Van K.

The actor and playwright, Van K., asked me to loan him a copy of
Amiri Baraka's poetry anthology. It's a signed copy, I said. Van K.
smiled, vowed to return it, and asked me not to offend him again. Some
years later I saw a production of his in the basement of the Cavalry
Church on 26th Street, a location I found exceedingly depressing,
shattering even. The production was overly acted and loud, if
entertaining. After the show I approached Van K. and did not inquire
about the book, though I suppose we both thought about it. I first
congratulated him on the play and then said I was moving away from
Minneapolis. He smiled, shook my hand, and turned to speak to others
from the audience. Again I did not see Van K. for many years. I would
occasionally hear about him but most of what I heard was bad and then
very bad. He'd left his wife, an accomplished cellist who, it was said,
could not take his strivings. Or, they said, she had kicked him out,
which was more likely. He was using heroin regularly. A mutual friend,
a journalist, said she had seen him living on the street, though I
found this hard to believe since I had often witnessed Van K.'s
arrogance get him what he needed, if only through the brute force of
his personality. It wasn't until ten years later that I again found
myself in that city. I'd been invited to dinner at a restaurant on
Loring Park and heard he'd been performing a regular Weimar shtick at
the restaurant on Tuesday nights. The next Tuesday we arrived just as
his show was ending. I waited until we finished dinner to find him.
After some inquiry, first with the bartender, then a waitress, then a
dwarf who had been part of the Weimar shtick, I found myself at Van
K.'s door. I knocked and walked in. Van K. was sitting on the floor in
a room void of furniture, save for piles of foam core wrapped in sheets
and a small wooden side-table. He waved me over. As I sat down he said
he had seen me in the audience but had not wanted to disturb our
dinner. It would have been impolite, Van K. said. He'd hoped that I'd
have the guts to come and speak to him. He brought out a few pieces of
folded paper he had in his breast pocket. Here, he said, as he jabbed
them at me. I opened the folded paper and shredded bits fell to the
floor. It was the remains of the Baraka anthology, shredded except for
the autographed page. Van K. then took out a fifth of whiskey from the
drawer in the small side-table, winked, gave the whiskey a strong pull,
and as he offered the bottle up to me, he cried, Here's to vanity!