg. He thought of Tom.

He stopped looking and focused on his leg. A silhouette was slowing down, coming over, and clinking two, no three coins into his goblet. The person bent low, doubled over and the clink was dull.

It won’t be, he thought, beginning the motions. It won’t be, it won’t be. He stretched towards his leg. Don’t be a fool. He clasped it shaking with gold hands. It’s some old bastard. But he was moving with precision, feeling his throat tense and warm and knowing the tear would really quiver this time. He held the leg. He held that pose, face tense with desire. Save yourself, leg. Shaking. Save yourself. Shaking. Like the good old days.

And slowly, slowly, statue-like, he rotated his gold face and saw.

She was tall and languid and not peripheral. Features crisp: eyes, lips, tawny hair. Long exposed legs. The tear did not come as he grimaced. She cocked her head, squinted philosophically and he held his pose. She moved her mouth in a sad smile.

Now, he felt the tear quiver and it came and his lips had the shadow of a smile. His final, untainted leg was calm in his palms.

And she came close, striding, big thick heels. Breasts outlined softly, orange. Rope of hair bouncing. She came close until he smelt perfume: the bathrooms of childhood. And very very close now—so that he saw every detail—she stooped, dropped something into his goblet, smiled and left.

Joy took him over and he felt very very good and handsome and the gold was excellent and what an excellent idea with the leg and very good focus and the expression perfect and yes, why not, someone would see him and ask him to do some live performance or join and lead a league—and his heart pattered all through him. And she was beautiful! And it was not a coin. No no. There was no noise. No noise! A card, perhaps. Maybe a piece of paper with her number. But how did she have a pen? When did she write? When I looked away? Ah who cares! Beautiful women—they’re something else! Who knows. They have their numbers ready. For deserving men. Hah! And I am gold gold gold! Yes!

His discipline waned. He tilted his head, lowering eyes, to the goblet. The back of the sign: Help, it said! Ha! And the goblet—there. Just inside—now, what is it?

And he bent and saw the funny colour. She has funny colour paper! And coming closer, closer, he saw the five-dollar note.

Arian Ganjavi is an Iranian-born Australian writer who lives in Melbourne