How It Goes

Some emails, a phone call, maybe.  "Come work with me," you say, and you agree on a time and date.  You never know.  The appointed day, then the appointed time.  You get nervous always.  Fifteen minutes, twenty, nobody shows.

You text: "Hey?"

You text because that is what people do now.  No one will answer a telephone.

A few minutes later you get a text back:  "I just got into an accident.  Now the woman is trying to blame me!"

You should pack up and call it a night, you think, but you text back:  "That is awful.  Are you O.K.?"

A long while, then another text: "We are waiting for the police."

You decide to walk to a nearby cafe and have some dinner.  It used to be a good place with good food.  You quit going there because you couldn't stand it any more, but it is only three blocks from your studio, and recently you have eaten there again.  The food was good.  Tonight is dollar burger night, an anomaly in such a place. You are alone and you sit at the bar.  The bartender is pretty enough to make you uncomfortable.  A big beer, a Corsican salad, a burger with cheese.  You are happy.  It is still early and you decide you are glad not to shoot.  You have many things to do.

Half way through the meal, you text the model but hear nothing.  Maybe when the police arrived they found drugs in her car.  Maybe she was drunk.  Surely they've taken her to jail.  Expired license.  Outstanding warrant.

The bartender knows the other people at the bar.  She slips a bit on the floor, says the soda dispenser leaked syrup on it.  She fakes a slip for demonstration.  When she talks familiarly with the patrons, you are disappointed.  She is still pretty, but she also unsophisticated.  You imagine an apartment, a stupid boyfriend who is also a bartender or maybe works in the kitchen.  They have similar friends, do cool things like drinking too much on a Sunday afternoon in a hipster way.  She hasn't any dreams, you think, and with the years will grow more and more disappointed.  The current boyfriend will be gone and she will become friendlier with the men who look like money at the bar.  She'll dream of a better car, a house, not working for tips.

There is a couple sitting to your left who seem bothered by you or maybe fascinated, you can't tell.  The man turns to his right from time to time and looks at you with a grin.  It could be real.  It could be a grimace.  You listen to the conversation.  They are talking about church.  You quit listening.

A woman from behind taps you on the shoulder.  You turn and try to collect some thoughts on who it might be.  She is saying your name.  Computers whirring, you come up with who she is.

"Oh, hello Masha."

She was the girlfriend of a fellow in a band as successful as yours from years ago.

"I just saw you sitting here and wanted to say hi."

You are not good at this sort of thing.  Awkward, really.  The words that come from your mouth are wooden, wrong.  She has a hopeful look in her eye as she asks what you are doing, tells you what she is doing.  Oh my, you think.  Oh my.

When she goes back to her table, you call for the check.  The bartender smiles.  They always smile when they bring the check.  Suddenly you are friends.

You walk back to the studio.  The night is hot and humid and you want to get home and put on what passes for pajamas, to sit with a drink and watch a program you have recorded.

This is accomplished forthwith.

Your cell phone rings.

"Hello.  Well, the cops just left."

Shit.

"Oh.  Are you still wanting to shoot?"

"Sure."

You are sucked in by the voice.

"O.K.  I'll meet you at the studio."

You wait and wait.  An hour later, she arrives.  You wish you had told her to reschedule, but here you go.  She has brought a friend.  She is shy about it all.  She seems never to have modeled before.  Be quick, you think.  An hour.  Her friend, you say, can sit and drink on the couch in the reception room.  You take her into the studio.

The work you do is slow.  Usually there is a lot of talking, but she does not speak.  It is spooky, unreal.  You talk too much to fill the air.  She has brought no useful wardrobe.  She stands wearing nothing but the mask.  She will not take it off.

"I like the mask," she says.  And little else.

She is tired.  She was up until six in the morning.  Bought a motorcycle and road it home from 100 miles away.  She had the accident and hasn't eaten.  She is finishing her degree in Biology.  She will go to medical school, she says.  People are so unsuspected you almost say out loud.  And then you do.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing.  Nothing.  It is just me."

And in a little while, you are done.  You make it short, but she wants to come back.  You will shoot again.

You are home--once more--in what passes for your pajamas--once more--sitting with a drink.  It is late and you are ready to fall into bed.  "What the hell am I doing?" you ask yourself.  In the morning. . . the factory.  It is summer, hot and humid, the vegetation growing rapidly, closing the world off from the sky.  You are fatigued. . . frustrated.  You need to get away, but you seem to lack the courage to go.  The cat is bumping your leg.  No, it is not courage.  It is the money.  And the fucking cat.

You are tired and tired of thinking.  Drink some water.  Take your vitamins.  Go to bed.