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Show 20 f i s t . Then i t became centered on a canvas. Painted there. There in airbrush. With the abstract, almost psychedelic radiation of Hunt's nerves, blood vessels, bones, ganglia: al_l_, as they moved out, bleeding color intensity. "Shock." It was a biomorphic but very hard-edged rendering of, he thought, "Shock." "There!" Hunt saw the man. The man looked at him. He was wearing a rusty-colored tweed suit, and he smiled. "They went this wide," he said to Hunt, "this wide," making huge circles, large as silver dollars with his hands. "Boom!" "Thank you." "Pleasure." "How much do I . . .?" "Sometimes people just need other people to punch them. Just walk up and . . . I enjoy that. I really do. So there's no charge." The man whistled and walked away. He seemed small. Hunt looked at all the patients with dark glasses and taped-up eyes there in the clinic with him. All around lay harnessed, sleeping shepherd dogs. And canes. Suddenly Hunt wanted to be in Chinatown: eating snow peas. He loved oyster sauce; he loved green tea and feeling the weight of almond cookies on his tongue. Later, after his meal, Hunt stood studying the window of a small market on Oxford Street. It was heaped with oranges. They were huge. They had their own moist patina. He stared at them. He imagined them on a canvas: Chinese Oranges. Chinese Oranges #1. He saw them, fat and lunar, in a sky. He turned |