Pure cosmos club, p.1
Pure Cosmos Club, page 1
PRAISE FOR MATTHEW BINDER
“Pure Cosmos Club is an inventive, antic picaresque with a satirical eye trained on spiritual and aesthetic hucksterism. Matthew Binder sets them up and knocks them down in this witty, energetic novel. Long live Blanche the dog!”
--Sam Lipsyte, author of The Ask
“Binder is our American Murakami. He takes tragic themes and makes them hilarious but also mind-blowing, cosmos erupting. Binder’s enormous delight in language and life is irresistible.” --Clancy Martin, author of How to Sell
“In the world of Pure Cosmos Club, art is a vain posture, enlightenment is an elaborate con, and delusion is a way of life. Matthew Binder’s ingenious satire captures the absurdities of our fraught moment with a startling mix of laugh-out-loud hilarity and subtle melancholy. It’s a novel you won’t shake anytime soon.”
--Jeff Jackson, author of Destroy All Monsters
“This absurdist send-up of the haute art world features a struggling iconoclast and the best canine sidekick in literature navigating a Palahniukian landscape of poser blowhards and sky-high art deals. There’s not another novel out there like this one.” --Courtney Maum, author of Costalegre
“Matthew Binder’s novelistic dream of our collapsing times is 100% pure!”
--Jon Lindsey, author of Body High
“Pure Cosmos Club is a zany, intelligent romp through the art world that made me laugh out loud just as often as it made me squirm. Playfully skewering the absurd world we live in with energetic, effortless prose, Binder’s satire often feels painfully real.” --Caitlin Barasch, author of A Novel Obsession
“Binder writes with a humorous heart and an uncanny gift to resonate poignantly while you’re laughing. It’s like Malamud in the 21st century.”
--Joshua Mohr, author of All This Life
“This laugh-out-loud novel is a fresh take on spiritual ascension, told in language so propulsive and gorgeous it announces Binder as a master stylist of prose.”
--Amanda Stern, author of Little Panic
“A novel of high comedy as absurd as our present-day reality. A joy of a ride, gleefully bonkers!” --Paula Bomer, author of Inside Madeline
“A dazzling, often surreal, laugh-out-loud portrait of the unheralded artist getting onto the middle years of life.” --Julian Tepper, author of Between the Records
“Reading Matthew Binder’s Pure Cosmos Club, one is overwhelmed by the sheer power of his imagination, his capacity to conjure into being not only characters but an entire universe that is as full as ours but in some essential way very different. What’s best of all is the way that, ultimately, it's through the eyes of these characters we begin to see ourselves in ways we never had.”
--Celeste Marcus, Liberties Journal
PURE COSMOS CLUB
Copyright © 2023 by Matthew Binder
ISBN: 978-1-7369128-1-2
ISBN: 978-1-7369128-3-6 (e-book)
First paperback edition published by Stalking Horse Press, May 2023
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022942723
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted for review or academic purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher. Published in the United States by Stalking Horse Press.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Publishing Editor: James Reich
Design by James Reich
Cover image: Corridors by Keith Rondinelli, 2020
Used with permission.
keithrondinelli.com
Stalking Horse Press
Santa Fe, New Mexico
www.stalkinghorsepress.com
ALSO BY MATTHEW BINDER
The Absolved
High in the Streets
For D. Foy,
in gratitude.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
CHAPTER 1
TODAY, JANIE is picking up the furniture she left when she moved out. Her text last week was our first contact since the incident at the park back in April. It’s true I may have been out of sorts, but I don’t remember behaving as she claims. I was only there to give her a birthday present, the manhole cover I’d stolen off the street and painted to look like Io, the innermost of the four moons round the planet Jupiter. Years before, on our second date, we’d visited the planetarium. Janie had gazed up teary-eyed at the artificial sky and said Io was the most exquisite object in all the universe. To this day, I can’t understand why she called the cops.
She’s supposed to be here in twenty minutes, which means I should expect her in ten. She’s always said punctuality is one of the five keys to unlocking our true potential. I can’t recall the other four, but they must be working for her. She’s recently taken a lucrative position at a dermatology clinic in SoHo.
I’ve been in bed playing my favorite game with Blanche. I lie with my eyes closed and arms folded across my chest, holding my breath, trying to convince her I’ve passed away. It takes all my self-control to stifle a giggle when she licks my ear.
She entered my life when I took a shortcut through a dark alley on my bike and hit her. The vet said her two hind legs were permanently damaged and recommended euthanasia. Instead, I built a contraption from the wheels of a tricycle. Blanche took to it immediately, of course, and now she scoots through the apartment at top speed.
I don’t mean to say our relationship has been without hardship. The day I brought her home, she relieved herself on my favorite jacket. I’ve recently discovered, moreover, that I’m allergic to her dander and so I am always sleepy from taking antihistamines.
When I can’t contain myself any longer and gasp for breath, Blanche goes berserk, bouncing up and down on her front legs, while her bad ones lie behind like overcooked spaghetti. I sweep her into my arms and give her a few pats on the head and a rub behind her ears.
It’s not until the buzzer sounds that I realize the apartment’s condition has deteriorated in Janie’s absence. A black mold has crept across the ceiling, and laundry, dirty dishes, and art supplies are strewn everywhere. More disconcerting, when did this odor first appear? There’s a knock on the door. I glance in the mirror. My hair is standing straight up. I lick my palm and try to pat it down, but it’s no use.
“Go easy on her, Paul,” I think. “It must be hard enough for her already, having so many bad marks in God’s account ledger.”
Two men are at the door, one black and one white. They have thick necks and smooth, handsome faces. Blanche drags herself over and growls. The white guy bends down to pet her, and she bares her teeth.
“Now, Blanche,” I say. “Mind your manners.”
“Her name is Blanche?” the black guy says.
“The only name fitting for such a distinguished lady.”
“Like from A Streetcar Named Desire?” the white guy says.
“Can I help you gentlemen?”
“We’re here to pick up Janie’s things,” the white guy says.
“Where is she?”
“Downstairs.”
“I’d like to speak with her.”
“She’d prefer you didn’t,” the black guy says.
I bow my head and let them in. They lift the couch, exposing broken paintbrushes, a half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich, the shattered remains of an ant farm, a broken Rolex watch given to me by my grandfather upon completing a scuba diving certification at the local YMCA (the highest level of educational achievement I’ve attained), and a collection of baby teeth in a Ziplock bag I’ve held onto since boyhood. The men move with ease and grace. Their voices—much richer and deeper than mine—echo off the walls as they discuss how to navigate the stairs. I gaze out the window. Across the parking lot, Janie opens the back of a U-Haul. In yoga pants and a sweatshirt, she moves effortlessly, like a swan across a lake. I unwrap a package of strawberry Pop-Tarts—one for each of us, Blanche and me. The men return and poin
“She said we should take the horse painting too,” the white guy says.
“I don’t have much use,” I say, “for old paintings, furniture, lamps, rugs, these kinds of things.”
The black guy hoists the bookcase onto his shoulder, while the white guy takes the painting. I close the door and return to the window. The men place my things in the truck. Janie gives the white guy a high-five. Then the black guy takes Janie in his arms for a rather intimate kiss. When Janie catches me watching from the window, she looks away quickly and jumps into the truck.
A stack of books against the wall falls into another, which falls into another yet. Everything is everywhere. I sit in the middle of it and let Blanche lick my face.
CHAPTER 2
THE SKY is overcast and the air hot and sticky as I make my daily walk to the warehouse where I rent studio space from my friend, Danny. I stay on the shady side of the street, but there’s no escaping the heat. Sweat stings my eyes. Already, my face is burned.
A long time ago, I read in an etiquette book that a gentleman never wears shorts unless he’s exercising or at the beach. My adherence to this rule is absolute, even as the temperature nears a hundred degrees. When I was a boy, my father told me I have unsightly legs. My knees, he said, were knobbier than a dresser full of drawers. His words left an indelible mark, and now, even while bathing, I make sure to keep my knees covered by a washcloth. A rash has formed where my jeans rub my thighs, so every few steps I have to adjust myself. The farther I walk, the harder it becomes. Poor Blanche is weary of my incessant complaints. Two men pass, dressed in floral shorts and tank tops. I can’t help but envy their pragmatic sensibilities.
Back when Danny bought the warehouse from a retired mechanic who used it as a chop-shop for stolen BMWs, the neighborhood was a colorful place, where one constantly found oneself embroiled in all manner of adventure. A stray bullet once shattered the studio’s window and put a hole through the canvas I was painting. Another time, I was held up at knifepoint over a box of pork buns. Danny always insisted the building was a prodigious investment, but years later, here we are, and I’m sorry to report he was wrong. Real estate prices have skyrocketed, forcing out the pawn shop where I once got a tremendous deal on a gold chain, and the liquor store that sold loosie cigarettes for a quarter. In their places are a vegan cheese shop and a florist that specializes in lesbian weddings.
For months, I’ve pleaded with Danny to use his connections to help me get my work seen. But he’s always refused, claiming not to want any part in subjecting the public to my “perverted worldview.” My work, Danny says, epitomizes everything he hates in art, namely that it takes into account supernatural forces.
“Religion is dead,” he once said, “but your provincial superstitions remain.”
Nevertheless, he’s recently experienced a change of heart.
“At the very least you never bore me,” Danny said last week, then told me he’s arranged for one of my pieces to be included at a group show organized by his gallerist, Susan.
The thing I admire most about Danny is that he viciously hates anyone who bores him. The man simply can’t distinguish between an evil person and an uninteresting one.
I’d been working on a series of paintings of Gwyneth Paltrow. With each piece, she became more satanic and menacing, until finally she sprouted bat wings and horns, holding all of mankind in a saucer of anti-aging cream. Just as I was almost finished, I sliced my finger opening a can of soup, inspiring me to abandon the project.
Instead, I decided to climb a tree. Halfway up the elm I’d picked—it was especially fine, I thought—a branch snapped, and I fell. It was then I had the vision for the work I’m making now, a sculpture of a baby nailed to a cross constructed of cellphones. The difficulty, of course, has been gathering the phones. After exhausting my resources buying used devices on Craigslist and eBay, I was still nowhere near my goal of the five hundred I absolutely require, so I ran a funding campaign on social media, which, somehow, was met with what I can only call apathy, and, at times, even scorn. This left me with no recourse but to rob a Best Buy recycling center, a move that Blanche and I deemed both courageous and bold. Anticipating the major stir my piece would cause in the art world, I penned an open letter to the noted critic Jerry Saltz, of New York Magazine. “I think we can agree, sir,” I wrote, “that in this sea of idling conformity, even the smallest act of subversion or rebellion cannot but be heralded as a shining triumph.”
Public opinion, I’ve learned, however, is not my friend. The response to my crime has been so unfavorable that Blanche thinks I should move abroad and change my name. I’ve been so afraid, in fact, that for the last several days I’ve lain in bed chewing bubble gum and picturing myself dragged from the show in handcuffs.
Danny’s parked his Lamborghini in front of the studio, a replacement for the Maserati he drove into a lake last month. Already he’s hard at work in his uniform of camouflage shorts and the tie-dye tank-top that shows off the stick-and-poke tattoos he gave himself one night while under the influence of ayahuasca. He’s nearly completed his training to become a Sun Dance Chief, studying under a part-Crow, part-Sioux, part-Jew survivalist named Shelley. His final objective is to retrieve the carcasses of four golden eagles.
I don’t know how he does these things, but overnight Danny has constructed a ten-foot-long sandbox in the studio in which he’s now observing a black and yellow snake. No detail is too minute. Whether the snake slithers, coils, or flicks its tongue, Danny writes a detailed account in his Moleskine notebook.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says at last. “I need your help.”
Danny leads me to the alley behind the studio, where a pool of blood has collected on the ground. I flinch at the scene, but Danny seems entirely disaffected.
“They should be about dry now,” he says, glancing up. “We need to get them inside before the birds pick them clean.”
Overhead, a wire has been strung across the alley from which hang what appear to be furry rugs. Something drips onto my face as I squint—a strange phenomenon, indeed, since there’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s not rain on the back of my hand, however, but blood.
“They’re from roadkill,” Danny says, and begins to hand me the hides. “Cats.”
I’m struck by the juxtaposition: the empty gleam in the eyes of these dead animals belies their lustrous coats.
“How’d things go with Janie this morning?” he says, gesturing me to follow him back inside, where he fills a garbage can with water and a box of salt.
“She sent two men to collect her stuff.”
“It’s often difficult to imagine what makes one person attracted to another. I never could understand what she saw in you.”
I drop the skins into the water, then go to the sink to rinse my arms. But even before I’ve touched the faucet, I’m stabbed by something, in my leg. I shriek, and when I look down, Danny’s snake is retreating to the radiator.
“Your snake just bit me, Danny.”
“You should go to the hospital immediately.”
“Is it poisonous?”
“It’s an Eastern Coral Snake, one of the deadliest in the world, though they’re usually very mild-mannered. You must’ve done something to provoke it.”
My leg is really starting to throb. I roll up my pants to find two perfect red puncture wounds.
“Will you drive me to the hospital?”
“Just give me a minute to tie up some loose ends here.”
I open Danny’s snake handbook for instructions. The author strongly advises against sucking out the venom or even applying a tourniquet. Ice is also discouraged. Without treatment, I learn, I could be dead in hours.
The studio is always hot this time of year, but never have I sweated like this. A tightness has gripped my chest, I can hardly breathe, and a tingling sensation has spread through my face. My vision is blurry. I’m even drooling on my shirt. In no time at all, I’m overcome by a weepy drowsiness and crash to the floor, barely conscious.
Danny says he needs to finish labeling the animal tracks he cast in plaster earlier in the day. If he doesn’t do it now, vital data he collected on his survivalist retreat will be lost. His reputation is at stake, he says, which I suppose is true. Danny has amassed the largest private collection of paw prints on the Eastern seaboard, and his assemblage of marsupial casts is on loan to the Zoology Department at Harvard.
