PRIDE AND POWER
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"There’s Warhol," Said Pride. "Hey Warhol," said Power. Pride and Power Talent often spoke as one person. Twins don’t, generally though people think they should. Pride and Power did because having Power echo what he said made Pride feel more proud. And knowing that Pride would stand behind what he repeated made Power feel more powerful.
The Talent boys had just sauntered into the Public Art Library. Warhol was perched on a high stool facing an easel and canvas in one of the studio carrels which subdivided the center of the multi-level gallery. He didn’t hear the twins call out and so he didn’t turn around to acknowledge them. Rather, he remained glued to the white canvas and the 20 some-odd black lines painted there.
"Don’t you think its odd that Warhol was named Warhol?" Power asked Pride. "I mean, that he has the same name as the famous artist… and he’s also interested in art, that is," he continued. "Brain says that, after millions of years of evolution, it should be more of a surprise that random things still occur," answered Pride as they navigated the potted palms which dotted the atrium in their trek across the clay tiled expanse to see what the young art enthusiast found so interesting.
Warhol caught sight of Power as the brothers approached. He craned his long neck to the right, his head pivoted a bit to the left, and his beady eyes darted across his shoulder to focus in the dark one’s direction. Thus, he knew Pride was at his other shoulder without even glancing in the fair-haired brother’s direction. But for the sake of art, he reeled his attention back to task. And yet, he welcomed them with a grunt, "Ugh". And so, they responded with mock grunts and jovial laughter: "Ugh" and "Ugh"! (and ha ha ha).
"Why are you so tall?" Pride started in on him. "He’s not tall, he’s skinny," Power chimed in. "His arms are too long…" and "…they flop about when he gestures." they continued in turn. "You wrists are too thin," said the one. "And its too hot for long sleeves," added the other. But, Warhol ignored them.
Your hands are too big…
And your fingers are too spindly!
That turtle-neck makes you look like a chicken….
A black chicken, ha ha.
No, a crow… with troll hair.
Yea, Troll, cut your hair!
"You should, at least, comb it!" they agreed at the same time.
"There," said Warhol in a slightly effeminate voice. "Did you see that?". He made a wildly exaggerated gesture toward the picture with his paintbrush. But the twins were looking at him, or at each other, though definitely not at the painting; so, they saw nothing. And, as such, they continued their banter.
Aren’t those pants tight on you?
Yea, how do you sit down?
He doesn’t…
No, he doesn’t.
He drapes his bony ass over the seat, is all!
And then, he simply slouches about!
Pride and Power found each other infinitely amusing whereas those who knew them had mostly stopped listening. "Boys will be boys," men would say. "Its only a stage" their wives would agree. "Yea, they’ll grow out of it," strangers would offer. And crowds of eavesdroppers and onlookers would nod to themselves and to each other. So, everyone had come to an agreement, it seemed, regarding the impropriety of two boys having such a close bond.
"Indeed" and "tsk tsk" the girl’s short skirts confirmed as Faith and Hope swished by them. Their tits were stuck high in the air. And their minds were on girlish things. So they took notice of the boys… and of Warhol’s fashion accessories (how the soles of his leather sandals were fatter toward the toe than at the heal and how his peace symbol would sway heavily about the apex of his neck-chain each time he leaned forward). But the boys didn’t see the girls. For, such was the way of girls and of boys.
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