Electroboy (19 page)

This isn’t the only get-rich-quick scheme I undertake. I start sending my money to a broker who invests it in foreign currency. I’m losing a couple thousand dollars a month, though he tells me not to worry—it’ll bounce back. I like the idea of sending him a monthly check because I can see how much I have invested with him written down on a statement and know how much I can hope to get back based on his calculations. It’s a process that appeals to my highly neurotic sensibilities. I try not to pay attention to the
statements and look forward to my weekly phone calls with him, when he pumps me up with his market forecast. I actually believe whatever he tells me and ignore the facts of the statements. He exudes confidence, and I have no reason to believe anybody would cheat me.

May 7, 1991. New York
.

Annike and I decide we are finished with our counterfeiting scheme. At the moment we don’t have any buyers—the market is flooded—and we are frightened about being found out by the authorities. So I put together a death notice and submit it to
The New York Times
for a fictional character named Gustav Faelscher that Annike and I create. I messenger it along with a check to
The New York Times
and am promised that it will appear in the next day’s issue. I use the Kostabi World phone number as a contact. The death notice reads, “Gustav Faelscher. Art dealer, filmmaker. Passionately devoted his life to bringing the work of contemporary American art to the German and Japanese art worlds. Private burial in Stuttgart. In lieu of flowers, direct all contributions to Jedermann.” “Jedermann” is a reference to Kostabi’s
Everyman
. I am announcing the death of the forger, actually believing that this will put an end to this project and the possibility of any danger to me. When the death notice appears the following day, Annike and I are both amused and extremely relieved. I actually believe we are safe now because the forger is dead and cannot be prosecuted. But exactly one week later the real trouble starts.

May 14, 1991. New York
.

When my phone wakes me up at 5:20
A.M.
, I figure someone is in trouble. It’s Mark, calling from Tokyo. I’m right. The someone in trouble is me. The game is up. “Don’t go in to Kostabi World today,” he tells me. “There’s a problem with some paintings
Heather and I have found at a small gallery in Tokyo.” I know right away that I’ve been caught. My heart is racing. He vaguely explains that he and his “model” girlfriend, Heather, have found some unauthorized paintings, paintings that he didn’t sign. He tells me that John Koegel, his attorney, will be calling me later this morning. I immediately call Annike to warn her, then I get dressed, take a cab to Kostabi World, and walk into the dark studio only to find that the lock on my office door has been changed. Shit. All of my files, my Rolodex, and my personal belongings are locked inside. I’m in deep trouble. I take a cab back uptown and wait until my attorney, Larry Fox, gets into his office. I call him in a panic and tell him about my emergency. I’m shaking. He tells me to come to his office and make sure to bring his $5,000 retainer. I take the full amount in $100 bills from the freezer, grab a cab to his midtown office, dressed in a pair of jeans with the flag of Texas on the knees and a T-shirt, plunk the cash down on his desk, and lay out the entire story for him. I’m trembling and pacing. He holds his head in his hands and smiles in disbelief but moves into action quickly. He calls John Koegel and begins the negotiation process in an attempt to keep Kostabi from pressing criminal charges. Koegel responds by telling Fox that Kostabi wants to see me “on Rikers Island.” Not a good start. I wonder how I’m going to break this news to my parents and whether I’m going to go to jail that afternoon or if I will be arrested in a few days. I pace his office while I listen to one side of the conversation. Fox argues that Kostabi should seriously consider the offer of financial restitution because it’s unlikely that a D.A. will want to spend time and resources on a case like this and because the legitimacy of Kostabi’s art will become an issue. But Koegel doesn’t think Kostabi will budge. After Fox hangs up, I ask him how much it will cost to make restitution, and I start thinking of how I can raise the money by the day’s end. Who can I call? God, I hope I never have to tell this story to my parents. I beg him to do whatever he can to make a deal because I’m sure that I’m going to be arrested before the day is over. He tells me it doesn’t seem hopeful.

May 14, 1991. 4:00
P.M
. New York
.

A
fter going back and forth with Kostabi’s attorney all day, we still haven’t made any progress toward a resolution of the crisis. I’m starting to panic about where I’m going to be sleeping tonight. Koegel assures us that Mark isn’t the slightest bit interested in a restitution deal; he has taken good care of me financially, he says, and I have been disloyal. And I was so positive that my attorney, with his superpowers fueled by my retainer, would have it settled by noon. Shit. This is a goddamn mess. I finally leave Fox’s office and take a cab back to the Upper West Side. I ask the driver to let me off at Gray’s Papaya on 72nd Street and Broadway, where I buy my last two hot dogs as a free man and walk home up Broadway enjoying the best hot dogs. Lots of ketchup and onions. At home I call Annike and my friends from Kostabi World, gathering as much information as possible about what’s going on there, and they sneak out to call me during their breaks. All the locks have been changed, and Mark has hired a twenty-four-hour security guard. Jessica, Mark’s assistant, has been fired. Mark and Heather are on their way back from Tokyo. The drama is getting more and more exciting every minute. Fox calls and tells me that there’s no progress. I’m doomed. It’s nearly 6:30
P.M.
and I’ve almost forgotten that I’ve been invited to dinner at my sister’s apartment tonight. My parents are going to be there. I get dressed quickly and grab a cab crosstown. I roll down the window to take in a few gulps of Central Park air. Gives me an energy boost.

The timing of this dinner couldn’t be any worse, but for some
strange reason I’m in an upbeat mood and I’m just going to break the news to my family as if I’ve just won a $25 million Lotto jackpot. I think that’s the best way to handle it. When I get there, everybody is playing with my newborn niece, and I make small talk while we’re having drinks. Finally, I call for everybody’s attention. “You guys,” I announce, “I was fired from my job today.” They look at me blankly, stunned. I take a deep breath and continue. “And I may need a criminal defense attorney.” My mother looks at my father, then they both turn and stare at me. Explanation. I quickly and excitedly tell them about producing fake paintings—I refer to them as “reproductions”—at a studio in Brooklyn and selling them abroad, leaving out as many specifics as possible. I’m enjoying the telling of the story and the attention that comes with it. I almost feel like it legitimizes my activities, and when I’m finished, I’m feeling good. They don’t seem to fully grasp it—it sounds to them like I’m in hot water—but they quickly pledge their support. I can see in their eyes that they want to believe I’ve done nothing wrong; they want to believe that all of my recently acquired wealth has come from legitimate art sales. They ask me if I’ll be needing to find the lawyer in the next few days. I tell them it’s not urgent yet. Within a few minutes the tension seems to subside and the worst is over—I’ve admitted failure and confessed to my parents. It’s like I’ve failed an important college exam. Study harder next time, son. But I can tell that I’ve really frightened them with this one. We sit through an uncomfortable dinner, and I tell them that I need to leave early. That evening when I return to my apartment, I look around to make sure nobody’s been inside it. Hello, hello. No answer. I collect all of my Kostabi canvases—twenty or so—roll them up, get on the subway, and take the PATH train to Jersey City, where Annike has a new studio. When I show up at her door, she’s surprised to see me standing there with my art collection slung over my shoulder. I tell her to put her paintings together quickly. She looks around her studio. Outside, except for some light coming from a nearby warehouse, it’s completely dark as we walk down to a dock on the Hudson River, roll the canvases around some cement blocks, and
hurl them into the river. Thousands of dollars of faceless images disappear from the surface of the water—it’s going to take bringing in Coast Guard divers for the federal government to crack this case now. We’re both laughing, and I feel relieved, actually believing I’ve remedied the situation for good. As I ride the train back into Manhattan, I start imagining the discovery of these paintings. The thought of their faceless images floating back up to the surface throws me into a panic. Maybe I should write my own obituary. When I get home, I go upstairs, grab a pad, and make a list of everybody I want to invite to my funeral. Eighty-two people. I want to keep it small. I figure some people might bring dates.

The countdown to my arrest begins that night when I turn off the lights and go to bed. My brain becomes further unhinged by the stress of my legal circumstances, and the crisis makes me increasingly manic. I dart from one obsessive errand to another—I have all of my clothes dry-cleaned and shoes resoled and start compulsive shopping, buying all kinds of unnecessary kitchen utensils and household items. I involve myself in a busy social schedule—parties, dinners, and movies, a full lineup of events. Sarah Wells, a friend I know through dealing art, is in town and has invited a group of friends to Le Cirque for dinner. Most of the people at the table are dealers or artists, so we all have a lot in common. We talk about the art market. The price of Warhols. The auctions. No one brings up my legal situation. It’s a perfectly fun night. I will schedule and multitask my life back into normalcy.

I write a fax to Annike, who has decided to take a three-week vacation in Germany:

Late one night, I stand naked in the front of the bathroom mirror, holding a pair of scissors in my hand, and start cutting big pieces of hair from the bottom of both sides of my head, then just chop random pieces from all over. I just don’t have the strength to overdose tonight or go out on an all-night drug binge. My hair is completely uneven and resembles a bad wig. I am perfectly content standing in piles of dark brown hair and am kind of pleased with the damage I’ve done.

I call an old friend from Wesleyan, Sabrina Padwa, because I know that she’ll be up late, and tell her about what I’ve just done. I take a cab to her apartment on the Upper East Side, and when I arrive, she appears shocked at my appearance. We look at each other and both start laughing. One side of my hair is considerably shorter than the other and the whole thing is wildly uneven. She
looks concerned and takes me into her bathroom. She sets up a chair in front of the mirror, covers the floor with newspapers, and puts a towel around my neck. She tries to even it out the best she can, but it still looks frightening, as if I’ve been put through some kind of fraternity hazing.