Pork Dumplings For Breakfast

First thing in the morning, Bebo, Wendell and myself were scheduled to move several unnecessarily large Chuck Close prints to, well, Chuck Close’s studio in the Lower East Side Manhattan, which unfortunately is not as glamorous as it sounds. It usually takes two people to move his larger works (90 something inches high by 80 something inches in length) that are always framed under plexi glass and in the case of this particular morning, there were all stuffed in two European imported crates that made them practically immobile. Courtesy of a Berlin art handling company called Frolsch, their trademark wooden containers have ultra-thin brass handles that can easily bruise your hand from trying to lift it on our furniture dollies. Typically, the phrase “you have to move a Frolsch crate” usually means an upcoming bad day or at least a mental preparation on how to file a workman’s comp case.

At the clients request –more than likely, Close’s assistants, they wanted us to uncrate the works, haul each print into his studio, remove the plastic wrapping and condition inspect them just to see if they were in as good of a condition as they were before being shipped to Berlin however many years ago. And, because of the value of said work with the potential of Chuck Close himself making an appearance, Wendell decided the day before that it would be in our best professional interest to uncrate everything inside the truck after we arrived at his studio. In the interest of convenience, it actually would have been easier to open them up at our warehouse and just taking the prints there instead of lugging everything in the bitter fucking cold of this particularly snowy January morning. Unfortunately, Wendell was given the position of Head Local Technician on the account of his 10 plus years art handling experience at various trucking companies and galleries in New York City and Texas along with his MFA in Print Making and brief stint as a University of Texas Denton adjunct professor. So yeah, he was eager to impress Chuck Close with his professionalism and portfolio that he’ll just happen to have on him; he also arrived after Bebo and I did all the heavy lifting 45 minutes after he was suppose to arrive, which was his usual arrival time anyway.

At around 9:45, Wendell finally arrived on the dock with his standard black pants, black turtleneck, brown corduroy sports coat with dark brown elbow pads and a black scarf that he always whipped around his neck upon entrance, a habit everyone else’s noticed except him. Along with his ancient black leather messenger bag that contained his portable portfolio of recent works just in case if one of the hundred or so galleries we delivered to Manhattan everyday was interested, Wendell’s gave off an air of dignity that he wasn’t just a schlepper, but a working artist who’s had openings in Little Rock and Albany and he’ll be more than happy to tell you about how you have to wear a protective mask in his studio because of his choice materials of polyurethane and (“toxic”) resin. Not surprisingly, an academia aura can also come across as arrogance that could potentially rub people the wrong way when if fact, he was no better than the rest of these palookas who are doing the exact same job and make just as much, if not more than you. It also didn’t help that he was still bombed from the night before and insisted on driving.

Bebo snorted, shook his head, fast walked over to the truck and impatiently pulled it out of the dock before Wendell and I quietly followed, hopped in the passenger seats and finally drove off to the Lower East Side.

Halfway over the Williamsburg Bridge, Wendell asked if we could stop at The Dumpling House in Chinatown. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath smelled of aged scotch.

“Naw, that’s too far out of the way and we’re already running late,” Bebo said calmly.

“Why don’t you let me drive and we’ll get there in no time,” Wendell said half jokingly.

“How about you sit on my lap and you can steer while I control the pedals,” he said sharply.

An awkward silence followed in mid-morning traffic as we rolled onto Delancy Street in Manhattan with Wendell, finally sensing tension that he brought on, took a deep exhale through his nose and reached in his bag for an opened wax paper envelope of powered caffeine and aspirin. Rumored to be only available in his home state of Virginia and tasted like complete ass, Wendell shot back the mixture, winced as he quickly downed half a bottle of water and leaned his head back for an attempted power nap before arriving at Chuck Close’s studio good as new.

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Much to our surprise, Chuck Close was actually at his studio and wasn’t displeased that we were running an hour behind schedule; as a matter of fact, he was downright delightful as he offered us coffee and tea once he saw our snow covered clothes. Later on as Bebo and I opened up the crates and carefully hauled his prints along the icy sidewalk, Wendell approached Chuck like a door to door salesman with his worn leather messenger bag.

“I’m Wendell, nice to meet you,” he said while carefully trying not to stand too close to Chuck. Then, in a moment either out of nervousness or habit or both, Wendell reached in to shake his hand, momentarily forgetting about his limited mobility of being a quadriplegic. He quickly reached back, looked down, nervously scratched the back of his head and defeatedly asked where he wanted us to place everything.

Unfortunately, after we delivered, unwrapped and inspected everything, it turns out we didn’t have the exact print he was looking for as it was suppose to be a birthday gift for a friend. This could have either meant that we grabbed the wrong crate (not possible as our bill of lading number match the numbers on our crate), someone in our storage warehouse mislabeled something or the missing work was still in Germany (when in doubt, blame the import/export carriers). Unless if it was the later, this problem was easily solvable with a couple quick phone calls and some sleuth work from our warehouse manager and besides, Chuck didn’t seem to mind that much. Still, Wendell, with his messenger bag still in hand approached the situation very seriously or was still trying to make up for his earlier embarrassment.

“We very sorry about this,” he said. “We’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again and we’ll immediately contact you once we find out where it is.”

Chuck Close looked up from his chair and after a brief pause, politely smiled and thank him for his help before the three of us headed back to our truck.

“Nothing like an apology to Chuck Close to start off your day,” Wendell said in a frustrated tone after he climbed in the passenger seat.

“Shut the fuck up,” Bebo quietly said under his breath as he started the truck and headed towards our next job somewhere in the Upper East Side.

“But hey, I still want to get some pork dumplings,” Wendell said. “We deserve some breakfast after that clusterfuck of a morning.”