Ark by Julian Tepper Read Free Book Online Page B

at sixteen, and had been given a position at Macy’s on Thirty-Fourth Street not long after as a gofer in their ad department. Ben hadn’t said much about the job. Only the cafeteria. The greatest day of his life had been when he’d first walked into the Macy’s cafeteria as an employee and could eat as much of anything as he’d wanted. Every day, turkey and mashed potatoes, meatloaf, ziti, fried chicken, apple and cherry and key lime pie. He still spoke about that Macy’s cafeteria. The Depression had made Arkin mad about food. Jerome drove the artist to the Shop Rite in Jersey City, where things were cheaper than in Manhattan, and he would stock up: pasta and rice, cereal, dried fruits, chocolate syrup, tomato juice, walnuts, peanuts, cashews, pecans. He didn’t eat any of the food, but put it away in the warehouse in case a day should come in the future of humankind, an event so catastrophic that the whole food supply vanished. He said that being prepared for life’s inevitable disasters was part of his genius. Ben had headed up his own advertising firm on Madison Avenue, sold it, and retired a multi-millionaire at forty-two. After which, he’d put himself away in the studio to become an uncivilized animal and make art with blood. Those were his words. Ben hadn’t put any effort into becoming famous. Said Ben on the subject: “It’s a waste of time for a genius like me to peddle his art. I say get down to the bloody work, make something the world’s never seen, and when you’re dead perhaps they’ll find out about you—if they’re lucky!”
    Oftentimes, Ben would stop with his work and draw his hand through the air and say, “You see this? These paintings? These sculptures? They are perfectly meaningless things. And yet, in making them, I have felt what it feels like to be a king. And that stimulus to my brain, that knowledge of creation which I have gained…that, Jerome, is what all this making is about.”
    Although Jerome hadn’t known the first thing about art, Ben had hired him one morning eight years ago right off Canal Street, where he’d been stripping furniture for an antique dealer. Ben had called to him from behind the wheel of his Cadillac.
    He’d said, “Hey, kid, you good with your hands?”
    Jerome had said he was.
    â€œWill you work for five an hour?”
    â€œFive twenty-five,” Jerome had said.
    And Ben had gone, “All right. Come on, you.”
    These days, Jerome was making only six-fifty, still well under the minimum wage. But then, the young man had always considered this the most interesting work a poor Puerto Rican kid from the Bronx with no education could have. Anyway, that’s what Ben said, and Jerome couldn’t help but agree.
    Driving back from Jersey that day, Ben told Jerome he wanted him to round up some of his friends, four or five, as many as he could find. He wasn’t shouting, he was very calm, in shock, Jerome thought. Ben said he should rent the biggest vacuums he could find, go into the warehouse, suck out that water, and see what they could save.
    â€œYou can tell your friends I’ll give them the same I give you.”
    â€œOkay.”
    Jerome dropped Ben off at the curb in front of the loft. He said, “So should I bring the car back to the lot?”
    Ben leaned through the passenger-side window. His round face and wide nose, the jutting lips, the dimple in his chin, the mean blue eyes, the monstrous expression of power—Jerome felt he had to show a lot of courage now just to look straight at him. The artist said, “You idiot, what the fuck did I just say? I said you’ll go round up as many friends as you can. You’ll rent vacuums. You’ll go back to Jersey. You’ll…”
    â€œI got it. So, you want me to do that now?”
    â€œYes, now. What’s wrong with you?”
    Jerome apologized, and told Ben he could get