A Little Good Thing

"Oh, God."  I came to in the dark. . . sort of.  I thought for a minute.  "O.K.  Good.  This is my bed."

Fuck.

"'This is culinary grade hashish,' she told me.  'Make sure you don't smoke it.  It is only for cooking.'  Right?  Like I'm not going to smoke it," she said, rolling up a perfect number with expert hands.  It was a present from her girlfriend.

The shoot.  It had gone funky from the get go.  She hadn't a working phone, so we communicated through email.  We'd shot the week before.  Now she was coming back.  What would we shoot, she wanted to know.  Do you have any gowns? I'd asked.  I have a series of women in gowns.  Sure, I have a couple I'll bring.

When she showed up, she was coming from the gulf coast.  She'd gotten an invitation to stay with some friends, so she'd spent the week lolling about eating and drinking and playing on the beach.  She had not been to her storage unit to pick anything up.  But she had a gown in the car, she said, and she went out to get it.

"Oh," I said.  "I didn't mean a nightgown.  I meant a formal gown."

She looked at me and laughed.  "Why didn't you tell me that?"  I didn't know.

I was a mess anyway.  The week had been a rough one at the factory, and with the whole Great Poet thing, I was exhausted.  I didn't really have the energy to shoot, so I was secretly glad that things were getting fucked up.  No matter what happened now, I'd blame it on her.

But she had brought her vintage bathing suit, so I scrummaged around with the bags and boxes piled from floor to ceiling on various storage shelves looking for a swim cap and goggles.

"Here they are!  Alright.  Let's go."

And so we drove down to the little dock on the lake by my house to shoot a few pictures that might be part of the "Swim Club" series.  It didn't take long.  In a minute it was done.

"We could go to my storage unit," she said.  "I might have some things there."  It didn't matter to me.  The more time we spent looking, the less time I would have to spend being creative.  She had been a little late, and I had not eaten anything but a small yogurt all day; still, I decided to pour a little scotch whiskey anyway.  It might get the juices flowing, I told myself.  It could be just the thing.

Soon enough, however, I realized it wasn't.  Not only had I not eaten, but I was pretty sure I hadn't had a sip of water in a couple days.  All the nerves and muscles and bones around my occipital bone were hurting when I tried to turn my head.  I recognized it as a sign of dehydration.  My stomach began to rumble.

"Maybe she won't come," I started to hope.  "Surely. . . ."

And I fell into a doze on the little studio couch bathed in the bossa nova music coming through the speakers

Suddenly I sat up and listened.  Nothing.  Sure I had heard something, I went to the door.  And there she stood.

"Did you knock?" I asked.

"Yea.  Like three times."

She apologized for being late.  "The interstate was terrible.  Downtown, it was just gridlocked.  I couldn't believe it."

"Well then. . . here. . . you need a drink."  I handed her a glass and the bottle of scotch.  She poured a pretty good one.  "Here," I said extending my glass.  "Freshen me up."



"Can you get that suitcase right there?" she asked pointing to a piece of luggage at the bottom of a pile of other suitcases, boxes, and furniture.  "Can you get it?"

"Yea, after I move all of this shit."  I was sweating that oily sweat you do when there isn't any water left in your veins.  I grunted and groaned and pulled up things at awkward angles over my head feeling the strain of work and old injuries.  Finally, I got to the suitcase.

"Jesus Christ, what do you have in here?"  It was wrongfully heavy.  It felt to be filled with metal.

"Just some clothes."

"Buuuuullllllllshiiiiiiit!" I said.  I sat it on the ground and she began running the zippers open, laughing.

"What's the matter?" she grinned.

And just then, I spotted it.  "What's this?!"

"It's an old chaise I got from the Goodwill."

I began digging it out of the pile of crap that surrounded it.

I sat it flat on the floor and looked at her.

"You want it?"

"I think so.  I'm not sure.  You think this will fit in the car?"

"It fit in mine."

And so we huffed it to the elevator and across the parking lot to the truck.

"It won't go," I said, looking at it.  "It's too wide."

"No it's not.  It will fit."

And so we pushed down the seats and piled it in the back snug as a bug.  Perfect.



I was still fucked up when I woke.  I turned to look at the clock.  4:30.  She'd asked if she could sleep in the studio for the night.  She was too fucked up to drive.  The night had gone crazy somehow.

After we'd put the chaise in the truck, my head was really pounding.  "I've got to get something to eat," I said.  "I'm going to fall out."

"O.K." she agreed.  She was a good sport.  So we stopped for sushi on the way back to the studio.  Early evening light and a soft breeze.  We ordered Kirin Ichibans.

"Good idea," I said.  "I need to rehydrate."

"Maybe you should drink some water," she offered.

"Oh no," I countered.  "No, this is better.  Plenty of water here."

Dinner seemed to go on forever.  She's a good storyteller, too, so it didn't matter that the meal stretched on.  We ordered again.  And again.

After dinner, we dragged the chaise out of the car, through the doors, and into the studio.

"Wow," I said.  This might work.

And so I turned the lights on and got the cameras out.  She got to the mark and looked at me where I looked back through the viewfinder.  Jesus.  My heart was stopping.  She was too beautiful.

A bit later, though, I had a good idea.  And that was where things began to go wrong.  My mouth was full of sand, but I was talking, talking, talking.  There was a big weight on my head that my knees didn't want to support.  I could see myself talking both inside and out.  She was lolling about on her chaise giggling and talking, too.  I don't know what she was saying, but I picked out the word "culinary."

"We'd better have more whiskey," I said.  "No, wait, wait.  Let's go up and sit in that little alley and get a pitcher of sangria.

When everyone had gone, we walked back to the studio.  I was lying on the chaise posing for her, going through all the things I wanted her to do.

"You want to shoot?" she asked.

"Do you?"

It was late.  The music played.  She sounded like a great cat, like the panther she'd told me she'd been dreaming about.  I turned the lights way down, turned the strobes off, the music up.

"I want to shoot like this," I said, "all blurry in the low light."  I zoomed in on her face, her eyes, her lips, her hair.  And it was too much for me.  I just couldn't do it any more.  I knew it would haunt my dreams.  That is what I told her.



Fuck, I began to think there in the darkness.  I imagined her curled up on the chaise at the studio.  I thought of something going wrong.  What if she. . . went outside. . . and got. . . abducted?  What if she drank of the rest of the whiskey and. . . her heart stopped?  Holy shit.

I was worried.  It would be in the paper.  My mother would find out about the studio.




"Do you mind if I just sleep here," shed asked, pulling a blanket over her and closing her eyes.  I can't drive.




I must have fallen back to sleep.  When I opened my eyes again, it was morning.

"You need to get up," I told myself wondering if she would even be there.  I felt like shit.  I put some clothes on and started the coffee.  I turned on the computer before I remembered that I still had no internet.

"FUCK!"  I thought to just reassemble all the pieces and try it again.  Blink, blink, blink.  The series of LED lights began to flicker in the proper order.  It was working now.  For some reason, it was on.

I poured a cup of coffee and drove to the studio.  It was still early, but I didn't know if she'd been awake waiting for me to come lock up so she could leave or. . . what.

Her truck was still there.  I opened the door.  The lights were off.  I walked back into the studio.  I could barely make her out curled into a tiny ball.  It must have been hell at some point sleeping that way.  I put my hand on her shoulder.

"Hello," she said in a small, cracking voice.

"You O.K.?"

"Yea, I'm good."

I didn't know what she might think.  I was hoping I hadn't done anything that. . . well. . . .

"You want to go get some breakfast?"

"Sure," she said.

Outside, I knew that she hadn't seen a morning in a long while.  This was the middle of her night.  She looked about with a bit of wonder.

"It's kind of pretty," she said the way one says that about some oddity that has caught you by surprise.

"I think that they ought to pass a law that makes stuff like that illegal," I laughed.

"Yea," she said, but she wasn't a quarter as serious as I was.

Somehow, everything was alright.  Everything was O.K.

"I'll be in town all week if you want to get together," she offered.

"Really?" I said with the odd mixture of happiness and fear.  "O.K."  But let's not do it on a work night."

*     *     *     *     *     

Sorry this is late again.  But the internet connection is back up and I am going to live the old, safe life again.  I'll get back on schedule.