Varhaus No. 5
Somebody told me this series was breaking their brain. If you’re new, you may want to start from the beginning. A broken brain is one thing, a fractured story is another…
Varhaus No. 5
December 20, 2027
2:25 pm
Home
He stood in the middle of the gravel driveway. He had stomped a painting to death and thrown the broken frame at the garage door.
“motherfuckingshitfuckthisshit. fuck everyone.”
He stopped. “fuck me. I quit.”
She opened the sliding door far enough to call out. “I heard yelling, are you hurt?”
No answer. She found his slippers by the back door, slid them on and came outside. From the elevated porch she could see him looking for something else to destroy.
“Hey!”
He looked up.
“What’s wrong?”.
He wasn’t going to answer. “Nothing. These paintings fell out of the van while I was trying to load them.”
She looked from his face around the drive. Saw the paintings on the ground. Two of the frames broken. Frames he had made himself for paintings she did not understand.
She walked down the steps with her arms open in a ‘come here’ pose. He tried to walk away. She knew this dance. He wasn’t precious about paintings. This was something more than ruined work or frustration. Deeper.
She grabbed one hand and pulled him. He took the other but held himself apart. He was not ready for consolation.
“What’s the trouble?”
“None of this shit matters. Nobody fucking cares. I’m a fool for trying.”
He crumbled and burst at the same time.
She let him. She’d seen it before. Not often, but enough.
His constitution was a four-stroke combustion. Intake. Compression. Power. Exhaust. This was exhaust, not exhaustion.
“Hey dumbass. Stop for a second. How many people came to the event last week? Did you see their faces? I saw Dr. Johnson in the cafeteria and he told me all about this party he went to. He didn’t know I was your wife. Think of the people who are doing things joyfully around you. Ruth. Mike. Cam. Sara?”
“Those people are doing great...because they’re already great.”
“Did you see your Dad’s face when the little boy started singing? Of course you didn’t.”
He cried harder.
She held up her fist grasping an imaginary flower bouquet. “Here, smell these.”
He laughed a snot bubble.
3:05 pm
“Hey Ruth. Yeah, he’s not coming tonight. I told him he’s staying home and sent him to bed.”
She laughed. “You’re right. Sometimes he needs to be told. I told him that he’d done the work and you’d make it pay.”
She listened briefly.
“Oh yes, he’ll be ready for that. Hell, he’ll be fine in an hour, but I’m going to keep him here.”
She moved to the bedroom. The sheepdog passed her on the stairs and jumped on the bed.
“You’re on speaker, Ruth.”
“Jason! Oh my God, I’m freaking out! The collapse of Varhaus. Go to heaven, do simple capitalism, get grounded like a five-year old. What will we ever do?”
She paused her teasing for the punchline.
“We’ll probably have fun for once!”
BB laughed. “Ruth gets it.”
“I’ll be there in an hour or so.”
“No you won’t.” Jinx. Coke.
“I want to be there for Camron. He deserves my appreciation.”
Ruth covered the phone to give a muffled direction and then: “Yes he does. But he’ll understand. Plus he’s going to be so damn busy entertaining and networking. I’ll speak with him.”
“Embarrassing.”
“Trust me, there is nobody ashamed of you. That’s just you talking bullshit. Listen, though. It’s more important that you’re fresh for New Years Eve and the festival tour. I got this nailed.”
“Thanks Ruth.”
BB ended the call and looked down her nose at the reclining artist petting his sheepdog.
“See?”
She cooked the peach chicken dish that she made the first time he came to her house. Followed it with a bowl of ice cream.
“You know my ice cream theory right, BB?” he asked.
“Faster than Prozac!”
“Yup. Thank you. Not only for the ice cream.”
7:30 pm
Holiday Fundraiser
“Good evening. My name is Gabriel Thomas.”
“Thanks for supporting the Food Bank, Mr. Thomas.”
She looked at the banquet table full of name tags. She flipped through an excel spreadsheet, turned to her volunteer coworker, “Thomas?”
“I’m not finding your tag. Give me a quick second.” A tall woman stepped forward from behind the partition.
“You’re with us, Gabe.” Ruth smiled. “Hi Susan. You look amazing. Thanks a million for coming.”
She produced two lanyards from her coverall pocket with the Varhaus logo. Please see me before you leave, Jason left a mug for you.
Confusion. Questions. Gabe stepped to the side making space for the folks lined up behind him.
“I thought I was invited by mistake. I was hoping to crash the party and talk with Jason. I’ve been trying to get an interview for a year.”
“He won’t be here tonight. We respect your hustle. We want you here, just not the way you think we do.”
“People are talking. I keep hearing about your event last week. Something about a chapel and singing children and the best sandwich bar ever built? I heard it was a real banger.”
“It was a helluva experience. Have fun, tonight.” She excused herself and disappeared around the corner. As she walked he noticed she wore an audio rig on her waist...in her hand, a headset like a telemarketer.
He and Susan joined the party. After grabbing a couple blueberry mojitos, they found a corner table and people-watched. Susan liked to watch people interact. Gabe stayed out of the social fray to stay objective like good reporters do.
This was not the orchestrated party he heard about all week. This was a firesale. Everything had a dollar amount. Art. Drinks. Tables. The woodshop. Every blank wall claimed by a donor logo. Wall-to-wall positive people. Silent auction. Pretty dresses, fitted shirts, over-hyped holiday hellos. Still Varhaus, but the guests seemed to miss the artwork entirely. The best gala this town had seen in ten years. Just...monetized. And though it was for a great cause...the best cause...
all tell and no show.
They hung back and observed. Made note of the participants. Look at that. Look at her. State Senator. Neurosurgeon. Developer. Mayor. Socialites.
“They might set a fund raising record for the food bank.”
Boom, a flash. Gabe knew exactly what it was. Sun Gun. A camera. A tall woman standing in front of a painting, talking with her hands. Smiling. The crowd gave them space and watched the production. Professional production? Susan grabbed his hand and they weaved over to see.
Something stopped them. Jason’s painting studio. Usually the centerpiece of the room, tonight the glass garage door was dark and closed. Looking through the etched lettering on the glass, “a prophet is not without value...”, a young man sat with his back to the party. Three large computer screens in front of him. Past the screens, the largest of the wall easels had been converted into a huge chatroom. The primary feed in the middle showed Ruth gesturing to the large painting behind her. The rest of the projected zoom call was filled with people representing a different iteration, a digital Varhaus.
“Sonofabitch” Gabe thought with a smile. He considered the scene a moment. He looked at digital operation in front of him in concert with the party happening behind him.
“Online art auction. Is he using the fundraiser to create ambiance to sell art or is he using the online interest to legitimize his artwork for the fundraiser?” He thought about it a second more.
He looked at his wife. “Who is the customer, here. Which audience is intended?”
Susan smiled. “We are.”
When they were ready to leave, they found Ruth. Two bespoke wooden boxes that rattled a bit. In the car he opened his Varhaus Coffee Mug. He had wanted one since the first time he saw it. To the driver’s annoyance, he flipped on the dome light to read the folded note tucked inside:
“There is a law written in the darkest of the Books of Life… If you look at a thing nine hundred and ninety-nine times, you are perfectly safe; if you look at it the thousandth time, you are in frightful danger of seeing it for the first time.” -G. K. Chesterton
Join us on New Years Eve 5:30 pm
A man’s handwriting: “off the record. bring Susan!”
December 31, 2027
5:35 pm
Varhaus
He wore the Christmas outfit BB picked out. Lululemon that passed as dress pants. A lightweight checked oxford. New 574’s. The strobe in his office indicated the arrival of his guests. He straightened his shirt and walked through the dark gallery to the front door.
Susan and Gabe stood in the flurries. He opened the glass door and stepped back.
“Happy New Year. Thanks for coming.” He reached behind Susan to the wall and flipped a switch. White.
They went blank. “What happened to it?”
“You’ve seen what it can be at times. Now it has to be something else.”
Eight large paintings on the wall, too much space between them. Freshly painted white walls. Ceiling flat black. Concrete clean. It seemed as big as an indoor football field before the artificial grass was installed.
In the middle, a table as big as one of Jason’s paintings. Maybe 12 feet long and 8 feet wide. On top of the table, an ad-hoc tablecloth of unprimed painting canvas. Folding chairs. On the table rested piles...coffee mugs...red wine...paper plates...plastic cutlery...rolls of paper towel instead of napkins.
“We were hoping you’ll have dinner with us. The peeps will be here around six. In the meantime I have a couple things to do. Look around. Kick the tires a bit.”
“Is this a joke? Did the building get sold? Where’s the rest of it?”
“I think Dorothy was a little disappointed when she met the Wizard. Really, look around.”
They headed straight for the back door. The guts. All that stuff had to go somewhere. They went past the woodshop and the motion light kicked on. It looked like a Greenfield Village exhibit. The tools were perfect. No projects were sitting on the benches. No sawdust. They dead-ended into a door and opened it to find a wide hallway stretching the length of the entire building. They turned left down the hall to find a garage containing two vehicles, but space for three. A black Sprinter and a garden shed painted white.
The first view of the shed was the back. No door. Just white exterior walls. The view of the van was the same except on the floor was stacked someone’s luggage, toiletries and guitar.
Walking between, they noticed the shed was on a trailer. Glancing through the side window of the van...geometrically stacked artwork packed efficiently for travel.
“HEY, what the hell are you doing in here!” Very loud and aggressive.
Jason stood at the doorway enjoying his interruption.
“Have you ever been to Venice, Gabe?”
“No, but we really want to go to Italy.”
“Well, this baby is headed to Venice Florida.” He leaned, one hand on The Joyful Mystery. “There’s a really great park there called Myakka River State Park. Mike’s gonna drive it down and leave it. BB’s grandfather is going to care for it. We created a GEOCache for people to find it. Pray at it.”
“You’re not going?” Susan asked.
“Close. I’ll be working art festivals on the southeast coast plus Naples. I leave tomorrow.”
“Who’s gonna handle this place?”
“You don’t know who runs this joint? It ain’t me. I got like 5 bosses.”
“Ruth?”
“Yeah, she’s three of them.”
“I want to write a story about this place. Do I ask her the questions?”
“Look man. I appreciate you have a job to do, but she can’t help you. That’s why we’ve invited you here. Your participation and interest excite us. But not as a journalist. As a person. I offer you this one little suggestion, don’t ask newspaper questions. Find the real questions you need answered.”
“I don’t understand.” Gabe was frustrated.
Susan put her hand on his shoulder to gather his attention. “You do understand.”
“He loves this place. I think he’s a little butt-hurt that it’s not in action tonight.”
“...but it is in action. A different action. A monument in time. This is what I want you both to do: participate and enjoy yourself. Learn by osmosis.”
“Are you trying to be some sort of guru or something?”
Jason flashed anger. Almost embarrassment.
“Look at me.”
“I love the people of this city, just like you. I love a city that sucks. It sucks for lots of reasons. Almost no art market. Nobody doing anything scary. Asking 50 year old questions and answering with borrowed buzzword answers from ten years ago. SAMO. I have some solutions, but they don’t fit with the common outlook. You know why? Orthodoxy and Individuality. I know what I am trying to make. I refuse to ask permission to make it. I hide the truth so people have to look and find it. I do it so I can serve these people that I love the way that I think God wants me to. Guru? Fuck no.
Do you see my passion? Do you see my urgency? Do you see why I can’t answer you?
You see? Your name is Gabriel. I need you to do that job.”
“Welcome to Varhaus”. Nobody saw Ruth come in. “See what I have to deal with? You guys hungry?”
The Varhaus partners were already setting up the dinner table. BB arrived with a dozen pizzas, breadsticks and wings. She sat them in the middle of the table with Mike’s help. There was no seating arrangement. Not everyone sat. Not everyone used a plate. Nobody said a prayer or announced “let’s eat”. The lights were dimmed and music selected.
Jason put on Mose Allison: “Your mind is on Vacation (your mouth is working overtime.)”
Everyone knew everyone. Even the significant others knew of Susan and Gabriel and greeted them like old friends.
Jason stood on a chair. “Yo!”
Ruth looked up. She and BB were commiserating as usual. “Not yet, Sit down. We’re waiting for someone.”
“Who?”
“Just wait.” Jinx.
Gabe and Susan sat with Jason. Pizza, wings, laughing. Writers and stories. Sports and pizza.
Folks played cards. Skip-bo. Others just talked.
At 7 pm BB looked at her phone and headed to the front door. Ruth followed. They returned with a woman carrying the biggest poinsettia anyone had ever seen. She set it on the table and stepped out from behind it. Sara Douglas. The first person to ever walk in off the street.
“Happy New Year everybody!”
Everyone gathered around her as if to congratulate her, welcome her. Like a family member showing up unexpectedly at a family reunion after being gone too long. Her beaming was mirrored by Ruth and BB. A mug of wine appeared in her hand.
While the attention was on Sara, Jason stretched an orange construction extension cord from beneath the table across the floor to the closest wall outlet.
Everyone sat round the table. The table was almost large enough to hold a place setting for each, but not quite. Jason sat at the head with BB. She was in conversation with Ruth to the right and Sara leaned in to the conversation.
“Let’s talk turkey. We accomplished three proofs of concept this month. Each is well earned.”
He held up a framed 8.5 x 11 Paper. It read: 12/12.
“Did we create mystery that encouraged people to discover joy for themselves?”
Everyone nodded.
Another frame: A dollar bill.
“Did we make money? Did we make money for our partners?”
Ruth: “Hell yes we did! Hyman Roth always makes money for his partners!”
Jason raised his coffee to his friends. They raised wine in coffee mugs.
“I’ve been sitting on the last proof.” He leaned forward to reach in his back pocket and produced a silver envelope and held it up. He handed it to BB. “You read it.”
She opened a New Year’s greeting card. A Hallmark message...”Here’s to this year’s blessings informing next year’s hopes...”
“This card is from Camron Galt. He owns our building.”
She stood up straight and read: “HNY! I rented the whole building across the street. I close on the parking lot in February. $245,021.12. Keep Going. PS. I’ll see you in Venice in two weeks.”
Clapping and smiles, but most did not understand the significance of the note.
Mike stood. The rest followed.
“Here’s to not knowing how your energy will be returned to you. It always comes back better when you don’t try to know. Salut.”
Mike didn’t say much, but he always said it right.
“One final thing.” Jason grinned. “One final proof.”
He turned to Sara, BB and Ruth.
“Did you think I didn’t know she was coming? Like, a person who thinks about children’s development all day? A person who grew up in New Orleans? Our favorite place? A person who produces a travel blog for single women with children? There’s not much you two can hide from me.”
BB hit him in the arm. “jerk.”
He turned to Sara. “We have not been recruiting you. We’re not a fucking cult. We have simply been waiting for you to say: “How can I be involved? Welcome home. Anything can be done here.”
Then to mike: “It’s all yours, brother.”
“If you could all step back from the table and remove all the stuff please?”
Mike said: “Sara, we all have God-given talents, skills and interests. This is Varhaus. We live what it says on the mug. We encourage participation through people’s unique gifts. When we lack the gifts of a particular activity, we become the worker bees to support others’ gifts.”
He reached under the table and found the hidden controller. The table rose from dining height to bar height. Beneath, a hydraulic lift, mounted in the center, was revealed as the table’s base. And then he lowered it. All the way down to its full compression, about 16 inches from the floor.
Mike stood on one long side. The rest stood opposite him. He ripped the painting canvas tablecloth away like dad performing a clumsy magic trick.
“We made this for you, Sara. It’s your workbench to inspire young minds.”
They looked down.
It was the painting Sara loved on her first encounter at Varhaus. She thought it was sold. It had been mounted in a thick frame and sealed beneath an indestructible resin finish. The painting depth was changed by epoxy effect. It was no longer pretty. It was useful and pretty.
Gabriel Thomas watched Sara melt into belonging. She hugged everyone as if each embrace was leaving someone out. His outlook had shifted somehow. He suspected his job was not words or articles. Ideas.
“Hey Jason...what does the word Varhaus mean?” Gabe telegraphed his voice across the table.
“I just made it up. I like the way it sounds.”
Here the story of 2027 ends. Jason mounted the van the next morning and drove toward the Keys. Mike followed a few days later with the shed. The building was left as a conventional art gallery, the paintings doing the talking while the city did its paperwork. Camron cleared the hurdles. Varhaus went quiet, preparing for the next thing...like a dairy cow grazing in a pasture.