Knife Fights With God

Ernesto Estamos, worldwide famous Mexican sculptor, has not made a sculpture in twenty years. Yet, sales are brisk due to the efforts of Rico and Paco who have been making art in Ernesto's name for those same twenty years. They have been handsomely rewarded for their services but having signed an agreement of non-disclosure, were they ever to admit the truth they would be liable for more damages than they could earn in twenty lifetimes. Even so, the clock had run out on their bargain with the devil.

"I can't take this no more," pouted a pissed off Paco. "They come, they interview him like he's this 'great man' an' shit, and we get treated like gardeners.

"It's what we signed up for, man. No way out," reasoned Rico.

"We can quit. Sell our shit under our own name."

"You know what that means: leaving Mexico where Ernesto can't find us, starting all over, having no money. We've talked about this before."

"Fuck that old man. We got the truth on our side. What can beat that?"

"Don't mess with the truth, man. That's like getting in a knife fight with God. You get sliced up good."

"Fuck God and fuck this. All I know is I'm dying. My hair's falling out from the stress. I can't sleep with this worm inside eating me alive. People gotta know, Rico."

"If they do, we're dead." A long pause passed before Rico continued. "I don't get it, man. You got this whole planet of people wantin' to live more than anything but nobody is. Why is that?

Leaving Mexico for the wasteland of Arlington, Texas (between Dallas & Fort Worth), Paco and Rico found cheap accommodations. But in their mid forties with no skills to claim they found themselves with the jobs of unproven artists: dish washers. The kitchen was steamy, cramped and smelly with the greasy plates pouring in nonstop. Breaks were cut short but not keeping up was not an option. The pair quickly found the disdain of hard work by societies across the globe to be a universal one. Survival is never assured.

Back in the apartment, simmering silence lingering from the old country encased the room like iron bars. Truly, they had stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire. Paco was the first to rattle the cage.

"I told you, it's like a knife fight with God. They see us how they want to see us. No one's going to hire us to sculpt nothin' here."

"But we have the skills! Doesn't that count for anything?! Goddam God if it doesn't!"

"Ernesto was an artist, man. He could see what we could do - even if he did steal all our fuckin' work. This America, I don't know. Everyone just a number here, like a cult of science. All they understand is el dinero."

"We have no money to understand!"

"We got to sell shit again. Let's make something and sell it. People will see!"

"And spend our car money? We have to get around. How is it we end up in biggest city in Texas without a damn bus?"

"We gotta take the chance, man. No other way."

"That's what you said when we left Mexico..."

Trader's Village on Mayfield road has a weekend extravaganza of booths and makeshift shops that draws in visitors by the thousands. Stretching their resources, Rico and Paco gambled their fortunes once again. It has been said, "The truth will out" - but as each day passed the truth slipped away like a melting glacier. Still, the pair had a good feeling about their sculpted glass, knowing in their hearts its actual value. Having poured all their anxieties into the piece, it was one of the best they'd done in years. They asked only a fraction of previous pieces since it did not have Ernesto's name and because they just wanted to get the selling started.

A few admirers came by, smiling with compliments, but even at the reduced price it was too rich for this crowd. One woman, however, was a collector and duly impressed.

"Can't be! Is this an Ernesto Estamos original?"

Paco and Rico looked at each other in pain. In their souls they wished to come clean. That damned paper, signing away their souls, reached out and strangled their throats. The truth was: they had to lie - yet what bothered them most in their captivity was the cold comfort of not facing freedom's responsibility.

"This is our own, ma'am. Made it ourselves. You like it?"

A crisp coolness descended. "Well, to be honest with you guys, you need to get your own style. You can't imitate others and expect to get any sort of recognition."

She must have been sent by the devil! Paco's eyes flamed murder; Rico asked for a price. She offered what basically amounted to the cost of manufacturing and the pair were forced to accept. For three more years they came back with sculpture after sculpture, failing to make a name for themselves in the flea market, drowning in despair and dirty dish water.

"Look at my worn hands. Look at my oily face. No woman could want me! All the jobs are shit. People are shit. Our art is shit - "

"Our art is not shit!"

"Oh, yeah! So how is it we're so screwed? I can't go on like this! It's like a fucking nightmare I can't fight, I can't grab hold to nothin'. How do we win?"

"You don't win knife fights with God. You just get stuck. Ain't no truth out there to save us."

"Then what's the point of anything! I can't take this no more. I can't go back to that stinking kitchen staring at food rich people throw away. I don't want to keep living when I'm dead. No one believes you're hurtin' unless you die."

$7,000 a piece

Unbeknownst to Rico and Paco, the "collector lady" was selling their sculptures in a gallery in downtown Dallas, attributing them to a mysterious "Carlos", about whom she would (quite naturally) divulge nothing. With each succeeding "failure" the boys tried harder and harder, not realizing they were growing the cult of Carlos to prices that would easily buy them a car and a princely name. But left in the dark, all choices seemed moot.

"I don't want to make anything anymore. It's useless. We need to get practical and buy a fucking car so we can get jobs we don't have to walk to. Three fucking years, man! I've had enough. Basta! Our art is nothin'."

"Our art is NOT nothing! You know that!"

"Do I? Maybe all that time we was just fooling ourselves and the only reason we sold shit was 'cause people thought it was Ernesto's. Ever think of that, Paco?"

Paco had not, not for one moment, not until this very second. He'd held it as an unquestionable Truth they made valuable art. How could anyone not see? How could anyone think differently and still expect to survive? Had his whole life been an illusion? Was life itself an illusion?

"Can't be! Can't be..."

"I told you man, you try an' escape and God just stick that knife in ya! You get stuck good, gutted like a pig. Can't be wantin' to live. You gotta do like the world says. Ain't no dreams no more. Hell rules this planet."

Like soldiers who'd fought too long in a war, Paco and Rico's sanity slowly disintegrated in helpless despair. They could find reason in neither life nor death, their minds fading to black, stripped of meaning. Finally, they separated onto divergent paths, each seeking salvation. Paco ate a bullet, succumbing to illusion at last. Rico saved up to buy a car until he killed himself drunk driving, living his life in a bottle. In downtown Dallas a woman panicked as her source of fine sculpture suddenly dried up. Had she told them the truth, they could have shared a fortune.

Darkness, lies, illusion rule the world like a blinding fog. Is this to test us, to purify us? Why not make the truth obvious and plain as the sun? Some say it is. I guess all we can know - since we must know - is when we lie. After his death, Paco stood before his Maker and asked "Why?" How was it failure dogged their every step, no matter which way they turned. He did not like the answer.

"Because you lied."

"Lied! When did we lie? Oh, I mean except about Ernesto. But we HAD to there."

"Yes, because you lied about your work you could never claim it."

"That's not fair! We had to! If we didn't we'd lose everything!"

"As opposed to where your lying got you? I wish you'd had more faith, like the faith you had in your art. Your art pleased Me very much, now we are both the loser."

Rico, fresh from his car crash, had heard everything. "Well, if you wanted us to win, why couldn't you have given us the lottery so we could keep making our art!"

"I did. I gave you your art. It carried much earthly wealth."

"But it's so hard to tell the truth! It's so damn hard...it just feels like...death."