That’s Not My Wife, Is It

When my artist friend said that he had a wedding present for me, I was suitably grateful. I should have seen the red flag when he said that he shouldn’t give it to me at the wedding.

In a bit of madness, my ex wife and I decided to get married; me nearing retirement; she just getting started. It lasted less than 7 years.

We hadn’t made many mutual acquaintances before we got joined in holy matrimony, coming from different states.

How this marriage came to be is a story in itself.

Maybe to be told at a different time.

This tale is about a wedding present.

I met Enoch in the gym. He worked out at his leisure. Never the frenzied spin classes, not for a moment a trainer, just weight training with long recovery breaks, a gentle peddling on the recumbent bike for about an hour.

I think we gravitated toward each other because we both wasted so much time in the gym. It seemed we had nowhere else to go; no job obligations, no time schedules, no where we had to be. All that’s true to a certain extent.

We both had joined the gym at approximately the same time, about a week apart. We seemed to be both feeling our way at the same rate.

I was in the real estate business, owning and managing buildings in Center City Philadelphia. Aside from a maintenance emergency, after filling all the apartments, there wasn’t a hell of a lot to do.

Enoch was an artist. That meant he was unemployed.

But no, he actually made his living by selling his paintings.

Unusual.

I’d been to a few of his shows in some of the better galleries in town.

His style wasn’t part of my taste.

Enough people liked his method so that he was getting low 4 figures for most of his work.

The thing that drew me to Enoch was his delightful uniqueness. I never meet anyone even close to similar.

We would spend 3 or 4 hours bullshitting while working out Monday, Wednesday and Friday very week. Most other gym rats had to be elsewhere with job and family obligations.

Over time, we got together outside the gym. He eventually rented an apartment from me and I bought one of his paintings, more out of obligation than appreciation.

I always praised his work, to a much greater extent than I actually felt.

That’s probably how the wedding gift dilemma came to pass.

My intended and I didn’t have any plans for a large wedding. A friend who was a Methodist minister, his wife and dog were the only guests.

About a week after the wedding, my phone rang. It was my artist buddy, Enoch.

He said that our wedding present was ready and I could come to his studio and pick it up. Make sure to bring my truck, it was too large for a car.

The next day I drove over to Enoch’s studio, not to be confused with Enoch’s apartment. His studio was a large room in an old warehouse in an industrial section of Philadelphia. The building was shared by a few artists that had their individual workspace.

Entering Enoch’s area, I was greeted by a room about 20'' X 20' strewn with canvases for stretching, half finished paintings, half finished lunch, amid paints of every color on the spectrum — mostly oils.

In the middle of this mish-mash was a large framed painting, I would estimate it to be 6' X 5',on an easel covered with a bright sheet.

My wedding present from Enoch.

Not actually saying the words but sending forth the energy of “Without further ado!” Enoch dramatically whipped off the sheet covering the wedding gift.

Revealing:

a painting of a man (vaguely familiar looking) reclined on a lavish looking French Renaissance Louise-style bed, suitable for the Palace of Versailles, with a cartoon bubble over his head.

Inside the cartoon bubble was a picture of a vaguely familiar woman. Nude with legs akimbo, her most private parts, greatly exaggerated in size and color, exposed for any art aficionado to study.

I’m no prude but something about this work was repulsive to me.

I then realized why.

The picture was of me and my new bride.

Thank God, Enoch’s style rendered everything and everyone almost unrecognizeable.

“Do you like it?” Enoch asked proudly.

I realized Enoch must have spent hours on that horror.

But I was stupefied.

My silence spoke disapproval.

More silence.

My discontent was palpable.

But what does someone say in a situation like this?

“I never saw your wife nude, I used my imagination,” Enoch said defensively scrambling to understand why I wasn’t gushing with praise.

Realizing if I accepted it and gave it away or threw it away, every time Enoch visited he’d notice it wasn’t on display. If I stored it in my cellar unbeknownst to all, it was no way to start a marriage — and it still wouldn’t be on display.

“Enoch,” I said, “I can’t accept your beautiful painting.”

“Why?” asked Enoch.

“My brother is a minister; he and his wife come over all the time.” I said.

“Oh!” said Enoch,” Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“I’ll paint over it so I can still use the canvas.” said Enoch.

“Thanks anyway,” I said.