The Genius

Otto pulls down his pants and starts beating on a piano with his fists. Blatantly ignoring the “Do Not Touch” sign. A crowd gathers. People pull out cell-phones and film the entire incident. Otto is grunting and shaking his head to some beat only he could hear.

It’s all fun and games until Otto gets hard. Mid sonata Otto stops beating the piano with both hands and uses one to start stroking his cock, this small thing hidden behind a mass of black hair. You could see the crabs crawling around there. Otto was crazy and homeless. I guess he’d finally had enough of it all. I cheer him on.

“Give it to ‘em Otto!”

I shut myself up, this wasn’t a grotesque silence, their faces seemed fixated on the sight. Given the presence of the internet, I’m sure that nobody is a stranger to some crazy guy beating his meat.

Otto started convulsing and grunted as he came all over his hand. Voices spoke in reflecting tones.

“This is what capitalism has done to us all.”

“No, it’s about how men are sexist and violent.”
“Did you notice the hand placement? He meant to hit where he was hitting, only giving off the illusion that this wasn’t rehearsed.”

“Such passion!”

“Guys,” I chime in “He’s just jacking off, he’s some crazy homeless guy.”

“It’s sad. . . that’s all you can see.”

“What?” I said to this fedora-wearing man who kept breathing out clouds of cotton candy flavored smoke. I am ignored.

The cops arrive and put him in cuffs. Everyone but me is cheering to Otto. Maybe I wasn’t in on some huge joke.

The next morning it was everywhere. Otto was on Youtube. People were commentating on his performance. They all sing the same praise to a different tune.

He’s a Genius. A real artist. Brave. An expression of Trump’s America.

A few of them went on about how he was just some invalid that had lost his mind. They were silenced by accusations of being narrow-minded, unartistic, bigoted, racists. Otto was half Jewish.

“If you don’t understand what’s going on here we can’t be friends.”

I shut off the noise and poured a drink. This will be over in a week and people will be screaming about the president again. Hey, anything to help me sleep at night. I scrolled over rejection letters and edited failed stories and manuscripts.

“A real artist… Fuck.”

Three weeks later it was bigger than ever. He had millions of views and the internet pages were filled with his praises. Others jumped on the bandwagon. Women were orgasming while slapping guitar strings. Admittedly the guy screaming the national anthem with a dildo in his ass and a cock pump on each nipple was funny.

The world had gone insane with it. Otto was being called a national treasure.
I called Janet over that night. She came with a case of beer and a pack of cigarettes.

“Hey, you know about that homeless man?” she asked setting down the case.

“Who Otto? It’s crazy isn’t it?”

“Yeah, he’s on Television right now.”

“No shit?”

I turned on the T.V. and flipped the channels stopping on some Late Night talk show. There he was sitting, some blonde with a pantsuit sat next to the host. Otto is watching the crowd licking his lips and rubbing himself. Dressed in the same clothes as the first incident.

“So does he speak?” the host asked the woman.

“No, he uses his actions to speak.”

“Fascinating!”

“He has a message unlike most artists this day and age.”

“What message would that be?” the host asked.

Otto stood up and started his performance. The host clapped, the audience obeys the sign and the woman who was revealed to be his publicist keep a dignified stance during the performance.

“He’s so brave.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I mean nobody does stuff like this.”

Otto started cumming. The crowd screams encouragement.

“This is a fucking social experiment or something!”

“Oh, you’re just jealous!”

“Jealous of what? They are just seeing if you package shit the right way people will eat it up! I know Otto! He isn’t a genius. He’s a crazy homeless guy who watches little girls in skirts!”

“I don’t need this.” She got her purse and went for the door.

“Janet don’t leave!”

“No! I can’t do this with you anymore! You’re fucking crazy!”

The door slams. I’m alone. Fucking bitch took the beer. I looked at the T.V. Otto was staring directly back at me biting his lip and cumming again. I slammed my fist through the television. I sat on the floor and picked glass out of my hand.

The next morning Janet left me over a phone call. Citing my anger and ignorance as her main reasons. I called into work, told the boss I had injured my hand the other night.

“Alright,” he said and hung up the phone. Not even a get well soon. Inconsiderate prick.

I tossed out every manuscript, poem, letter, and story I had worked on. If Otto was famous for jacking off and banging on a piano. They don’t want any of me.

I wandered the streets, half drunk, half insane. Everyone avoided eye contact. My wanderings brought me to the local college campus. A few blocks from his first performance. This huge sign has his name on there.
Free Performance, Open to the public. I walked to the auditorium and stood in line. The usher, some musical frat boy with an insignia pinned to his lapel greeted me.

“Here for the show sir?”

“Yeah, it’s free right?”

“For students.”

“How much?”

“Ten. The proceeds are going to help the college.”

“Yeah here.”

I reached into my wallet and put a ten in his hand. He gave me a program and I walk through the double doors. The place is packed. I’m forced to sit in the back, wedged between two fat college girls with purple hair and a face that screamed man-hater. They glanced at me and whispered not so quietly.

“He smells like booze.”

“I don’t think the usher caught it.”

The program said there would be a speaker then Otto was going on. Normally they have student composers but tonight wasn’t about the school or that. It was about art. Or that’s what the professor said anyway.

The lights were dimmed. Curtains opened. Otto walked onto the stage. Stood in front of a beautiful grand piano. Pulled down his pants and sat. His ass was still dirty. People were silent. He started the show. Dissonant repulsive tones filled the air. People watched slack-jawed, awestruck, mesmerized. Otto let out a grunt and hit the piano again. People were taking fucking notes on this shit. Otto hit one note and stood. A slight woman ran out and started hitting the piano keys as Otto began to stroke his cock.

“Look at the passion in his eyes.”

“Beautiful.”

“Brave.”

“Insightful.”

“Genius.”

Otto started cumming looking from the ceiling to some girl in the front row. Gasps came from the crowd. They were all dumbfounded by Otto. I stand, it had all finally become too much for me to take.

“He’s just fucking cumming! That’s not passion that’s ecstasy! It carnality! It’s insanity!”

I walk toward Otto on the stage who was still mid-orgasm.

“You fucking people see this! He’s some crazy homeless guy!”

The piano player stopped. Otto came and went to his knees looking at me. His bottom lip trembling. People scream in horror as I look at him.

“He’s just fucking cumming!”

Otto looks at himself and his semen drenched right hand. He hides his shame with his overcoat and starts to cry. Cops rush in and right before I have a chance to go at him I’m slammed on the ground. I don’t break eye contact.
Otto’s weeping openly now. People are screaming and he thinks it’s directed toward him. The leggy publicist comes out and goes right to him.

“Shhhhh, shhhhh. It’s okay. Just keep performing Otto.”

Otto shook his head and she grabbed his dick herself stroking it. Her other hand went to his ear and twisted. Otto opened his mouth and screamed as he dick started to rise again. I’m lifted by the cops and glance back at Otto. He’d lost his vigor but kept pumping away. The crowd encouraging him along. I wasn’t mad anymore. Just sad. For him.