Yvonne's Redress by Lynn Kuratomi

Yvonne rushes in carrying a bag of Chinese takeout from Chi Dynasty. She drops her work satchel in the service porch, and enters the spare and modern kitchen. It is 8 o’clock and, regretfully, Collin has beaten her home. Still in his work clothes, his shirtsleeves rolled up, he is busy checking his email on the kitchen computer. Beside him is an opened bottle of Chardonnay and a full glass of wine.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Yvonne apologizes, “I had a deadline.”

Collin grunts but does not look up from the computer screen. Yvonne sets the table with handpainted Italian dishes, opens the takeout cartons and gets out serving utensils. She pours herself a glass of wine from the open bottle. “Dinner,” she announces.


“Great.” Collin responds as he clicks the SEND button and comes to the table, “What are we having?”

“Orange Chicken, Sweet and Sour Shrimp and Kung Pao Beef,” she answers.

“Same as Monday, “ he retorts in a flat voice.

Yvonne tenses at his reaction and busies herself serving the food. Collin is in one of his moods. He opens the wrapper on his chopsticks, and begins to eat. They eat in silence. After a few minutes he looks up at Yvonne and speaks, “Look at us. Two roommates eating Chinese takeout for the second time this week.” Collin eats a bite of steamed rice and continues, “This isn’t the life that I expected.” Collin eats more rice, then speaks again. “We are boring each other to death. You have your career; I have mine. We have no children. No sex. No life. All we share are takeout meals.”

The truth of this statement makes Yvonne cringe. “Yvonne,” he says almost tenderly, “I’m a man. I need a woman.” Yvonne’s eyes fill with tears and her heart tenses. She feels a pain deep in her solarplexus and inhales deeply.

“I don’t want a roommate. I want a family. A wife. A sex life. I want children.” Collin catches Yvonne off guard. He isn’t his mean or arrogant self. He is quiet and calm.

Agreement, silently Yvonne coaches herself. Avoid an argument tonight with agreement. “You’re right. We need to improve the quality of our life," she answers. “We were supposed to go to Hawaii last month, remember? Then your trial got moved. How’s your schedule next month? I think I can get off after the 18th.”

Collin shakes his head. “A week in Hawaii can’t help us. It’s too late.”

Yvonne’s body fills with nausea as Collin’s words sink into her consciousness. It is too late. Too late for a romantic week in Hawaii. Too late to revitalize their sex life.

“It’s time Yvonne, time to move on….” Collin takes a swig of his wine, puts down his chopsticks and leaves the table. A few minutes later, the garage door opens and Yvonne hears the hum of his Porsche as he backs out of the garage and drives away.

Collin is right. I’m an idiot! she scolds herself. They had this exact same meal just two nights ago. Chi Dynasty was one of their favorite places, an upscale Chinese restaurant in Los Feliz less than ten minutes from their home. Working on automatic pilot, and concerned about her deadline, she had picked up food without even thinking. On her drive home, Yvonne speed dialed on her cell and ordered the first things that came to her mind. Unfortunately, they were the same three things that came into her mind two days ago.

Yvonne takes the bottle of wine into the living room and sits alone in the darkness. She gazes out of the large plate glass window at the view of Silver Lake below. As she drinks, Yvonne cries and feels sorry for herself.
“All I do is work. Nobody loves me. I’m boring…and I’m not sexy!” she screams out. Her nose begins to run and she wipes up the snot with her napkin. She drinks and cries, finishes off the bottle of wine, then takes a shower. Then she does what she always does when she is upset. She goes to bed. To sleep. To escape.

Collin returns late that night, but when Yvonne wakes up at seven, he is long gone. The morning coffee that he brews daily is still in the pot, but Collin isn’t there. Sadness, loneliness and failure swim in Yvonne’s head. At 7:30 Yvonne picks up the phone and calls her boss at home.

“Mel…” she says evenly.

“What’s up?” Melanie answers.

“I can’t make it to work today,” she says simply.

“Sick?”

“No. Collin.”

“What’s up with Collin?”

“I can’t get into it now,” says Yvonne.

“OK. I gotta go. I have a breakfast meeting…I’ll call you later.” Click. The sound of the dial tone vibrates in Yvonne’s ear.

***

“Motherfuck,” whispers Yvonne under her breath. Strawberry soda. The pink sticky liquid drips down her hair and all over her white wool sweater.

The woman across the table grins and smiles, rather pleased with herself, “Thought you needed something to cool yourself off. It’s hot today. Ninety eight degrees according to the weather channel.”

She is clueless these days and it makes Yvonne profoundly sad. Yvonne is pissed at her yet needs to hide it. She had planned a quick visit, but now she must go home to shower and change. Yvonne takes off her glasses and wipes them with her ruined sweater.

“Mother, please don’t ever do that again,” Yvonne says calmly. But Mother isn’t listening. She is busy drawing on a white paper place mat. It is a picture of a man with his fly open. Hanging out is an enormous penis.

“I dated a singer once who had a cock that looked just like this one. The head of his cock looked just like this, too. It was curved on top just like this.” Mother taps the place mat with the top of her pencil to emphasize her point. Yvonne glances around feeling like a prude. The two of them are sitting in the corner of a small dining area that is filled with walkers and wheelchairs. Thankfully, no one seems to notice her wet, sticky hair and now pink sweater. Yvonne is embarrassed. Her mother embarrasses her a lot these days. She never knows what to expect. She isn’t angry about these outbursts anymore, but she resents them. Her mom is an 82-year-old sex fiend. She is also hard of hearing, so her embarrassing comments are always spoken in a loud megaphone voice for all to hear. They also scare the shit out of Yvonne. Alzheimer's is hereditary…perhaps her time will come, too.

***

Yvonne is sitting alone at The Coffee Table. It is early May, and she has decided to take a caffeine break after visiting her mom. The Coffee Table is a local coffee house in Silver Lake. Besides the requisite lattes, chais, cappuccinos and pastries, it also serves food. Breakfast, lunch and dinners. Good soups, fresh salads, generous sandwiches, and fluffy omelets. It is a large place where one can spend hours without management giving customers “the stink eye” because they are anxious to turn over tables.

As Yvonne lifts the large earthenware cup and sips her cappuccino, she remembers a recent article she’d read. “Put It in Writing and Make It Happen!” What the hell, she thinks. And so it begins. In a tattered purple spiral notebook, the one that contained notes on possible plumbing companies to re-pipe her mother’s house, she starts her “Make it Happen Journal.”

Using her own name is too inhibiting for Yvonne. She doesn’t feel free enough to express herself. Her first act of creativity is to create a new identity. For no particular reason, she calls herself Marlena.

***

Marlena is 34-years-old and feels horny today. What makes a woman horny? Some men have the theory that women get horny when they’re ovulating. Marlena doesn’t give a shit why she is horny. She just knows that she is, and that is that. It is a simple fact. On days like this, she doesn’t want the constraint of bra or panties. She enjoys the feeling of smooth slick fabric on her nipples. She likes the wetness between her legs. Panties would absorb the wetness, and she wants to feel it.

Being a woman of culture, Marlena knows it is a perfect Sunday afternoon to visit LACMA. The Los Angeles Museum of Art on Wilshire. But first, she needs to pick a dress to wear. Demure? Maybe. Something flowing, not too short. Soft, yes. Clingy, definitely.

In the shower, Marlena soaps her breasts until her nipples harden. She is an Aquarian; water is always sensuous to her. Next, she takes care of business. Shaves her underarms and legs….silky smooth. In her bedroom, she anoints her body with vanilla scented lotion. She chooses a red rayon dress, and slips it over her naked body. It is a pure, deep red. Medium weight. Scoop necked with a hemline skimming a few inches above her knees. Marlena knows she looks striking in red, and to lengthen her legs she puts on a pair of high, strappy wedge sandals. Dress and sandals. Two items and she is completely dressed. She takes a look in the mirror and likes what she sees. Simple and understated, but bright and noticeable. Lip gloss and mascara complete her look.

She drives down Vine, which turns into Rossmore. The houses are big on Rossmore with thick green lawns. When Marlena hits Wilshire, she turns right, and drives the two miles on Wilshire to the museum.
As she climbs the stairs up to the ticket booth a whirl of wind drifts down the stairs. For a fraction of a second Marlena feels her dress fly up exposing her ass. Whoever is behind her--and paying attention-- just got an eyeful. The thought excites her, her muscles below contract, and she is moist between her legs. She needs to relax. She is getting herself all wound up and needs to chill.

Instead of heading toward the box office for a ticket, she makes her way across the courtyard to the beverage cart. “I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay,” she says to the bartender. He is tall, and she can feel his eyes on her chest. Towering above her, he has a perfect bird’s eye view down the front of her dress. Marlena smiles innocently, hands him a five, and puts the dollar change into his tip jar.

She finds an empty table under an umbrella and sits to enjoy her drink. The wine is icy cold with little condensation bubbles on the outside of the glass. She takes a long slow drink. It hits the spot. As she is licking her lips in enjoyment, she looks up and notices that the bartender is staring at her. She smiles and chuckles to herself. “I’ve got good tits. He likes my tits.” Though she wants to chill and relax, this damn guy is making her feel horny again. She rubs her hand softly and unconsciously across her breasts, her nipples harden even more. Then she gingerly strokes her thighs. It is both soothing and sensual to her. The wine is working. She feels a gentle buzz coming on…Marlena is feeling free and relaxed.

Once inside the museum she heads toward the impressionist section. She likes the paintings by Lucien Freud. Paintings of partially nude women, doing private things…grooming, taking baths. These are intimate. A glimpse into the woman’s personal world. Sometimes Marlena fantasizes that she is the model. She would have loved being a painter’s model….their muse. Paris. Immortality. Sex with great artists. It is heady stuff for Marlena. She sits on a bench and stares at a painting of a woman stroking herself. Is she masturbating? Or just relaxing? Whatever, it is sexy, and Marlena feels a surge rushing to her lower torso. At times like this, she experiences an internal struggle. She wants to lift her dress and rub exactly the place that she knows will ease these feelings. Marlena exhales deeply. Instead, she crosses her legs tightly, right over left, and sways. She is throbbing between her legs.

Marlena feels helpless at times like this. What can she do? She needs to cool off. And that’s exactly what she does. She uncrosses her legs, lifts her dress to mid-thigh, and spreads her legs. Little girls are still free and often spread their legs when wearing dresses. After a certain age, knees are supposed to be kept together. This is an act of rebellion. Marlena can actually feel, or thinks she can feel, the cool air from the air-conditioning vent coming up her dress. Yes, she is cooling off.

***

When Mike enters The Coffee Table, he’s decided today is the day to order something different. Since September, when his daughter left for college, he’s taken to spending leisurely mornings at The Coffee Table. The usual is a latte, a muffin and the New York Times. But today, strangely enough, he wants a change. He decides on a Green Tea Latte. He’s been fascinated by the musty green colored drink topped with whipped cream. Today is his day to try one. Mike sits at his usual table, opens up his paper, then takes a sip of his green drink. “Interesting,” he thinks.

As he is spooning a dollop of whipped cream into his mouth, he notices a woman across the room. She is dressed in a pair of jeans and a black vee-necked t-shirt. She isn’t wearing makeup, but her toes are painted a bright metallic red. Mike watches this woman writing fast and furiously into a purple spiraled notebook. He enjoys watching her--she is so focused. Every so often she takes a break and comes up for air. Mike watches as still holding her pen, she shifts her body around, closes her eyes, and takes a long, deep breath. “Damn,” he thinks, “she is sexy!” Yet he can’t figure out why he is so turned on. There is nothing special about her. She is slender and fit, looks about 36 or 37. Shiny brown hair frames her face. Good bones, blue eyes. Quite ordinary, nothing special. The woman puts down her pen, and nibbles on an oatmeal cookie. She licks her lips, closes her eyes and appears to be thinking.

***

The following week Mike sees her at The Coffee Table two or three times. Sometimes she’s dressed in jeans, and other times she’s wearing a business suit, but she always carries her purple spiraled notebook.

***

Yvonne sits at Hard Times Pizza sipping a Peroni. It refreshes, relaxes and hits the spot. This local mini-mall favorite attracts an eclectic clientele. Yvonne enjoys people watching as she waits for her eggplant parmesan sandwich. The sandwiches here are huge, and she knows this meal will be enough for dinner tonight and lunch tomorrow. Just as Yvonne finishes her beer, they call her name. Her order is ready; she takes her bag and heads to her car.

At home Yvonne eats out of the aluminum to-go container. She doesn’t bother using real plates anymore. For her, the worst part of living alone is eating alone. She wonders what Collin is eating tonight. Is he eating alone, too? Or is he having a nice meal in a restaurant? Is he with a friend? she wonders. Shut up, Yvonne coaches herself. Don’t do this.

Yvonne promises to take herself to breakfast tomorrow at The Coffee Table. Mornings are tough. She misses their ritual of coffee and newspapers. Collin served her coffee each morning. He was a news junkie, and he enjoyed summarizing the important stories and giving his editorial comments as she worked the crossword puzzle. Yvonne was comfortable; she didn’t realize she was boring Collin to death.

***

As Yvonne leans on the trunk of a blue Prius and heaves, she feels eyes watching her. She has no idea how she can be so aware given her current state of nausea. Yvonne feels blessed that nothing is coming out. Thank God, these are only dry heaves…at least so far. Yvonne is more than a little “throw up phobic” and has frequently willed herself not to vomit. She heaves again….and feels a trickle of vomit emerging at the back of her throat…fortunately it reverses its course and goes back the way it came. As the nausea subsides for a few brief seconds, she looks up and sees a pair of eyes staring at her. Blue eyes, surprised and concerned. Her next look is a wider shot and includes the face. Yvonne is mortified…it is…a familiar face….she can not attach a name to the face, but all the same…she knows him and he knows her. In a flash she realizes how. The Coffee Table. She’s seen him several times at The Coffee Table. She lowers her head between her outstretched arms hoping he won’t recognize her. But it is no use…he is walking directly toward the blue Prius.

He stands behind the car and stares. Then, “Are you okay?” he asks gently. Yvonne looks up, wiping the sweat from her forehead and temples. Shit, how fucking embarrassing…..I think it’s his car. Thank God I didn’t barf on it. But she can’t speak, all she can do is shake her head “no”. Do I look like I’m okay? she thinks sarcastically. He opens the car door (so it is his car) and takes out a bottle of Crystal Geyser. He takes off the lid and hands the water to her.

“Drink this,” he says gently. The cool water is refreshing and just what she needs. Out of control, within seconds, she guzzles most of the water in the bottle. Ah…water… her body knows instantly what it needs. She drinks more. Yvonne motions with her head at the storefront behind her. The sign reads “Bikram Yoga.” “Hot yoga. It’s a hundred and twelve degrees in there. I thought I was going to pass out…so I came outside….” A dazed look crosses her face, “I got the dry heaves, but I didn’t vomit on your car….” Her voice weakens and trails off, “I didn’t vomit on your car….” He catches her just as she begins to lose consciousness. When Yvonne comes to, she is lying on her back in the lobby of the yoga studio; the nice man from The Coffee Table is sitting on the carpet next to her.

“I’ll drive you home,” he offers.

“I can manage,” says Yvonne.

“After what just happened, I’d feel a whole lot better if you let me drive you. Drink another quart of water and get some rest. Call me when you wake up and we can get your car.”

He hands her his card. It reads:
Mike Boritizer
Boritzer/Grey Gallery
Bergamont station.

“Thank you, Mike,” says Yvonne. She is feeling a little woozy again and does not resist. He takes her home, and she promises to call him when she wakes up.

At six o’clock Yvonne is enjoying a light dinner with her Good Samaritan at The Coffee Table. When Mike found out that she hadn’t eaten, he insisted they stop for food. Yvonne enjoys talking to Mike about art and hearing about his gallery. It is a conversation that fuels her long lost passion.

“How do you know so much about art?” he finally asks.

Busted, she thinks. A second later, she surprises herself, as she spills out her life story. “I wanted to be a painter. I have a B.A. in painting. Then I wanted to get a job, so I got a Masters in Art History. But that didn’t help me get a job. When I came to LA I really needed work, and ended up in PR. It turned out to be a career. I’ve worked my way up in PR, but my life as an artist is mostly forgotten. It’s only memories now….wrapped up in plastic in my garage.”

“Perhaps one day, if you want, we can go ‘treasure hunting’ in your garage,” smiles Mike.

“Perhaps...” laughs Yvonne.

***

“Your husband is a putz!” screams her mother.

“Mother, please lower your voice,” whispers Yvonne patiently.

“Hell no, I will not lower my voice. He’s a putz! A putz! P-U-T-Z” and she spells it out for extra emphasis. Thankfully, no one in the nursing home dining room seems to notice or care.

“Collin took a six month lease at the Oakwood Apartments near his office, ” volunteers Yvonne.

Her mother switches gears. For a moment she’s the solid-rock mother Yvonne knew growing up. “I’m so sorry to hear that, honey.” Yvonne misses her old mom, the non-crazy with Alzheimer's mom, and her eyes fill with tears. “Don’t get your hopes up. He wouldn’t have moved out if he wanted to stay together.”

“I know, Mom.” Her mom pats her on the shoulder, and Yvonne can see her mind switch gears again.

“Don’t worry about his tiny, sorry-assed, limp dick. This is your chance. Move on sister, move on.”

***

When Mike invited Yvonne to the Friday night members-only opening reception at LACMA, she immediately said “yes”. She said “yes” without even thinking. What fun to see an exhibit with a fellow art-lover, she thought. After she hung up the phone she started freaking out.

A date. Shit. I think I’m going on a date. I am going on a date--Oh God, a date. A date? What shall I wear?

It is a warm, balmy, summer LA night. When Mike rings Yvonne’s doorbell, she answers wearing her Marlena outfit. She looks sensational in the clingy, free-flowing red dress and tall wedge sandals. She knows her legs look good, and she feels confident and energized.

“Wow! You look great in red!” exclaims Mike.

As they descend her stairs a slight breeze blows her dress up, but Mike doesn’t see anything. Not yet.

Return by Roland Starkey

All of this happened, is happening, because of something a preacher found in the ruins of Los Angeles, after the Cataclysm.

All of this happened, is happening, 200 thousand years ago. Let me tell you what I know. There isn’t much time.

Background: I was born and reared on a planet remote from Earth. I am not wholly human but some of my forebears are. I have dreams and desires. I am in awe of my planet’s seasons. My sensory apparatus is mutable. Outwardly, I possess the characteristics of a small tree or shrub (bark, leaves, rounded shoulders) such as once played a part on Earth. Sparrows like me. (We have some approximation of the Earth variety here.) I will add that I have an agreeably woody scent. My flowers should be better known.

To drive the point home: I am part man, part plant—as are all of this planet’s inhabitants, to one degree or another.

But, so far as I know, I am the only one to have made contact with the preacher. Which I did (a profound mystery in “I did”) without knowing of him or the city or the Cataclysm.

And now the preacher is being brought here.

To be honest, I am afraid.

There is a ship. The two-man crew, human. (But that will change, is changing.) The cargo…

In a dream it was revealed to me that I had brought into existence, remotely, on Earth, five replicas of myself, in a clearing in the ruins of a city. (The dream felt like a dozen sparrows asleep inside me.)

The preacher seemed to understand right away what it was he’d come upon—five companionable shrubs—and so he sat down among them. He said, What brings you here? What is your purpose? And they answered: On both counts, to keep you company. At one point he went off, and when he came back he saw that there were four holes in the ground. The shrub that was left said, Don’t worry. There are other preachers besides yourself that wander in this neighborhood. Why don’t you go get something to dig me up, and a bucket? But instead the preacher got down on his knees and set to digging with his fingers. When the task was done, he cradled the shrub and carried his new friend out of the clearing.

I saw and heard all of this. But I never knew beforehand what the shrub was going to say to the preacher.

***

From The Confessions:

Ned and I were moving a cargo that neither of us was supposed to know anything about. There were sealed orders into the bargain and—two months post-launch—still no word on the location of the destination planet. How hasty our departure had been! We were to bide our time and let the autopilot do the work; only upon detection of a hostile ship was the seal was to be broken.

From Base we had been receiving regular assurances that the details were close to being worked out, but with each such report I believed less and less.

My curiosity about the contents of our cargo bay and of the sealed orders increased, as did my agitation.

I was agitated, for I had begun to sense that the religious activities I had secretly been engaged in (in the past 18 months on my own time) had become known.

I was doubly agitated, for I had begun to sense the presence of a hostile force directed at me.

Another week passed. One day Ned, stretching his legs after lunch, said he had a good story. Let’s hear it then, I said. He said: it’s a true story, one I heard told in N- by someone called K- who’d gotten it from a certain D-. How very interesting, I said. Then Ned said: I also know what’s in the cargo.

He stretched again and said mildly, You are my prisoner, by the way.

I decided to take his word for it.

I said, And now I bet you’re going to tell me what’s in those orders.

Oh, no, no, no. Those stay sealed. Unless—

I said, I’d like to hear the story. There is a story, isn’t there?

To which Ned replied, Indeed there is. But now he seemed a little perturbed.

He said with a small but perceptible quaver in his voice: Your skin is changing.

And indeed it was.

***

From The Cataclysm:

The preacher took me everywhere with him. He told me I was his God. He sang songs in praise of me. He prayed, he wept. He asked me why the Cataclysm had come. I tried to answer as best I could. In truth I did not know. Whatever I said, however foolish or inadequate it sounded to my ears, he would cry out, All praise to you! When he preached, he would repeat the things I had said to him.

***

To be continued …

Reality TV by Barbara Romain

The dog’s not eating. It’s too hot. Since I upgraded to Microsoft 8.0, my computer is acting wacky--like I can’t log into Facebook any more. (I know, how tragic.) And I had to ask Martin to come here twice to adjust things and then today I realize that half my email is going to my Roadrunner Inbox, which is very hard for me to read and I have to forward everything to my Outlook Inbox, which takes forever. I email Martin who sends me back a tutorial for adding Roadrunner to my Outlook Express and I am successful until I reach the point where I have to input the Outgoing Server Info so I have to call Time Warner Technical Assistance, which always makes me a nervous wreck. I talk with the guy at TW for an hour and he’s incredibly patient with me, and I’m able to fix it. Is your head spinning? I know mine is.

I can now read my email to learn that two of the messages are major rejection letters for two shows that I really had high hopes for. This makes about six rejections in a row. Ironically, I feel like I’m doing my strongest work now. Maybe people aren’t digging it because it’s so raw. It looks like something a blind person would paint--which, of course, it is.

This kind of sets the stage for how I’m feeling when I go with Leda to try out for the Artist Reality TV show. I never watch 'Reality' TV. Well, I’m lying. I have seen a few episodes of SURVIVOR when it first came out and, of course, a few snatches of AMERICAN IDOL. When I get the email about this audition, I notice that Sara Jessica Parker is involved, so how can it be bad? What do I have to lose?

Last night I happened to call Brenda and mention what I thought of doing and she says the audition controversy is all over the blogosphere and the Cal Arts people are up in arms against it---too commercial, too exploitative of the artists. Good, I think, less competition. Unnerving, however, is the fact that it is advertised in the L.A. Times. And here I thought I had been specially invited.

I’m not supposed to reveal the audition process unless I want to be sued for a million dollars--but I’m changing stuff, so this is fiction. If they sue, what can they get? My five-year-old Dell with Assistive Technology? My extensive and eclectic CD music collection? There’s always the dog.
After hurriedly completing a 23-page application and compiling a digital and Xerox portfolio (which luckily I had, but in kind of shabby condition), I wait for Leda to pick me up at 9:30 a.m., which is really early for me to pull myself together. The call is set for 10-2 p.m. at a gallery in West L.A.

I must admit some of the application questions seem surprisingly serious and thought provoking. What are your artistic influences? How would you describe your creative process? What are your thoughts on commerce and fine art? I speed through the 23 pages grudgingly. Who is really going to read all this crap? Leda tells me that a few cocktails helped to sail her through the process.

I climb into her car the next morning and notice that Leda looks really hot—boots, miniskirt, jewelry, black hair in a smooth, stylish, bob, and carefully applied makeup. I tell her, and sincerely believe, that she has a great chance of being chosen both on the basis of her looks and talent, which is considerable. She currently has a show of her masterful, large-scale “humanimal” drawings at a hip yet reputable new gallery downtown and her art career seems headed for a bright future. Mine, however, is bumping along the murky bottom of the Sea of Obscurity. I’m wearing jeans, a black T-shirt and my red high-tops. My hair is in its usual finger-in-light-socket pouf. I figure, who am I fooling? I would be a long-shot type choice--if they want someone older and weirder, the Susan Boyle of visual artists. (Yes, I do know who she is and actually I flatter myself with the comparison.)

As we drive up to the gallery we see a loooonnnnnggggg line of people stretched across Venice Boulevard to the door of the gallery. I immediately realize this whole idea is a huge mistake. I never wait in lines if I have a choice--this is one reason I hate Disneyland. I am lazy and have no patience. Leda says, “Oh we’re here already, let’s just try.” After a twenty-minute search for parking, we luck out and find a spot across the street where probably some other person who had sense decided to leave. The line is now even loooooooooonnnnngggger.

Fortunately, the buildings along the block provide a two-foot slice of shade against the brick walls, so we can hide from the hot July sun. After about an hour, the shade is shrinking and so is my enthusiasm for this venture. I am really ready to get out of here. But Leda wants to stay and I don’t want to blow it for her—Young, smart, talented and attractive, I think she really has a great chance of being chosen. Plus, she is my ride and there is no way I’m taking the bus home in this heat.

I call Chuck to see if he’ll pick me up. I know he’s vacuuming the house, because we’re going to Philadelphia in a few days to see my mother and we’ll have to leave Sheila in the house to watch the dog. “I’M CLEANING THE HOUSE, MARG!” he bellows when I ask him what he’s doing. I know his process, it’s intensive. “Never mind,” I say. I’ll just have to try and stick it out a bit longer. I’m entertaining fellow artists in line with the story of how this reminds me of when, in the late ‘70s, Sheila and I used to get up at 5 a.m. and take the bus to Watts to wait in line for the Quaalude doctor with all the other junkies. His doors opened at 8 a.m. and there was usually another looonnngg line formed at the door by seven.

Artists queuing here in 2009 are kinder than the junkies who sometimes pulled a knife on a line jumper at the Quaalude doctor. The artists here are of all ages though mostly young. Many are wrestling with large canvases. Leda and I congratulate ourselves that at least we didn’t go to those lengths, bringing original artwork is optional.

Leda walks the several blocks necessary to get us water and chips so I don’t die from heat prostration. Another girl in a flowered skirt (who tells me to my amazement that she has driven down from SF for this) takes pity on me and gives me a folding stool, which I can crouch on under a nearby sparse little tree. As we get close to the entrance, the shade disappears. Just as I’m about to keel over, a young woman comes along to check our papers. I have failed to sign one of the 23 pages and am so disoriented by the heat that it takes both she and Leda to help me fill out the missing stuff. In the process I drop my cane, my other papers, and the folding stool all over Venice Blvd.

Finally we’re being sent to the side of the building where there are tables set up and their minions take our stuff, put it into a big envelope with a number—I am 185—and take a Polaroid headshot. SMILE! Luckily I am so dehydrated that I don’t have to pee as often as usual, but, when I do, there is a delightful Port-A Potty set up at the rear of the gallery for our convenience. On my current visit I’m having an out-of-body experience because I can’t see the lock to open the door and I’m freaking—trapped in this hot, disgusting, smelly, blue box until someone comes to pee and free me. HELP! (Oh, here’s the lock.) Now we’re sitting in a crammed square cluster of folding chairs under a makeshift awning and waiting for our number to be called. I am getting faint really I feel like I am going to faint and Leda gives me an energy bar she has in her purse and I eat half which actually does help. WATER!

I call Chuck again, “I’M STILL CLEANING THE HOUSE, MARG!” I know his process and it’s intensive. “Never mind,” I say. No hope of rescue now. We wwwaaaaaaaiiiiiiiitttttt some more. Are you getting tired of this? I don’t blame you. I am tired just thinking about it, but now that I’ve started I guess I have to finish the whole stupid story. But you can always skip ahead.

“One eighty five to one ninety,” they call—so Leda and I are taken back to another table where some youngish TV producerish type gives us a spiel about not divulging this process under pain of lawsuit (I told you) and reminds us we’ve signed a contract. She asks if we have any questions. Leda wants to know if there will be time to complete actual art projects if we are chosen for the show or if everything will have to be done really quickly. Sometimes art takes time, Leda notes. “This process is not for everyone.” TV producer-lady replies. I just sit there and smile like a Buddha, Cheshire cat, idiot.

Next step—we’re directed back to the front of the building where we now line up in the alcove outside of the gallery door. It’s shaded but still hot as hell. More waiting, eventually we are called inside by numbered groups and led one at a time into a small room. There is a table where two young guys, each with a computer monitor, sit. I am directed to a chair before one of them. He pops my disc of painting images into the computer and says, “Oh, wow.” I am encouraged and ask if he wants to see my book, which I have in my lap, and, of course, have been schlepping around all day. I flip through the pages, not even sure if it the damn thing is right side up—but he nods his head as I talk about a few of the paintings. I imagine his eyes glazing over, so I shut up and he says thank you and I get up and Leda comes in and sits down across from the other guy. I go back into the lobby.

She comes out a few minutes later. One of the “handlers” calls her name and a few other names and says, “Come with me.” OK, this is it. She is chosen to continue and I’ll just have to wait for her. But at least she made the cut, it isn’t a total bust. A few minutes later, Leda comes back and says, “I was cut.” We look at each other in astonishment because this outcome is totally unexpected. Now there is really a problem because I’m sure all she wants is to go home and eat and take a cold shower and forget this ever happened. She generously suggests going out for sandwiches for us, as it’s nearly five and we haven’t eaten all day except for a few BBQ Lay’s potato chips and half an energy bar.

In the meantime, I call Chuck again, ‘I’M ALMOST FINISHED CLEANING THE HOUSE, MARG.” “Leda’s been cut and I don’t want her to wait, so can you pick me up if she leaves?” OK, call me when it’s over.” The handler comes over and gives the people left waiting another spiel.

“You are going to be in front of LOS ANGELES ART STARS, but don’t be nervous. Pretend like you’re at a dinner party and be passionate about your work.”

This is where I have to remind you how ignorant I am about reality TV shows and how they work. I’m thinking the next step will be a brief, video interview where at the end, I will be told, “Don’t call us…” and then I’ll never hear from them again. Or, if some miracle occurs, I’ll be notified at a much later date.

I’m waiting in another line where people are called in one by one--more slowly this time. By now I am filthy, sweaty, brain dead. I am sprawled on the floor in the gallery in my space on line. I recognize the guy behind me as the chubby Latino young man who told me earlier he is from West Covina. I ask him, “If you knew ahead of time what this would be like, would you have come?” “Oh, I pretty much knew what it would be like,” he says. He did? Great, how colossal of a moron does that make me? (That’s a rhetorical question, no need to answer.) My a s s i s r e a l l y d r a g g i n g, At the same time—I WAS REALLY WOUND UP.

Another young lady handler takes my book to give to the panel and tells me, 'When it’s your turn, stand on the mark.' They call me by name. I stroll in with my cane and sunglasses and find the big X on the floor. About 20 feet ahead of me is a long table with a few seated people. I really can’t see who they are or how many of them are there. Lights are shining in my eyes. No one says anything. So I just start talking. Passionately—about my work—like at a dinner party.

“Hi, my name…blah, blah, blah…University of the Arts…blah, blah, blah,…inspired by moving to Los Angeles….blah, blah, blah….retinal degenerative disease….blah, blah, blah…changed my painting process….blah, blah, blah….acrylics, bright colors I can see…blah, blah, blah…weavings of words…blah, blah, blah…”

I notice them passing around what I assume is my book. They are muttering to each other but no one addresses me, so I keep talking.

“Urban experience…blah, blah, blah,….graffiti influence ….blah, blah, blah…visual music…blah, blah, blah…layers of information…blah, blah, blah…large scale…blah, blah, blah ”

'Its’ not working for me.'

Did someone say something? Is he talking to me? I stopped talking.
Another male voice, 'Well, yes, we give you a lot of credit for your tenacity, but it’s not evident in your body of work.'
What is he saying? What about my body of work?
A female voice says something like, 'There are some interesting language passages.'

But at this point I am totally tuning them out. It is like a bucket of cold water is dumped on my head. DUH, much to my surprise I am IN the reality show—this is for real and I am being voted off the island! I stand still speechless for a moment. Then I thrust my white cane between my legs with one hand and extend my middle finger with the other.

"HEY ART STARS! I’VE GOT YOUR BODY OF WORK RIGHT HERE! YOU CAN KISS MY TENACIOUS, BLIND ASS!”

I spin on my heels and stomp out of the gallery.
Leda’s waiting in the lobby and we ride home laughing all the way.

I told you this was fiction, so here’s another ending. I am so humiliated, exhausted, and surprised that I really don’t know what I just said. Did I say anything at all? If only I had a snappy comeback--even something lame, but emotionally satisfying. Perhaps I should challenge and engage them in a serious discussion about the shortcomings of my work? Probably I will learn something. But I’m caught totally off-guard and I’m just not that fast on my feet. I’m sure that’s one reason they know I will suck as a contestant on their stupid show. Yeah, yeah, I know--sour grapes. The one strong emotion I have for certain is how happy I am to get the fuck out of here and head for home! I spin on my heels and skip out of the gallery. Leda’s waiting in the lobby and we ride home laughing all the way.

Strange that it is called reality TV. I feel like the whole thing happened in a dream.

Now my computer is acting a little less freaky. Thank God. That really makes me anxious when anything goes wrong with it. I’m trying to download the piano lesson that Eric sent me from his I-Phone so I can download it to my I-Pod (just a Shuffle), but the I-tunes program usually goes awry at some point. I’ve told Martin I need him to live in my closet so I can have access to his tech skills at all times. The dog is barking furiously at the gasman and I’ll have to go out in the heat and tell the guy not to worry. The dog won’t bite. He just barks a lot.

[photo: 'Pool Shark' by Barbara Romain]

Knives by C. Natale Peditto

I remember making a deal with the poet Eric J Priestley about publishing his work in a small press edition and we ended up agreeing after some negotiation in Elysian Park where we had a knife-throwing contest. Rico’s knife kept sticking in the tree and he was his happy kid self. My bone handled double-blade pocketknife that Paul Jondreau gave me kept bouncing off the bark.

I still own though I do not carry a slim Case stainless steel knife that I bought back in the early ‘70s for agricultural work. Its blade is thin and slightly angled when opened. Good for cutting rope like a stevedore’s blade though not as crooked. I used it for opening potato sacks but it was never intended for throwing. It’s more like a straight edge razor and will stick in a target if balanced well in the hand. Though I now find it a little too obvious to heft around in my dress pants pocket.

They say never bring a knife to a gunfight but I got no gat and I like the compact penknife I got from Paul. A little weight along with my pocket change gives me at least something secure to hold onto other than my dick when faced with danger. I’ve always carried a knife for utility and the merest protection ever since I was in the Boy Scouts—mostly as a tool yet definitely as a weapon of last resort. But then I’m so old-school that I once took up fencing as if a duel of rapiers would settle a score. If it comes down to a fight to the death I’m realistic enough to understand my chances of surviving overwhelming force are extremely limited. Especially caught unawares and incautious. The best offense in such situations is a well-developed sense of defense. But if you have to fight for your life you fight to the death.

Rico reminded me that the gangs that cruise L.A. these days don’t face off mano a mano. Not like the old days. They’re cowards he tells me. Today they do drive-bys and it doesn’t matter who is in the line of fire. Bang bang bang it’s automatic you’re dead whoever you are: infant child teenager adult or elder. How do you defend yourself against that kind of random violence?

I’m reminded of the old saw well known among the gangster class: Never sit in a public space with your back to the door. And if they start shooting hit the ground below the line of fire. I’m not sensing that there’s an assassination in the cards for me. Or that I walk the streets in fear of killers. Just to say that in all cases a keen street sense is the best defense. Knife or no knife—or gun for that matter—fear is an open invitation to attack—vulnerability measured by some instinctual calculus by the predator towards the prey.

What little advice I’ve offered you I hope will be of benefit. A forthcoming treatise will concern the handling of hostile literary criticism.

[photo by Elise Rodriguez]