Post by tjaman on Aug 9, 2004 18:22:42 GMT -5
Here's a few pages I wrote in Jan's voice.
As Paul and I arrived, the apartment was as I’d left it. A small pile of dishes took over the sink in the compact kitchen area nestled against the entryway. Whoever designed this place was either a sadist or a neat-freak. The first impression anyone got of your place was dependent upon whether you’d gotten up early enough to do your dishes.
I led him quickly into the front room, where his light jacket ended up on the couch under the large, grotesque scene inspired by my rather soul-wrenching junior prom. The melting bodies and horrified faces surrounding an equally horrified prom queen in a flaming dress evoked the madhouse anger of "Carrie," a catharsis for me and a state art award from the governor, though I remember it was the one winner he did not request be hung in the Mansion that year.
“Nice place,” Paul said, plunking himself easily into the papa-san wicker chair and displacing Muffin, my ginger tabby, who grumbled a bit and settled into the crook of his arm. “Did you do the ... ?”
“That’s one of mine, yes.” I said, nodding acknowledgement to the one piece he could be referring to. My second-grade still-life attempt on the opposite wall had yet to be noticed. “Bitch Night,” as they say, commanded the room.
“Great texture, intricate colors — very subtle blue along that jawbone.” He crossed his legs. “Excellent composition.” He sipped the cabernet rouge I’d poured for him. “Mind talking about the subject matter?”
I switched on the Fiona Apple CD I’d cried myself to sleep with last Friday night. I caught my breath, took a sip, managed a smile and turned to him. “Too soon.” I said, noticing in an instant and for the first time how much the little blonde threatened eternally by a falling rafter resembled Debbie. My smile deepened. “So, Man of God. What brings you to Denver?”
“Most immediately, American Airlines.” Courtesy laugh. “As for the man of God stuff, I’m as committed as anyone in their first month of studies.”
I nudged his jacket to the side and sat next to it. “The gilded cage too cagelike?”
He choked a bit, and Muffin groused, repositioning herself. “I’m sorry?”
“Well, from what you said at the Bounce, it sounded like you were running away from something, rather than running to it.”
“Oh, Karen,” he said. “Truth be told, I’ve been running from Ninevah for a while.”
My turn to look askance. “Ninevah?”
“Jonah,” he said. “God ordered Jonah to prophesy and save the people of Ninevah. He ran screaming in the other direction, and God had to send a whale ...”
Of course. “To turn him back around.”
“Exactly,” he said.
“I thought that was just a story,” I said, half remembering Sunday school teachers and little felt cutouts. “I mean, no one could live in a whale for three days. Or one day. Even an hour.”
“Well, faith stories — hey, I love this one.” The fringe on Paul’s loafer kept time with one of Fiona’s top-40s. He caught a groove for a moment, letting his hair fall in his eyes. I fought an urge to grab a sketch pad. He was wearing that shirt the way it was meant to be worn — casual, but with very nice lines, the tie running slightly off-center, my Muffin snuggled in cozily ...
My trance was interrupted. “Lunch was a little rushed,” he said, stirring. “You wanna rent a pizza?”
“Rent a pizza?” I laughed. “What about when they want it back?”
“Sorry — drunken college memory. Someone wanted to order a pizza and rent a movie, and they got it mixed up.”
Too cute. “Sure, the number’s by the phone.”
Muffin came to the floor in an irritated bump. I picked her up as Paul crossed to the phone. The longer rays of the late afternoon sun played mischievously through my aquarium and danced merrily beneath an ass that witnessed to the wonders of God’s creation. Or tailoring. Or both. I took another sip of wine as he ordered.
“It’s not really a pizza if there’s pineapple on it,” I protested.
“Well, we’re both out, then,” he said, replacing the phone. “It’s not really a Hawaiian pizza without barbecue sauce.”
“Oh, that’d be perfect!” I said. “I think there’s a little left in the fridge.”
“Then I’m one up, so it’s my treat.”
“What a terrible hostess that makes me out to be.”
“Nonsense,” he drained his glass. “The wine is excellent. And your ‘etchings’ to the side for one moment” — he crossed to sit at the other end of the couch — “the beauty in this apartment is completely overwhelming.”
Heart flutter. Muffin got a second bump to the floor as I stood up. Quickly. Okay, abruptly. I stepped across to the still-life as she languidly returned to the papa-san. “This, ah, here, was one of my earlier pieces.”
“Nice technique,” Paul said, joining me in front of my juvenalia, an assortment of two pears, an apple, an orange and a bunch of bananas in a green bowl. “Great eye for light and line.”
“It hung in the school library all the time I was at Jefferson. The new building. In fact, the texturing in the table,” I pointed to the long, skittering lines, “was from a brick chip from old Jefferson I found in the school playground. So it tied the old and new together in a way my teacher said was really interesting — once she got over my painting with a brick chip.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, I did this in second grade.”
He turned to look at me, eyes wider. “Very promising stuff.” He touched my signature. “Janis Kamrud.”
I blushed, removing my sweater. Impossible to gauge thermostats in September. “It’s ... a little warm in here, I think.”
He relaxed his shoulders. “I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I?”
I drained my glass. “Let’s just say I’m not doing too good with ... compliments these days.”
His hand on my shoulder was electric. We moved back to the couch. He sat. I didn’t.
As Paul and I arrived, the apartment was as I’d left it. A small pile of dishes took over the sink in the compact kitchen area nestled against the entryway. Whoever designed this place was either a sadist or a neat-freak. The first impression anyone got of your place was dependent upon whether you’d gotten up early enough to do your dishes.
I led him quickly into the front room, where his light jacket ended up on the couch under the large, grotesque scene inspired by my rather soul-wrenching junior prom. The melting bodies and horrified faces surrounding an equally horrified prom queen in a flaming dress evoked the madhouse anger of "Carrie," a catharsis for me and a state art award from the governor, though I remember it was the one winner he did not request be hung in the Mansion that year.
“Nice place,” Paul said, plunking himself easily into the papa-san wicker chair and displacing Muffin, my ginger tabby, who grumbled a bit and settled into the crook of his arm. “Did you do the ... ?”
“That’s one of mine, yes.” I said, nodding acknowledgement to the one piece he could be referring to. My second-grade still-life attempt on the opposite wall had yet to be noticed. “Bitch Night,” as they say, commanded the room.
“Great texture, intricate colors — very subtle blue along that jawbone.” He crossed his legs. “Excellent composition.” He sipped the cabernet rouge I’d poured for him. “Mind talking about the subject matter?”
I switched on the Fiona Apple CD I’d cried myself to sleep with last Friday night. I caught my breath, took a sip, managed a smile and turned to him. “Too soon.” I said, noticing in an instant and for the first time how much the little blonde threatened eternally by a falling rafter resembled Debbie. My smile deepened. “So, Man of God. What brings you to Denver?”
“Most immediately, American Airlines.” Courtesy laugh. “As for the man of God stuff, I’m as committed as anyone in their first month of studies.”
I nudged his jacket to the side and sat next to it. “The gilded cage too cagelike?”
He choked a bit, and Muffin groused, repositioning herself. “I’m sorry?”
“Well, from what you said at the Bounce, it sounded like you were running away from something, rather than running to it.”
“Oh, Karen,” he said. “Truth be told, I’ve been running from Ninevah for a while.”
My turn to look askance. “Ninevah?”
“Jonah,” he said. “God ordered Jonah to prophesy and save the people of Ninevah. He ran screaming in the other direction, and God had to send a whale ...”
Of course. “To turn him back around.”
“Exactly,” he said.
“I thought that was just a story,” I said, half remembering Sunday school teachers and little felt cutouts. “I mean, no one could live in a whale for three days. Or one day. Even an hour.”
“Well, faith stories — hey, I love this one.” The fringe on Paul’s loafer kept time with one of Fiona’s top-40s. He caught a groove for a moment, letting his hair fall in his eyes. I fought an urge to grab a sketch pad. He was wearing that shirt the way it was meant to be worn — casual, but with very nice lines, the tie running slightly off-center, my Muffin snuggled in cozily ...
My trance was interrupted. “Lunch was a little rushed,” he said, stirring. “You wanna rent a pizza?”
“Rent a pizza?” I laughed. “What about when they want it back?”
“Sorry — drunken college memory. Someone wanted to order a pizza and rent a movie, and they got it mixed up.”
Too cute. “Sure, the number’s by the phone.”
Muffin came to the floor in an irritated bump. I picked her up as Paul crossed to the phone. The longer rays of the late afternoon sun played mischievously through my aquarium and danced merrily beneath an ass that witnessed to the wonders of God’s creation. Or tailoring. Or both. I took another sip of wine as he ordered.
“It’s not really a pizza if there’s pineapple on it,” I protested.
“Well, we’re both out, then,” he said, replacing the phone. “It’s not really a Hawaiian pizza without barbecue sauce.”
“Oh, that’d be perfect!” I said. “I think there’s a little left in the fridge.”
“Then I’m one up, so it’s my treat.”
“What a terrible hostess that makes me out to be.”
“Nonsense,” he drained his glass. “The wine is excellent. And your ‘etchings’ to the side for one moment” — he crossed to sit at the other end of the couch — “the beauty in this apartment is completely overwhelming.”
Heart flutter. Muffin got a second bump to the floor as I stood up. Quickly. Okay, abruptly. I stepped across to the still-life as she languidly returned to the papa-san. “This, ah, here, was one of my earlier pieces.”
“Nice technique,” Paul said, joining me in front of my juvenalia, an assortment of two pears, an apple, an orange and a bunch of bananas in a green bowl. “Great eye for light and line.”
“It hung in the school library all the time I was at Jefferson. The new building. In fact, the texturing in the table,” I pointed to the long, skittering lines, “was from a brick chip from old Jefferson I found in the school playground. So it tied the old and new together in a way my teacher said was really interesting — once she got over my painting with a brick chip.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, I did this in second grade.”
He turned to look at me, eyes wider. “Very promising stuff.” He touched my signature. “Janis Kamrud.”
I blushed, removing my sweater. Impossible to gauge thermostats in September. “It’s ... a little warm in here, I think.”
He relaxed his shoulders. “I’m not making you uncomfortable, am I?”
I drained my glass. “Let’s just say I’m not doing too good with ... compliments these days.”
His hand on my shoulder was electric. We moved back to the couch. He sat. I didn’t.