Lost And Found Art
A true story from my days in Antigua, Guatemala and my home away from home, The Exit Inn.
It was the normal Thursday afternoon
and I rode my horse into town,
my trusty King Kahuna bike.
It was the fastest way to get there
given the treacherous cobblestones
of Antigua, Guatemala.
I bounced into the Exit Inn and
Bob and I began our usual banter,
him with his Johnny Langer,
me with my tall boy Budweiser
the occassional tequila shot thrown in,
the boys tossing darts in the doorway
and Lou Reed staccato in the background.
It was always a perfect day at
The Exit, except for this one.
Bob says, “that you’re bike there?”
I says, “Yeah, found art.”
"I had no place to tie my horse up
so I put her there.”
I took a photo. It was my own
Duchamp urinal
or Dali lobster phone.
I posted it up on Facebook, I was so proud
of that living work of art.
An hour later, Bob looks up from his phone.
"Dave, we got trouble. Your bike is all over
the internets.”
I took a peek.
The whole foreign, do-goody two shoes community
was screaming for my head,
sacrilege, how dare I defile the treasured history
of this ancient fountain and UNESCO heritage site!
Bob’s phone began to buzz and vibrate.
The French tenant across the way had
called the landlord.
Bob sauntered out to meet the landlord,
there to calm all the tenants down
and 20 minutes later sauntered back.
"Damn, Deubelbeiss, you nearly got us
thrown out onto the street!”
We continued our merry-making
nevertheless or neverthemore and
occassionally I’d check my phone
and read more vile, commentary from
the foreign chattering class.
”Just save the dogs.” - I said under my breath.
Later that night, I threw a loaf of bread
through the back wall of the bar -
4 day old French bread I was
tricked into paying 5 bucks for.
I was forgiven, paid my tab
and then I tried
to ride my horse, the horse that
had caused all the trouble,
home.
Might of been the rain on the cobblestones,
might of been the beer and tequila but
I kept getting bucked off.
Finally the police rolled by in their pick-up
and threw us in the back
and drove us home.
They knew where I lived.
A few months later
sitting in the Exit Inn,
the music extra loud
to drown the construction noise -
the landlord finally had got around
to some needed renovations,
I heard some big cracking sounds
and I turned my bar stool around and looked outside -
two sturdy, short chapins were sledging to death
the fountain of unyouth,
blow by blow until it was no more.
They had a government permit.
I looked at Bob.
Bob looked at me.
He went back to his Johnny Langer
and I continued to slurp on my Budweiser.
Found art can become lost art too.
And
be careful what cause you take up
you just might be on the
wrong side of time’s sledgehammer.