Short Story Week 2018: Day One -A Scoop of Mashed Potatoes On Top of a Manhole Cover

"You did the right thing calling me." Caris appears over my shoulder, carefully peering at the fruitless efforts of my blank screen. "What's going on sweetie?"

"I have really not been feeling creative lately," I tell her.

"Since March?"

I nod. "I thought it was the Seroquel at first. The Prozac-Seroquel combination really seemed to make me feel better, but then I noticed I didn't have that creative spark anymore. I thought it might come back when I went on the depression study because I had to switch out the Seroquel for Melatonin, but it's been three months and nothing's really happened."

"You still daydream."

I sip from the Styrofoam container full of caffeine and sugar that I've been drinking way too much of lately. "Yeah, but I don't feel motivated to really do anything with the thoughts. I'm just...not there anymore."

Caris sits on the desk next to my computer monitor. "Creativity." She smiles. "If I were to turn you into a fictional character, that would be your defining trait."

"It's not a very good trait for a character to have."

"Why do you say that?"

"Logistics. Creativity isn't tangible. Dancing is tangible. I can write a story about you dancing without my actually demonstrating my own ability to dance, or not to. But if I were to write a story about you being creative I would have to essentially be as creative as I'm claiming you are. Otherwise the audience views it at me telling, not showing."

"Well, don't you think you're creative?"

"I certainly try to be."

"What's more important to you? Being creative or feeling creative?"

"If I have to choose?" I glance up at her for the answer that I already know she's going to give me. "I guess I'd say feeling creative."

"And why is that?"

"Well, I was trying to imagine what the difference is. If I'm feeling creative then I'm probably actually being creative. If I'm not feeling it, how would I recognize it?"

"Interesting," Caris says. "Is it even possible for anybody to recognize creativity? Like, is there any sort of official criteria one could devise to unquestionably identify creativity, or is it purely on a system of intuition?"

"That's probably a question best left to people who program A.I.s. But it's definitely an intriguing thought exercise. Can you prove creativity exists?"

"I like this conversation," Caris giggles. "So why don't you try telling a story now?"

"Okay," I huff. "Let's see what happens."

A Scoop of Mashed Potatoes On Top of a Manhole Cover

Nobody had ever placed a scoop of mashed potatoes on top of a manhole cover before, and with understandably good reason. But there was a time, albeit briefly, that one could rattle off those words, in that order, with complete sobriety and no concern for any loss of social well-being. That period, like so many, has long since faded into nothing more than a footnote in history; but not without leaving a trace stain of its existence somewhere, waiting for rediscovery.

It began with the Olhauser exhibit at the Musee d’Meprise. And it ended with the notoriously inflexible critic Emile Michaud.

In his review of modern art, and artists, Michaud’s favorite phrase was, “Yes, but what does it mean?”. It was not his responsibility, at least in his authority, to have to search for a meaning which did not immediately present itself. Which is not to say that complexities of substance were beyond his scope. Far from it. He simply found himself to be the ideal template for measuring the spectrum of the superficial to the esoteric. If he didn’t ‘get it’ there was nothing worth getting to be gotten.

It was this mentality which became contagious to upcoming art connoisseurs, creating an environment for artists that was notably negative in reception. “Yes, but what does it mean?” became an unofficial mantra among those who recognized Michaud’s superior understanding of what separated art from non-art.

To a point, the question was fair. After all, meaning is as fundamental to expression as color or rhythm. But Michaud was particularly vocal about his displeasure with any response reminiscent of “It means whatever you want it to mean”. He equated it with meaning nothing, and many young artists preferred to give up their craft rather than endure what they felt to be a premature judgment.

Michaud’s pull within the art community was equally problematic for an established artist such as Olhauser, who rarely gave much thought to the meaning behind her work. She just did things. Things that came to her, for whatever reason. Occasionally these things resonated with an audience, who might be so inclined as to assign a meaning to them. If Olhauser ever had any interest in the accuracy of said meanings, she never bothered to let anyone know about it.

Her first name remained a mystery to the public as she was terribly reclusive. No known photographs of her existed, and the few people who had met her in the early throes of her career described her personality as flat and blank, almost like an unrealized canvas (a quote that made its way to an early newspaper article about her work). In the few years prior to the time period in question, a handful of Olhauser’s paintings and sculptures would make their way to the Musee d’Meprise with little fanfare, apart from the hostile comments from some of Michaud’s prospective protégés; Michaud himself had long since abandoned paying Olhauser any mind.

But that changed with the arrival of the piece titled A Scoop of Mashed Potatoes on Top of a Manhole Cover.

As far as anyone could tell, the piece was exactly what it claimed to be. The glass casing prevented any close inspection of the artwork, making it impossible to tell if the sculpture was wooden, marble, or an actual manhole cover with actual mashed potatoes on it. Within the first weekend in the exhibit people began talking about it. The inevitable question “Yes, but what does it mean?” made its way to the proceedings almost as fast as the attendees, but the outright dismissal that the words usually carried quickly fell away to reveal more of a piqued curiosity.

“It could be a statement on the way that our professional and personal lives are merging.” “Maybe it’s about vegetarianism.” “It could just be a commentary on the current state of the art world.” The explanations came pouring through the halls of the museum, and then out into the world until they reached the ears of Emile Michaud.

Their courier came in the form of a newspaper reporter who was covering the piece’s rising popularity. He phoned up Michaud and invited a response about Olhauser’s newest creation. Michaud, not being familiar with what had been going on, requested a brief synopsis. When he got it, his initial reaction was a sheer, almost numbing, disbelief. “Are you,” he said after a very long stretch of silence, “kidding me?”

The reporter wasn’t.

Michaud drew in an irritated breath and gave his on record response to the newspaper the way he would talk down to a child. “It is just a scoop of mashed potatoes on top of a manhole cover.”

“Yes,” replied the reporter. “But what does it mean?”

What does it mean, he thought? It means nothing. It was so obvious that he couldn’t understand why he’d even been asked. The question caught him so off guard that all he could do was hang up the phone. A few minutes later, when he was convinced this wasn’t some nightmare he was having, Michaud called Musee d’Meprise’s curator and demanded in no uncertain terms that the ‘piece’ be removed from the exhibit, as it belonged nowhere within three blocks of anything resembling an art museum.

“I appreciate your concern,” recited the curator, “but this piece is bringing in the largest crowds the museum has seen in close to five years-“

“Yes! But what does it mean?” Michaud snapped without thinking.

The curator shrugged; Michaud could just feel him shrugging over the phone. “It doesn’t matter.”

He slammed the phone down so hard it bounced off his desk.

The next morning Michaud barreled through the doors of the museum. He’d nearly gone down there the evening before, but enough rationale had warned him that somebody would be killed if he didn’t give himself time to cool down. Unfortunately the newspaper had been delivered that morning, and the article contained the phrase “Emile Michaud doesn’t get it”, which put him in an even worse state of fury that he’d been in prior.

And it was in the museum that he saw the sight he’d been expecting, and it made him sick to his soul. People. Mindless people. In heavy discussion. About nothing.

There is a concept elitists refer to as ‘Apocryphal Innovation’. It’s when something devoid of any artistic merit happens to catch the attention of the masses, and thus becomes infused with value based on nothing more than popularity. As little as Michaud thought of the masses, and their fascination with waste, this was a new cultural low for them. And he was having none of it.

He shoved his way past the attendees and barged into the main office. The curator sat at his desk with his feet propped up, barely containing his amusement at the intrusion. “Come in Emile.”

“Two hundred dollars!”

“Seriously? You’re going this route?”

“Two hundred dollars, and I donate it to your trash bin! If that’s really iron you can hose it off and sell it for scrap.”

“Offer me 350.”

Michaud pulled out his wallet. “Done.”

“No.” The curator shifted to face Michaud directly. “This is insane and you know it.”

“Insane? That’s insanity out there! Do you have any idea what it’s doing to the reputation of the museum?”

“Yes, nothing,” the curator snickered. “But what will it do to your reputation when the peasants see you shelling out a few hundred dollars for something you view as valueless? Why does it get to you so much? People are having fun.”

“Yes, but what does it mean?”

The curator sighed. “And there it is. You really ought to have that phrase trademarked.” He walked over to the mini-bar in his office and poured two glasses of brandy, setting one in front of Michaud. “I don’t know. And at the end of the day I don’t really care enough to try figuring it out. I’m not in Olhauser’s head, and based on our scant exchanges it’s not a place I’m really inclined to visit. All I know is it probably means something to her, and it seems to mean something to the people out there. What more can a museum really hope for?”

Michaud ignored the brandy he’d been offered. “Where is she?”

The curator rubbed his forehead. “Emile, just let this one go.”

“I want to talk to her directly. You know how to get ahold of her.”

“You know what our rules are, right? We’re legally obligated to protect an artist’s privacy. If they don’t want to be found, we can’t give out information on them.”

“Yes, I’m fully aware of the policies your museum has instated.”

“Good.” The curator produced a card with an address from his desk and set it in front of Michaud. “She asked me to give you this.”

It was a guesthouse addition to a home that had been torn down so long ago there was no longer a trace of it amidst the overgrown brush. She greeted Michaud at the door before he could knock a second time.

“Come in, come in,” she smiled, ushering him into a dimly lit room; a single dying light bulb overhead. The place was packed with more metal shelves than it was ever meant for. Toolboxes and crates filled the gaps, while rusted hammers, saws, and cobwebs lined the walls. The tight space was a storage graveyard.

Michaud opened his mouth to speak, but Olhauser beat him to the sentence by one second. “You’re here about the Manhole piece,” she said. “It means exactly what you think it means.” She squeezed through the obstructions to a distorted door that separated the storage area from the rest of the building. “That’s not entirely true,” she grinned. “I want to show you something.”

She scurried into the open area of the guesthouse where she’d spent all of her recent days painting. Walls, floor and ceiling. All sides dripping with colors, swirls, and spackles of tints and hues. Patterns that flowed in and out of each other, like a spectral ocean.

“They’re back,” she announced as soon as Michaud joined her in her sanctuary.

“They, who?” were the words that formed in Michaud’s head, but they came from Olhauser’s mouth, as she didn’t have the patience to wait for him to ask. “Things. Voices. Ideas. A collage.” She guided him into the center of the room. “Isn’t it beautiful? A self-contained exhibit. I think I’m going to call it ‘Those Who Cannot See’.”

Again, Olhauser assigned dialogue to the perplexed look on Michaud’s face that couldn’t keep up with her. “Yes, but what does it mean? I never know. Sometimes it means something. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes the meaning comes later. Like ‘A Scoop of Mashed Potatoes On Top of a Manhole Cover.’ I didn’t know what it meant until now.”

“You know, I hear your voice in my head? ‘Yes, but what does it mean?’ Over and over. In my sleep. In my insomnia. I’ve been hearing it for a few years now. It’s gotten so loud that I couldn’t hear the collage. And then it stopped speaking to me altogether. And there was just me. I couldn’t see it anymore. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She wasn’t making any sense. Michaud was beginning to suspect that it was a mistake to have come here. Olhauser moved behind him, setting her hand gently on his shoulder and pressing her cheek into his face.

“Creativity,” she whispered. “Linking two unrelated things together. Without creativity, they’re just two things that don’t belong together; like a scoop of mashed potatoes on top of a manhole cover. That’s all I am once your voice gets in my head. Those who cannot see resent those who can. And because you can’t be us, you turn us into you.”

Michaud eyed her defiantly. “I think you’re a lunatic.”

“No,” she said. “An artist. But I can see why you’d confuse the two.” Olhauser slid neatly in front of her primary critic, brandishing a heavy mallet that he hadn’t previously noticed her carrying. She winked as she raised it above his head.

“Oh,” he muttered. “I get it now.”

"Well that took a dark turn," says Caris.

I sigh as I replay the ending in my head, only half-satisfied with it. "Yeah, I couldn't think of another way out of it, except to turn it into a shaggy dog story, and I absolutely detest those."

"So do you think the curator was in on it?"

"I don't know. I don't think it really matters. If he was, he'd be the type to just let the plot unfold as it was going to. I imagine he sensed that Michaud going to visit Olhauser wasn't going to end well."

"What is it about this story that you're unsure of?"

I think for a minute. "The length kind of blew up a bit. And I really can't tell if it works or not. Is the ending a cheap shot from left field, or is it way too predictable?"

"I imagine it lands somewhere in the middle." Caris hops down from her perch. "Have you learned anything new from the experience?"

"Not that I can tell."

"Well, let's give it a little time to gestate and come back tomorrow for another one."

"Agreed," I say. "I'll see you tomorrow."