Pseudonyms

Pseudonyms

"Gelb wants you to call him." 

 I looked at Frankie, opened my mouth, and slowly started shaking my head. A Gelb image delayed my answer, monocles in the eyes, raised eyebrows, pursed lips, and a grimace. I cringe at the thought. 

 "I don't plan to name this injection," I said firmly at last. 

 Frankie put his hand on my shoulder. 

 "Relax," he had a big beard in his mouth, a toothy smile, and a three-day beard. "Gelb likes you." 

 "Is it about Hansen?" I asked. 

 Frankie eating cheese balls in a bowl in a bar is a common occurrence, different from any other time during Charlie Blarney's happy hour. Frankie's fingers were orange, and his shirt was covered with crumbs. 

 "What do you think?" He replied, putting another hand in his mouth. 

 Charlie watched him doing business at the counter. He doesn't like to fill the glass once. He and Frankie had walked this way before. 

 "When was it not Hansen's business?" 

 He was right. Just like I like Gelb, Hansen is my friend. Because of all the things that have happened recently, I have no choice but to call. 

 "Hello, waiter." Frankie picked up the empty bowl and smiled happily. Charlie turned the bird over and muttered a few words to himself. This is a well-rehearsed routine. 

 Frankie is always relaxed. We all watched Gelb stand on the stage for about a month. Frankie seemed to like it; I was scared to death. He was used to everything that happened to Frankie. I never called him Steve again. But it was different for him, a perfect transition. They are the same thing. The situation in Gelb-Hansen is unpleasant. 

 When we left the bar and walked towards our car, he asked me again. 

 "You want to call him, eh?" 

 "Yes, Frankie, I will call him." As if to strengthen this idea, I gently repeated it to myself. 

 "Let me know what happened. Call me if you need it. I'm going to turn Gelb tomorrow. Shit becomes funny." "Later, Frankie." I greeted him with two fingers and sat down. Get in my truck and sit in the dark parking lot. Called Gelb, called Gelb, called damn Gelb. 

 If there is no Gelb, my world will be much easier. There is confusion, right or wrong, and the order of things is reversed. I was on a bus, sprinting down a steep street soaked in the rain, driven by Hansfucking Gelb. 

 "Plumer, I want to see you. 

 He has never called me anything except Plummer. My name is Sam, and he knows this; he reminded him several times but insisted on me Job naming: I'm a plumber. 

 I told him that I just got home, just after seven o'clock. I had a long day and had to take a bath. 

 "It's okay," he said. "No. Too long, you can take a bath later, but Plummer, wash your hands. 

 I want to tell him to fuck off, but he still doesn't listen to me. He hung up the phone in front of me. 

 Everything started very harmlessly: Hansen has Gelb, Strauss has Lucy, Strauss has Schmenke, but Strauss is mainly Lucy. They are artists, and everyone has created their style, but it seems to be blocked over time. This anonymous material freed them from patterns created for themselves. 

 Strauss and Hansen are realists. His other self-Lucy, Victor (Schmenke), and Hans, are abstract/modernists. You have tried for many years, but recently they have been exhibiting at Hansen Gallery and created by self. Frankie is a writer and photographer; his real name is Steve. And me? Call me plump; everyone else does.

      Huang's personality is revealed in the photos of Hansen frowning at the camera, the monocles, and the press releases prepared by Hansen for gallery events in Huang's short fictional biography of his early life in the Netherlands. Gelb's scattered in Hansen's works, a kind of debut, Gelb comes out. It should be interesting, but Gelb has developed its own life. This Dutch accent made Hansen fall in love at first sight. We all like to be Gelbish, self-righteous, and self-righteous to declare the sacredness of art.

 But one day, the dual personality was completely Gelbed as if he was playing a role; Han Sen is no longer there. Frankie was curious. He thinks this is a kind of performance art that will one day end. When we come back, we will all celebrate his coup. He is not so sure. 

 I'm not in Hansen's house, um, because it belongs to Hansen. This comfortable space is an adjoining studio full of complex and detailed explorations of buildings, trees, and urban landscapes. People would think he was looking at the photo until when he approached, he noticed that the lines were drawn so skillfully that his eyes were blinded. Gelb matches bright colors, and his brush strokes the wide and heavy canvas. 

 When I arrived, it was one hour after dark. There was no moon, and the darkness was very thick. Another car was parked in the driveway, the parking lights were on, and the engine was idling. The front door of Hansen's house opened. A tall masked figure appeared. She looked like a woman in a skirt below the knee, with a hood covering her face. She tried not to look in my direction and hurried towards the waiting car. He sat down beside the driver. They disappeared and then disappeared into the night. 

 -Plummer, come in, come in. Don't just stand in the dark. Gelb waited in front of the open door. 

 Wears bloody monocles, a black turtleneck, and a bloody black beret on his eyes. It is a kind of avant-garde. Garde Jazz, a child, is like The ice cone in the ear hits you as if playing in the stereo. The wall that used to stand on Hansen's work is now only Gailbus. 

 "I like everything you did to this place," I said sarcastically, pointing. "Did you see Lucy coming out?" Gelb asked, ignoring my comment. 

 "I saw someone," I said. Hansen, this is crazy! I don't know what else to tell you, man. A few minutes is fun, the whole Gelb thing, But damn it, take Lucy for real? 

 He stared at me, smile without humor, arrogance, contempt, anger was almost unstoppable but controlled. "Hanson does not exist more. Only Gelb. If you want Hansen, go to the cellar, where his works hang, where he used to hold me. 

 "Hansen created Gelb, do you remember?" I protested the last time I tried to contact him, but it is evident that he was completely crazy. 

 He is a big man, and in this state of excitement, his appearance is simply intimidating. I have never felt this way for Hansen. Maybe not Hansen. 

 "You have to understand, Plummer. I have been there all the time. As a child, he felt my presence. When he was studying art, he resisted my impulse. I showed him my genius and he closed Mhis outh. Only when he learns to remember. "Your dream, I can escape. Do you remember your plan, Plummer? Those little things disappear so quickly as soon as they open their eyes? Your true self is hidden there, just like me, so is Lucy. Frank is always in two worlds with one foot.

 I was about to curse, pose, some stupid theories about existentialism, synchronicity, or pornography, but what he told me made me nervous. I think he felt my discomfort. 

 His eyes are closed; his face softens. His head began to tilt and roll with the music. He smiled. 

 "If you dreamed tonight, you would remember. Would you?" His smile widened. 

 "Frankie said you need to talk to me. Really?"-I asked, stepping back to the door, going out, and running. 

 "Yes, I almost forgot. Frankie, Lucy and I are performing. This is called an alias.We want to make a story for you. "