Florence in the Day

“Hell-o, cutie. Got a minute?”

The rangy ragamuffin stopped. “Fer what?”

“I just want to talk to you.”

“’Bout what?”

“You.”

“Me?”

God, what a bod under those tatters. Got to get me some of that.

“Want to make a bit of money?”

“What kind?”

“A few quattrini.”

“I repeat, fer what?”

“Some work in my studio.”

“Sweepin’ ’n’ that?”

“No. Standing still.”

“Bullshit. Wait. You one o’ them art-ists?”

“I am.”

“Don’ look like one. You got a busted nose.”

“A fight when I was around your age.”

“No thanks.”

Scary guy. Might beat the crap out of me. Them muscles.

Off scurried the stripling.

*

Later, he was there again, prancing across the square. Long legs. Loping stride.

Heads turned, one swiveled.

Heavenly Father, those blond curls, those shoulders!

“Hey, young fellow! Don’t be in such a hurry.” The artist caught up with him.

“What do you want? Oh, it’s you. Again.”

Sounded put-out.

“I remember you, too. Looking for work?”

“Naw, got some. Muckin’ out a stable. Gonna be late.” He pointed toward an alley ahead.

“How much do you make?”

“Ain’t tellin’ you!” he spat.

“I’ve got a deal for you.”

“I’ll bet.”

Desperate for a better look, the artist shifted weight nervously from foot to foot.

“You ain’t no dancer. What’s wrong with you?”

“I really need a model.”

“Fer some damn pitcha?”

“For a statue.”

“Lot worse. My pa got into one them deals. You wouldn’t believe. Had to wear a skirt! He was kidded all over town ’bout being girly. He weren’t, ’cause I’m here. See!

Eyes bugged as the most beautiful chest he had ever seen was displayed, nipples looking for all the world already carved. It didn’t stop there. That show-off grabbed the whopping bundle between his legs and shook it.

The artist shook. Tried to collect a thought.

“Who’d your father work for?”

“Touchy-feely guy named Andrea.”

“Verrocchio?”

“Yeah, he called himself that. ’Twern’t his real name. What’s it to you? Anyway, I got real work to do.”

“Please just a moment more. If it’s the bronze I’m thinking of….”

Hands on hips. Impatient look. “Yeah. So what?”

“But I thought the model was….”

“Not that pretty boy Leo! Swished around town claimin’ he was the model. Horse crap. Andrea was jes’ dorkin’ that butt. Jeeze, don’t you know nuthin’?

The artist, unused to such assault, dithered.

More sarcasm came his way. “You don’t even know what embarrassin’ is! My grandpa did one o’ them stand-ups when he was jes’ a boy! Nekkid with a dumb helmet on his head!”

“Wha…?”

“Donatello done it. Caught grandpa when he was hustlin’ on this very square. Now, you wanna know somebody with a cute tush, it was grandpa. Got diddled a lot, but needed to eat. So, what is it with you art-ists?

“Uh…say, in case I run into you again, what’s your name?”

Over his shoulder as he walked away came, “Same as Pa and Grandpa, David.”

*

When Michelangelo picked up his chisel, he thought, I’ll do him from memory except for a dinky little dick. Ought to keep up the tradition of embarrassment in his family.

Marble chips flew.

*

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