Know Your Beholder: A Novel by Adam Rapp Page A

surprisingly liberating,” she said.
    “You’ve done it?”
    “In my life drawing class we all do. Even Professor Chubb models.”
    “Wow,” I said, taking in the detail work. “Jershawn…”
    “What about him?”
    I told her it was hard not to notice his “endowment.”
    To which she replied: “The African-American male is perhaps the most unfairly sexualized archetype in modern culture.”
    I told her that according to her drawings, it didn’t seem to be unfair at all. “The word ample comes to mind,” I said. “The word fortunate . The word blessed .”
    “Those are not exaggerations. The renderings are physiologically accurate.”
    Cozelle had the most normal penis, meaning normal-looking by comparison. And even his was impressive.
    “What’s unfair about a large penis?” I said.
    “I would argue,” Harriet said, “that the owners of these penises are not seen as full human beings. The African-American male is blatantly heralded for his athleticism and genital endowment. It’s as unfair as Marilyn Monroe being worshipped for her body.”
    I told her that I worshipped her face too.
    Harriet shot me a circumspect look.
    “And her underrated singing voice,” I added.
    She told me I should pose for her. “In all seriousness,” she added.
    “Why?” I asked, totally thrown.
    “Why not?” she replied.
    I took a half-step back, still holding the cardboard and plastic packaging for the toilet’s new refill flap. “How old are you?” I said.
    “I’ll be twenty-one in March.”
    I asked her if what she was doing was even legal.
    “Of course it’s legal. My subjects come to me by their own volition. They’re grown men. They’re not mentally challenged in any way. It’s not like some form of reverse statutory rape.”
    “Do you even like me?” I said.
    “Sure,” she said. “Why?”
    I told her that I wouldn’t want her to render me if she didn’t at least like me a little. “You might be predisposed to highlight all my flaws.”
    “I like you,” she replied. “You dress like you live in an institution, and I think you have a secret life.”
    “You think I have a secret life?”
    She sort of squinted and pursed her lips.
    Arranged on the cutout over her kitchenette was a set of three charcoal drawings unlike the others. The subject was a small blond girl wearing fuzzy, footy pajamas, wandering through a dark forest. In the drawing her figure is illuminated by a long blade of light too narrow and focused to be from the moon. Its source is unseen, but the feeling its omniscient perspective evokes is one of surveillance, be it government-, Hollywood-, or UFO-motivated. The only colorized elements are the long beam of light cutting through the forest, the lit-up trunks of trees featuring oily snakes, an owl, some nocturnal rodents of prey, and the little girl’s blond hair and Pooh Bear pajamas. The subject appears to be either oblivious or gently bemused that she is being followed through the tall, dark, and hairy forest.
    “Who is that?” I said, completely absorbed by the three-paneled narrative.
    “A girl.”
    “Anyone in particular?”
    “No. Why?”
    “It’s just that everything else on your walls is based on actual people.”
    “Maybe she’s me,” Harriet offered mischievously.
    “But you don’t have blond hair.”
    She said she dyed it.
    I asked her if she was a natural blond.
    “I feel like you’re asking me if the curtains match the drapes. Do you like it?”
    “Your hair?”
    “The triptych.”
    “Yes,” I heard myself say.
    She asked me what it was precisely that I liked about it.
    “The little girl,” I said.
    “What about her?”
    I told Harriet that it really felt like she was somewhere. “Lost but definitely somewhere,” I added.
    “Else?” she said.
    “Yes,” I said, “somewhere else.”
    “Well, she’s definitely somewhere.”
    I’m not sure we were talking about the same thing. Of course I was thinking of Bethany Bunch, but who knows