He Puts the `ASS' Back in `CLASSY'.

Waltham didn’t oppose the acquisitions at the time. Neither did he stand in the way when his good friend, Lewis, proposed them. Lewis promoted artists he liked, regardless of how obscene and unwholesome their pictures could be. Waltham spoke only of his continuing support for the local art gallery, its board and in particular his “good friend Lewis,” who was the gallery’s chairman

Lewis was close to receiving a Paul Harris Award for twenty years of perfect attendance at Rotary Club, and Waltham didn’t like that. Waltham had missed three meetings in twenty years and would never get a Paul Harris Award. Secretly he hated Lewis and his shiny Big City ways. Most of all, he hated Lewis’s perfect attendance.

So when the protests broke like a thunderstorm, Waltham merely stood by and watched Lewis take the pelting. Women’s groups condemned the paintings at their luncheons, wrote letters and picketed. Church ministers joined with the protests. Demands that pictures be returned to the painter grew.

Then Waltham spoke out. He expressed his grave disappointment at the board’s reckless acquisition of “obscene pictures.” He said he was disappointed in his good friend’s failure in judgment. Lewis spoke to reporters about “artistic integrity,” “artistic quality” and, as he sank further and further, “the importance of board independence.” He was forced to resign. The paintings went into storage. Lewis so upset he became ill. He missed a meeting of Rotary and therefore would never receive a Paul Harris Award.

Waltham couldn’t have been more pleased.

Contributed by Jared Mitchell
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Chas. Wendell was sick of teaching gym to that reeking sweat-stained dervish of animals called Grade 7 Physical Education and Health. His resignation letter was written in lipstick on his windshield (I QUIT!), and delivered directly through the thin wood and asbestos wall of the principal’s office.

Three weeks later, Chas. woke up in a fog of nearly digested rye. Struggling against the morning sunlight, he soon realized that he passed out in the front seat of his car, still parked in the lot outside the strip club. Blinking the gunk out of his eyes, he vaguely remembered T&A from the night before, and a couple of the `special’ lap dances in the V.I.P. room.

He checked his wallet for breakfast money, but found only hastily torn pieces of paper covered in barely legible scribbles. Vacation’s over, Chas. mumbled to himself, back to work. He shuffled across the street to the gas station convenience store, and shoplifted himself a copy of the newspaper, and an indefinitely aged Danish.

Two weeks farther along, we find Chas. standing just outside the staff room door of his new employer, a local private boy’s school with an Ivy League reputation, mind numbed with responsibility and preparation. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle, and stepped inside, expecting the musty smell of a museum. He certainly wasn’t prepared for the rather raucous welcome thrown by the faculty.

At least I won’t have to sleep in my car tonight, he thought, as he smiled for the camera.

Contributed by Stephen Becker
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Of course I’d expected him to react differently. It had been intended as a joke, after all, something to get back at him for four years of “Why the hell am I paying for you to sit around drawing pictures all day?” I’d expected him to throw a fit, to launch into a tirade on decency and morals.

Instead, my father put it up in the den. Whenever a friend of his came to visit, he’d promptly usher them upstairs for a private showing.

“Would you look at that,” my father would say, beaming proudly. “My son. An Artist.”

It eventually got to the point where it was impossible for any man to come within fifty feet of the house without being treated to a display. Every one of my uncles got a look, as did my father’s insurance broker, my third grade teacher Mr. Archer and even my cousin Ethan, who has never acted the same around me since.

“Would you look at those knockers,” he’d say. “That’s art.”

After he died, my mother seemed almost relieved to finally have the chance to throw the painting away. She took it down, put it in the garage with the other assorted junk, a sort of jumbled monument to my father.

I took it from the pile, discreetly wrapped it up, and brought it home. My mother never said a word to me, but she must have known.

It’s still sitting at the back of my closet, wrapped in paper.

Contributed by Matt Wiggin
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There’s Kleigler, laughing, mid-story, pointing to the nude, emphasizing the raunchy story he’s telling … “Hey Mike,” Kleigler’s saying, “This piece of art…” – Kleigler pauses to let the pun sink in – “…reminds me of a joke.” Mike’s heard this joke many times. I know, because he’s told it to me twice. Once Mike was so blasted he started with the punchline “It wasn’t that hairy” and ended with “Hey Franklinstein –” which was what Mike and Kleigler always called me. I loved those bastards.

Kleigler, the joke machine.

Look at him, laughing, with his Harvey Wallbanger. I bet you five dollars that prick throws the straw on the floor! I was there but I don’t remember if he did. People were always picking up after Kleigler though. So, yes, most likely. Prick.

“Smile!” I shouted. They posed mid-joke. Mike’s relieved for the interruption and goes to grab another whiskey sour right after the flash. Kleigler continued without Mike, middle finger still pointing at Aunt Susan. I chimed in on “It wasn’t that hairy” except Kleigler said “It wasn’t that blonde” which made no sense whatsoever.

I wish I’d kept those paintings of Aunt Susan. I would have given the one behind Mike to Kleigler, but he died in ’82. I’d have given them both to Mike, but he vanished shortly after Kleigler’s death. So, I sold them. The only successes my father ever produced were those paintings, his kit car and yours truly.

Dad loved the kit car the most.

Contributed by Sam Hancock