The EPs of R.P.: 2019

Whenever he drove now he would always think of the part in Mad Max when someone was asking Max about his car, or Max was asking some other guy about his car, whatever.


“How did it happen?”


Was that it? Something like that.


Then the guy goes, “It just happened, a piece here and a piece there.”


Looking at his car, that sounded about right. But thank god I switched from that BMW to the Volvo he would think...


After the “fallout”, a strange word used now as a catch-all for the piled up events of the last few years, when he finally knew things were really changing, he loaded up some of the pieces from older car sculptures that had made their way back to his compound into the Volvo and hit the road. Since then, on his meandering journey out West, his car had become an awkward mash-up of Volvo and “art”, whatever that even meant now.


Of course by the time he finally left his upstate compound his wife and kids were long gone. When things started to go downhill, his wife had gathered their now college-aged kids back home and left in a panicked hustle. He wasn’t sure where exactly they thought they were going, but he didn’t try to dissuade them. She was talking crazy, spitting rumors about trying to get on some enormous boat reserved for only the mega-rich. Some luxury liner that the 1% could board and toast the world’s end from their blessed decks.


“Just call Larry,” she would sob. “You’ve made so much money for him over the years, he must have some place for us. Please Richard, please.”


But fucked if Larry would give a shit about him or his family now. Even if this mystery boat did exist, he was sure Larry was long gone, probably having scooping up all his favorite Hollywood lapdogs along the way.


For awhile after they left, he wondered why he didn’t try harder to make them stay, to be the man and figure out some plan for his family to make it, a way for them to weather the storm. He had added it to the long tab of disappointments he kept in his mind, but now in hindsight he realized he just didn’t care that much. For the immediate few months after he would have pangs of guilt and sadness when he thought about Eric, but he forced that out of his mind, it was easier to live with the complete, fully rendered memory of him as something concrete and situated fully in the past than to think about something that was now gone, just an empty void. Sometimes he still held little conversations in his head with him, spouting off an aside as if he was right there. Although few times when he would have trouble falling asleep, in moments of weakness, he caught himself wondering where Eric was. Did he make it? His instinct said no, but it was too painful to admit, so he assumed yes. Easier that way. The younger Prince was always so sensitive, so intuitive, but not practical or strong. When he was young Richard fantasized about him becoming a jock, maybe nothing as obvious as a football quarterback, more like the star of the water polo team or lacrosse. Something Richard could mention to friends in a way that seemed casual but in fact had been burning inside him, to show off his young son, a version of himself that never existed. But it wasn’t meant to be. Like Richard, he navigated the waters of masculinity tepidly, and Richard knew deep down that in this new world he just wouldn’t be able to fend for himself against the mobs and militias, firepower and martial law. Not that Richard himself possessed any special qualities that might keep him afloat, but he did have some things on his side - namely, money, resources, and the ability to take comfort in being alone.


After they were gone, he kept trying to pretend normalcy existed in his upstate compound, just like all the other delusional people still clinging on to the tattered threads of their lives. Every now and then he would get dispatches from New York or the outside world, during the times when he could clammer together some excuse for electricity, whether on his phone (which worked about 1% of the time) or on the old analog tv and radio he had kept hidden in his shed all those years, but mostly he tried to shut it out, he didn’t need to keep hearing about it. All of the world’s mounting, endless, insurmountable problems. It was just easier to figure out how to make moonshine from things he could find in the studio and keep the radio unplugged, lie in bed with the covers over his head, it all sounded the same to him.


Everyone now talks about the time when they knew it was over. That one moment when you could finally admit that the world had changed, and it wasn’t going back anytime soon. His came about a year after his wife and kids left. He started the generator and plugged in his phone. A text came through, a truly unexpected treat. It was from Jerry, but when he looked closer he saw that it had been sent about 4 days before. It didn’t say anything, just had a link. Richard tapped his stubby finger on the touch screen and his internet popped up, it was Jerry’s final review.


When he clicked, he saw It wasn’t even a review at all, just an image, culled from one of Jerry’s old twitter images, with scratching, hasty handwriting scrawled over it.

After that, he googled (he was still amazed he could do that) Jerry’s name and sighed when he saw the first things that came up. After publishing his final review, Jerry walked outside in his bathrobe, a man who had clearly confronted his own breaking point moment, and was murdered within 3 hours. No one knew who did it, but it didn’t matter. He had been stabbed and his skin mutilated, and, in a sick twist of fate, his body left in a bloody pile on top of the ruins of where the Folk Art Museum used to stand.


He sat in his cavernous studio for a long time, stunned. Its not that he ever had much love for Jerry, but there was something. He never thought of him much, but then during the “instagram paintings” debate he had come to love Jerry in a way. Not in the sense that Jerry had stood up for that body of work, but because he had become an almost living embodiment of Richard’s idea of himself in that work. Just another middle-aged man, cripplingly ill at ease with his own masculinity, playing out some vague mid-life crisis in rejecting his privileged position or subverting it or… what even? Richard had always felt more distant, looking at the paradox from afar, but seeing someone so personally affected had made him not fond of Jerry, but sympathetic in a way. Like the way he felt when a collector friend once drove him down Figueroa Street in Los Angeles and he saw what must have been twenty five chihuahuas, one after the other, all running around like they knew where they were going when he knew full well they didn’t. And now he was gone, just like all those little chihuahuas, his flayed body scampering down in pieces all over the remains of his favorite museum.


That was his moment, and he knew he had to get out. That was the day he started throwing all the old car pieces in the Volvo, filling up anything he could find with all the gas he had hoarded over the past year. He didn’t stray long in the house, just grabbed a few sensible clothes and whatever non-perishable food he could get his hands on. He didn’t know where he was going but he knew that wherever became his final destination, it was West.


He hit the road in the early afternoon and just started going. Along the way was eerily quiet. He had other artist friends who had made their way upstate over the years and he thought about stopping at any number of their compounds, but decided against it. He always worked better alone. He had heard rumors of what had become of some of the new upstate elite- some went crazy, mercy killing their own families, while others went a different route, gathering up young, lost beauties from the city and converting their once sprawling studios into Jim Jones level cult enterprises.


But no, he drove onwards. Nightfall came and he pulled off the main highway. He scanned the landscape for a dark corner of woods and crawled into the back of his car, in his sleeping bag. He tried to settle down, but his mind was turning and turning. He grabbed his phone, an old instinct, and turned it on. He had 5% battery left, but he wanted to see Jerrys review again, it was the only thing he could think about. The page had been left open so he scanned it again. Then, at the bottom, he looked over the comments that had been left. There was basically nothing, commenting on Internet articles wasn't exactly a high priority for anyone these days, but one comment jumped out and grabbed him by the throat. Posted was an image of Cindy’s, a print from the 80s, “Untitled (Doctor and Nurse)”. Then, written under the image, "leave ny, follow trail west, you will know the way, bc remember - sometimes the obvious way is the right way"


The author of the post was credited as "CS"


No. No. It couldn't be. Or could it?


Now he was sure not to sleep tonight.


What did it mean?


His mind raced and raced. If it was Cindy, she was trying to get a message out to someone, to artists who had stayed behind in New York? But why? And then that image. It didn’t make sense. He remembered that image so well when it had first been shown, he always thought it was a subtle dig at him. All his nurse paintings, and then she, posing as both male doctor and female nurse. He would never forget the first time he saw it. But what did it mean now, in this context? Did she mean for him to see it, a message just for him? And then that message - “you will know the way” ?


He lay in the car, wide awake, his mind running in circles. He sat there, unmoving, for what seemed like hours and hours. He started to see the sun peeking in over the treetops. Frustrated, he exhaled sharply, looked his breath puff out in the cold, and let his mind go blank… and then it hit him. Cindy was in Marfa. It was the most obvious place. This is what she had to mean. Of course, him being himself, he immediately started to tear it down in his mind, thinking of holes to poke in his newfound theory. But he stopped those thoughts as soon as they emerged. He had to remember her words - “the obvious way” - he had to trust himself, and her. He sprung up and started the car. He didn’t sleep a wink but was infused with a newfound and overpowering energy. He hit the road, never once looking in the rearview mirror.


He barely stopped his whole way there, only when necessary to refuel with the gas he had hoarded in plastic jugs. Funny, he was expecting to find some savage, brutal death militia or rambling gang of violent drifters on the road, but all he found was total quiet and stillness. Most people were probably too afraid to venture too far, he thought, maybe everyone had made like him in the last few years - clinging hard to what they could, cobbling together some twisted vision of a normal life. He had to assume all those news stories he caught pieces of had been gravely exaggerated, and he wasn't surprised to think so. As he approached the Texas border, he saw the light - in the sky, moving across the land. It was different, everyone always said so, but it was like he was finally seeing it now for the first time. Under the bold Texas sky, his body felt lighter than ever. His car tumbled on down the highway, moving from wide interstate, to narrower state freeway, and finally on to country roads. His mind has been suspiciously still since his plan came to him, but now rushes of anxiety started to hit him. What if he was wrong? What if it wasn’t Cindy at all who wrote that message, or what if it was but he was wrong about Marfa, and she was off in some faraway Western city? What if it was a trap? He did is best to silence his inner dialogue. There was no use in second guessing himself now. Even if what he found wasn’t what he wanted or hoped, his gas supply was ever dissipating, leaving him with little option but to see through the plan he enacted. He pushed his doubts out as quickly as they came, and drove on.


It wasn’t five hours later that he cruised into Marfa. He rolled down the main street, looking for signs of life, but seeing none of it. It was as if everything looked exactly the same, restaurants were full of set tables, stores seemed packed with goods, he even saw lights on in some places. Lights, goods, tables with silverware… but no people. He drove around in circles, craning his head out, staring into windows and at the horizon, silently waiting, eeeking into the distance to see someone. But there was no movement.


As the sun started to set, he felt his anxiety creeping ever closer. There was no way to turn it away now. He had pulled up right in front of the Hotel Paisano, that old rusted Western dream. He got out of his car in a direct, swift motion, slammed the door behind him and fell to his knees. He wanted to scream but could make no sound, he wanted to punch the ground with all his might but he couldn’t move, he wanted to cry but there were no tears left inside him. All he could do was sit, close his eyes, cover his face. What to do now? He was stuck. He was out of gas, his car falling apart in front of him. His last and final plan hadn’t worked. All of the loss and despair of the past few years had led him to this. Whatever hope he could muster he had done it, pulled it up from the depths of his body and dumped it all into this plan of his, this crazy fucking idea that he could just show up in Marfa and find Cindy. Of course, he hadn’t planned on what would happen after he found her, but it didn’t matter, finding her was the only thing. But it didn’t work. And now he had nothing.


And then all of a sudden, something hit him with full force. Something alive, moving and hot even, with weight that poured on him from every side, engulfing him in soft warmth. He opened his eyes and saw arms wrapped around him, and he recognized the feeling behind him as a body. God it was so long since he had touched anyone, since anyone had touched him. It all happened in a flurry. He turned around and saw her face. Cindy.


“Richard!” She was sobbing. “You got my message! I knew you would know! I knew it!”


He was totally speechless. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He just sat there, feeling her against him, her body leaning into his, just as soft and perfect feeling as he remembered. He pulled his arms up, drew them around her and held her more tightly than he had ever held on to anything in his life.


They sat there for a long time, and finally words came out. “I always knew you took that photo because of me, Cin.”


She pulled back and he saw her face, stained by tears and now laughing, her eyes lighting up just like he remembered they always could. She cried and shook her head, her hands creeping their way over his shoulders, face, head. “I just can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe I have you here in front of me.”


“But I’m here, Cin. I’m here.”


And then they sat there in silence, their hands finding just the right, calming places, touching as if they had been comforting each other for years. Finally she stood and pulled him up. He followed her into the hotel, taking the stairs up to the top floor, to the suite where, as legend has it, Elizabeth Taylor stayed when she was in Marfa shooting with James Dean and Rock Hudson.


“Is this where you’ve been staying?” he asked her. He had a million questions - how she had got there, how long she had been there, and whether there was anyone else around - but this seemed a good enough place to state.


“Yes! Living here. It suites me doesn’t it?” She laughed a little. “God, Rich, it was all so crazy, I can’t believe I made it.”


“But why here though, Cin? I mean not this hotel, but Marfa. Why? Why leave New York on the journey out West, to this place? Of all places?”


“It had to be this place! Where do I even begin. Well, did you notice how all the lights were on in the shops and restaurants, Rich? Didn’t you think that was weird?”


He paused a minute, given the events of the last hour or so it was hard to remember anything that came before, hard to recall the sting of disappoint and loss that had previously stained his life.


“I guess so,” he admitted, “but so what?”


“Richard, what did you think Marfa was? All the museums and collections, that never mattered. Marfa was always a fucking scam. Donald knew what was coming.”


This took a minute to sink in.


“Ok...I mean, I guess DJ all seemed a little, I don’t know… But Cin, how did you know? How did you figure it out? And what do you mean? Is Marfa set up to deal with.. with this?”


And then she started. It all began, she said, when she was invited a few years ago to do a project at Marfa Ballroom. She agreed, of course, and flew down. She had dinner with the curators, their interns, patrons, and everything seemed nice enough. They had put her up in a hotel nearby, and gave her keys to the space, saying she could go “literally whenever” she wanted, no matter what time, to feel out the space, think in silence.


But lying in her room that night, she had a strange feeling about the place that she couldn’t shake. Everyone at dinner had been so friendly and nice, there was no reason to be distrustful of the situation, but there was just something that was nagging her. Her intuition was vibing and she couldn’t calm it. She got up, deciding in a rush to take them up on the offer to check out the space “at any time.”


She walked down the dark street and made her way into the space. All seemed normal on the surface, all set up just the way she had seen before. But still, she couldn’t rest. She peeked in doors and down hallways, until she found a door that stopped her in her tracks. It looked normal, but she had a feeling this door was up to something… She opened it and made her way inside. The doorway opened into a long hallway, and that hallway lead to another. Eventually, she found herself in the basement of the building, more and more hallways leading in every direction. She followed them at will, and after a hour or so of wandering, making sure to mark her tracks wherever she went, she came upon a huge open space. It was under the Judd Foundation, she could tell by the notes she had taken about her directions. The huge, open hanger was like something out of a sci fi movie. Huge electric boards, and notebooks and binders full of papers, print-outs, maps. Making her way through it all, she recognized the handwriting as belonging to none other than Donald Judd. All of the information was about how to survive various levels of disasters, huge plans about Marfa being the “last resort”, literally, for artists in case of any major emergency.


Richard sat listening in silence. Something about this made total sense.


“Of course, none of the plans seemed to really be accurate once put into effect. Thats why the lights turn on automatically in all the buildings, and we can get running water, but aside from that, well… Not much. I only realized that when I came here, Donald had a vision but the plans didn’t always match up. But I knew then, that this was the place. Of course at that time I thought it was silly, why would I ever need a plan for a total modern life fall out?? But about a year ago I knew it was done for me in New York. There was no use hanging on. I figured it was now or never and I hit the road. I stole a rental car I found on the West Side Highway and came down. I was surprised no one else was here, but figured some people must be coming sooner or later.”


She looked down, suddenly shy, just like all those years ago in the studio. She was talking faster now, “I don’t know, I couldn’t stop thinking about you though, that whole time. Even after we broke up, I just.. I don’t know. Looking back, I don’t even know what happened. It all happened in a rush and a blur, it was over and then we went our separate ways. But something, I don’t know, its so stupid, but I would fantasize about talking to you. I wished you were there in my studio, just there, even just sitting there reading a book or something, I could look over and talk to you, just... talk to you, listen to you talk to me. That was all I ever wanted. The rest, it all fell away anyways, and look. It doesn’t matter. And I don’t know I saw that review, I thought maybe, and then it happened. It happened.”


She paused and looked up at him, but she didn’t need to say anything else. Richard didn’t care that there was no one else in Marfa, he didn’t care about anything that had happened in the past years they spent apart from each other, he didn’t care about Donald’s plans for the apocalypse, he didn’t even care about the apocalypse. All that mattered was that he found her.


And this was how the next phase of their life began. He took up residence with Cindy at the Paisano. Of course all of the niceties of the hotel were gone now, even though running water and electricity were taken care of, thanks to Donald. But something about this suited them both just fine.


There was little to do, but they always filled their days just right. Cindy had worked out logistics like having enough food long before he had arrived, so there wasn’t much back-to-the-landing or hard labor needed anymore. Sometimes in the night they would walk out to the edge of town, to sit and look out for the Marfa lights. On special occasions, they would take Richard's car out. He would shut the engine off and she would crawl over the long bench seat from the passenger side and rest her head on his shoulder. He would put his arm around her, and look into the dark, voided distance, like teenagers who has just snuck out of their bedroom windows to make out on Lover's Lane. During the day, they would wander down to the Judd Foundation to read out loud to each other from whatever art books were left in the gift shop, or stroll through Donald's minimal mausoleum. For fun, Cindy would sit inside Judd’s empty boxes, but Richard would always get uptight and tell her she shouldn’t, as if the ghost of Donald would come rolling in from over the border to chide her. She would laugh and laugh, even after the apocalypse he couldn’t shake that part of himself, the anxious little choir boy who couldn’t help but feel guilty for doing something he shouldn’t, no matter how hard he pushed himself. “Oh Rich, what’s he gonna do? Write me a critical letter about it?” she would laugh. God he loved her so much.


Whenever he thought about all of the chaos and struggle in the world he felt guilty, because if truth be told, he had never felt so amazing in his life. Even knowing the world was in disarray only added to his day to day peace of mind, because in this sick way nothing ever really felt good to him unless there was some sort of melancholy seeping in around the edges. He liked to wander into the desert (never very far, he knew his limits) and shoot at rabbits with the small rifle he had found in a storefront. The sun would beat down on his face, he would look out at the land and all of the colors in the wide Texas sky. On occasion he would even hit something and bring home a small animal of some sort for Cindy to skin and cook. He felt like he was in a fucking Cormac McCarthy novel. His mind was still and content. He had never been so happy in entire his life.