An Exerpt From Chapter 2
Remember...this is done backwards (from chapter 1)....
2
THURSDAY:
18 hours later, Jersey wears a black bra, and black panties, brushing her teeth in the not-so-dirty bathroom of her apartment. Beyond the scattered clothes and clutter of a woman who lived a bohemian life, there were paintings. The wall by the door was covered with them. There wasn’t a crack between them from floor to ceiling. Elsewhere, leaning up in rows, they jutted out two or three feet into the room. Two easels still stood by the window, each holding a half-completed work, and their legs propped up more paintings. Her television was on, where a busty weatherwoman pointing out a high-pressure system, but the volume was off.
She came out of the bathroom, drying her lips with an old t-shirt that read, “so you say you want a revolution.” She took a can of Miller Lite beer off the coffee table, and drank what was left in it. Then she went to the fridge for another. She took big drinks from that, while she looked over her scattered clothes. She found a red T-shirt that she wanted, and threw it on. It had “I Want Your Lust” printed on it. She found some fishnets, a cute thigh-high skirt and a not too lethal pair of stiletto boots.
Looking at herself in a mirror hanging from the back of the bathroom door, she teased her black, pink, and red hair into the semblance of a bob, and stuck a couple of bobby pins to make random tufts pop out.
The phone rang, and she threw herself into the easy-chair before picking it up.
“Hello?”
“You ready?” Tom was on the line. “I’m outside.”
“Be down in a sec.” She said, and hung up.
She looked at herself one more time in the mirror, ripped out the bobby pins, and instead, threw on a red L.A. Dodger’s cap and left.
Tom sat in double parked in the street, in a beat-up blue 1985 Jaguar sedan. Even though it was old, it still kept most of it’s class. Jersey hopped in to the passenger seat, and the door closed behind her with a solid “chunk.“ She leaned over and gave Tom a peck on the cheek.
“Ready?” He smiled.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
Tom slid the car into gear and drove off. Tom cut through traffic like a good cabbie (which, in fact he was) and had that irritating way of catching nearly every green light on the way. In eight minutes they glided into a reserved parking space at the back of the Mundane Gallery, off a small side street in Chinatown. Someone had spray painted the back wall with a stencil that read “You’re Not Ready For Murthy Turfern!” It was a phrase that had appeared some months ago, and in so many places, it was probably a movement of some kind. Tom and Jersey slipped though the back door, without commenting.
The Mundane Gallery was a small affair, four rooms set in a square, two in the front, two in the back. Each was connected with a square arch to each other. They passed a D.J. in the back room, along with a table holding crackers, cheese, and plastic glasses for boxed wine. The place already had a small crowd. About thirty people were scattered in groups or individually, looking at the pieces on display, or just talking. For effect, a very well-dressed Latino was making out with a tall Brazilian he had pinned against a wall.
Penny Fortune skipped up and practically leapt into Tom’s arms. She was a trifle on the small side, with a touch of chub, but in that really cute way. Usually a blond, tonight she was red-headed. She gave him a kiss, and lowered herself to the floor. Then gave Jersey a hug.
“I got something to show you!” She grabbed Jersey’s hand and began to lead her off to the next room.
“Nice to see you too honey!” Tom said after them, and went back to the table with crackers and wine.
In Penny’s room, there was a nice selection of ten ink and watercolor paintings hanging from the wall. She had sort of a cute pop-culture fantasy style, where various tiny girls were locked in deadly combat with giant robot creatures or demons. They were, however, done with stylized perfection, as if Geiger decided he wanted a few super adorable girls to combat his monstrosities, and blow them up to 48“ by 32.“
She dragged Jersey past all this to a table set up in the corner. It sat under a thick woodcut black-and-white poster, of a woman with long hair, holding a fishing pole, reeling in a leaping Marlin. It read “WOMEN WHO FISH” Artcrawl July 17th. Various pamphlets, flyers and cards lay scattered on the table with various incarnations of the poster’s logo.
“My god Penny! They’re great!”
“Yeah,” Penny beamed, “just got them back from the printer today. Here,” she grabbed a small box of business cards and shoved it at Jersey. “These are yours.”
Jersey took the box, but realizing she had nowhere to put them, put them back on the table.
“I’ll get them later.”
“Holy fucking shit.” Penny said in such a serious voice that Jersey looked at her, saw Penny’s eyes, then followed them into the next room. Vic Mitchell stood in the next room, looking at one of Jersey’s pieces.
“He’s taller than I thought he’d be.” Jersey says.
“Fucking Vic Mitchell Is Fucking Looking At Your Fucking Paintings.” Penny shoves Jersey towards the arch. “Go in there And Fucking Talk! To! Him!”
“Allright, stop pushing.”
“And get him to come over here next!” Penny doesn’t stop pushing.
Jersey composed herself, and started walked through the archway, shooting a look back at Penny. Then as confidently as she could, walked right up to Mitchell‘s side, and looked at what he was looking at. It was her piece called “Nymph and the Cowboys.” It was of a slim nude woman with perfect tits, on a mechanical bull, set in the middle of a western bar. Surrounding her was a crowd of leering, predatory, and lustful old cowboys who watched. It was, at least, a good piece.
Jersey’s mind raced to find something, anything appropriate to say. It had to be smart, and clever, and interesting. Then she realized she didn’t have anything like that ready to say. Vic Mitchell saved her any more nervousness.
“That’s fucking great.” He said, to no-one in particular, but obviously sensing Jersey’s presence.
“Why,“ Her voice came out a bit more broken than she would have liked, but she soldered on. “Why do you say that?”
“She’s ridiculously beautiful. Hot as fuck, impossibly desirous. They’re ugly as shit, hideous. The mere fact that they want her, makes me sick…the fact that I, like them want her, makes me a part of them, and that disgusts me more. But, she’s still fucking hot, and I don’t think she cares about anything but being desired. So,” He turned and dipped his head a little to look under the bill of her Dodgers cap, “I think it’s fucking great. What do you think?”
For a second the blinding thought, ‘I’m in a conversation with Vic Mitchell!’ blazed through her head. It almost overpowered everything else and sent her into a panic. Then a small, but very calm voice spoke in the back of her brain, “he just asked you a question. He’s interested. Pretend you‘re on his show!” And that helped her a lot. Of course, there was still too a long pause. But, she looked up at him, under the brim of her Dodgers cap. She managed a cute, shy smile. And then she threw herself at him through words.
“She’s a slut. I think she’s going to take at least one of them home and get fucked, and she’s going to take perverse pleasure knowing the rest of them will be masturbating to her memory. I think she’d be happy as fuck if some of them whipped out their old cowboy cocks and started whacking off right there in a big circle-jerk. Yes, I think that would make her happy.”
“Jeeezus!” Vic said, his whole face cracking up with laughter. “They were right!”
“Who? About what?”
“Aaah, a website I read that had a review of the Mundane Gallery. They said -it’s got an edgy crowd, with edgy works. Or something like that.” Vic put his hands in his pockets, and kept a smile on his face. “Sooo, do you know the artist that painted this horny slut?”
Jersey beamed a sweet smile at him, now without a trace of self-consciousness.
“I did. I’m Jersey Jane.” She stuck out a hand, and he shook it.
“I’m Vic Mitchell. I dig the hell out of your work. It‘s impressive as fuck.”
And in the total perfection of a moment, brought on by the fact that she more than occasionally liked to say the word. So, whether it was her, or fate that wanted it to happen, it spilled out of her lips like it was a moment of destiny.
“Likewise.”
And although it was a mere finger-snap of time for that one word to escape her lips, it was a word Mitchell respected. In fact, it was the kind of word that made him pay attention. It was the one word in the entire English language that made him perk up his
ears and wonder, “what the fuck does the person that says “Likewise” actually have to say?”
2
THURSDAY:
18 hours later, Jersey wears a black bra, and black panties, brushing her teeth in the not-so-dirty bathroom of her apartment. Beyond the scattered clothes and clutter of a woman who lived a bohemian life, there were paintings. The wall by the door was covered with them. There wasn’t a crack between them from floor to ceiling. Elsewhere, leaning up in rows, they jutted out two or three feet into the room. Two easels still stood by the window, each holding a half-completed work, and their legs propped up more paintings. Her television was on, where a busty weatherwoman pointing out a high-pressure system, but the volume was off.
She came out of the bathroom, drying her lips with an old t-shirt that read, “so you say you want a revolution.” She took a can of Miller Lite beer off the coffee table, and drank what was left in it. Then she went to the fridge for another. She took big drinks from that, while she looked over her scattered clothes. She found a red T-shirt that she wanted, and threw it on. It had “I Want Your Lust” printed on it. She found some fishnets, a cute thigh-high skirt and a not too lethal pair of stiletto boots.
Looking at herself in a mirror hanging from the back of the bathroom door, she teased her black, pink, and red hair into the semblance of a bob, and stuck a couple of bobby pins to make random tufts pop out.
The phone rang, and she threw herself into the easy-chair before picking it up.
“Hello?”
“You ready?” Tom was on the line. “I’m outside.”
“Be down in a sec.” She said, and hung up.
She looked at herself one more time in the mirror, ripped out the bobby pins, and instead, threw on a red L.A. Dodger’s cap and left.
Tom sat in double parked in the street, in a beat-up blue 1985 Jaguar sedan. Even though it was old, it still kept most of it’s class. Jersey hopped in to the passenger seat, and the door closed behind her with a solid “chunk.“ She leaned over and gave Tom a peck on the cheek.
“Ready?” He smiled.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
Tom slid the car into gear and drove off. Tom cut through traffic like a good cabbie (which, in fact he was) and had that irritating way of catching nearly every green light on the way. In eight minutes they glided into a reserved parking space at the back of the Mundane Gallery, off a small side street in Chinatown. Someone had spray painted the back wall with a stencil that read “You’re Not Ready For Murthy Turfern!” It was a phrase that had appeared some months ago, and in so many places, it was probably a movement of some kind. Tom and Jersey slipped though the back door, without commenting.
The Mundane Gallery was a small affair, four rooms set in a square, two in the front, two in the back. Each was connected with a square arch to each other. They passed a D.J. in the back room, along with a table holding crackers, cheese, and plastic glasses for boxed wine. The place already had a small crowd. About thirty people were scattered in groups or individually, looking at the pieces on display, or just talking. For effect, a very well-dressed Latino was making out with a tall Brazilian he had pinned against a wall.
Penny Fortune skipped up and practically leapt into Tom’s arms. She was a trifle on the small side, with a touch of chub, but in that really cute way. Usually a blond, tonight she was red-headed. She gave him a kiss, and lowered herself to the floor. Then gave Jersey a hug.
“I got something to show you!” She grabbed Jersey’s hand and began to lead her off to the next room.
“Nice to see you too honey!” Tom said after them, and went back to the table with crackers and wine.
In Penny’s room, there was a nice selection of ten ink and watercolor paintings hanging from the wall. She had sort of a cute pop-culture fantasy style, where various tiny girls were locked in deadly combat with giant robot creatures or demons. They were, however, done with stylized perfection, as if Geiger decided he wanted a few super adorable girls to combat his monstrosities, and blow them up to 48“ by 32.“
She dragged Jersey past all this to a table set up in the corner. It sat under a thick woodcut black-and-white poster, of a woman with long hair, holding a fishing pole, reeling in a leaping Marlin. It read “WOMEN WHO FISH” Artcrawl July 17th. Various pamphlets, flyers and cards lay scattered on the table with various incarnations of the poster’s logo.
“My god Penny! They’re great!”
“Yeah,” Penny beamed, “just got them back from the printer today. Here,” she grabbed a small box of business cards and shoved it at Jersey. “These are yours.”
Jersey took the box, but realizing she had nowhere to put them, put them back on the table.
“I’ll get them later.”
“Holy fucking shit.” Penny said in such a serious voice that Jersey looked at her, saw Penny’s eyes, then followed them into the next room. Vic Mitchell stood in the next room, looking at one of Jersey’s pieces.
“He’s taller than I thought he’d be.” Jersey says.
“Fucking Vic Mitchell Is Fucking Looking At Your Fucking Paintings.” Penny shoves Jersey towards the arch. “Go in there And Fucking Talk! To! Him!”
“Allright, stop pushing.”
“And get him to come over here next!” Penny doesn’t stop pushing.
Jersey composed herself, and started walked through the archway, shooting a look back at Penny. Then as confidently as she could, walked right up to Mitchell‘s side, and looked at what he was looking at. It was her piece called “Nymph and the Cowboys.” It was of a slim nude woman with perfect tits, on a mechanical bull, set in the middle of a western bar. Surrounding her was a crowd of leering, predatory, and lustful old cowboys who watched. It was, at least, a good piece.
Jersey’s mind raced to find something, anything appropriate to say. It had to be smart, and clever, and interesting. Then she realized she didn’t have anything like that ready to say. Vic Mitchell saved her any more nervousness.
“That’s fucking great.” He said, to no-one in particular, but obviously sensing Jersey’s presence.
“Why,“ Her voice came out a bit more broken than she would have liked, but she soldered on. “Why do you say that?”
“She’s ridiculously beautiful. Hot as fuck, impossibly desirous. They’re ugly as shit, hideous. The mere fact that they want her, makes me sick…the fact that I, like them want her, makes me a part of them, and that disgusts me more. But, she’s still fucking hot, and I don’t think she cares about anything but being desired. So,” He turned and dipped his head a little to look under the bill of her Dodgers cap, “I think it’s fucking great. What do you think?”
For a second the blinding thought, ‘I’m in a conversation with Vic Mitchell!’ blazed through her head. It almost overpowered everything else and sent her into a panic. Then a small, but very calm voice spoke in the back of her brain, “he just asked you a question. He’s interested. Pretend you‘re on his show!” And that helped her a lot. Of course, there was still too a long pause. But, she looked up at him, under the brim of her Dodgers cap. She managed a cute, shy smile. And then she threw herself at him through words.
“She’s a slut. I think she’s going to take at least one of them home and get fucked, and she’s going to take perverse pleasure knowing the rest of them will be masturbating to her memory. I think she’d be happy as fuck if some of them whipped out their old cowboy cocks and started whacking off right there in a big circle-jerk. Yes, I think that would make her happy.”
“Jeeezus!” Vic said, his whole face cracking up with laughter. “They were right!”
“Who? About what?”
“Aaah, a website I read that had a review of the Mundane Gallery. They said -it’s got an edgy crowd, with edgy works. Or something like that.” Vic put his hands in his pockets, and kept a smile on his face. “Sooo, do you know the artist that painted this horny slut?”
Jersey beamed a sweet smile at him, now without a trace of self-consciousness.
“I did. I’m Jersey Jane.” She stuck out a hand, and he shook it.
“I’m Vic Mitchell. I dig the hell out of your work. It‘s impressive as fuck.”
And in the total perfection of a moment, brought on by the fact that she more than occasionally liked to say the word. So, whether it was her, or fate that wanted it to happen, it spilled out of her lips like it was a moment of destiny.
“Likewise.”
And although it was a mere finger-snap of time for that one word to escape her lips, it was a word Mitchell respected. In fact, it was the kind of word that made him pay attention. It was the one word in the entire English language that made him perk up his
ears and wonder, “what the fuck does the person that says “Likewise” actually have to say?”
posted by D.T. at 11:29 PM
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