More Than a Kiss (10 page)

Painted Whore

“Irma!”
Jordan yelled.  “What the hell?”

Edison
laughed.  Irma had sloshed her can of green paint and most of it splattered
across Jordan’s face.  Jordan looked like a sad clown at the circus, crying
green tears.

“I
thought you Slavic people were more methodical than messy,” Jordan said,
looking up at Irma who was standing above her on a ladder.  Irma was painting
the second story while Jordan and Edison painted the first story.

“We
are methodical in techniques of torture and interrogation.  Messy elsewhere,”
Irma said.  She was still dressed all in black and her hair was as lacquered
and shellacked as an eight ball.  She painted like Jackson Pollack, more
dripping and splattering than brushing.

“Well,
be careful, would you?” Jordan said grumpily.  “You’re getting more paint on me
than on the house.”

Irma
held out her can to Jordan.  “Retrieve more paint for Irma.  Irma cannot paint
if Irma have no paint. You see dilemma?  Irma have no time for idle chat-chit.”

“You
mean chit-chat,” Edison corrected.

“That
is what Irma said,” Irma retorted.

Jordan
wiped her face, her hands, then her arms and shoulders on a rag.  She handed
Irma another gallon of paint and took the empty can from her. “Maybe you could
aim it for the house this time.”

“Irma
work for free. You pay Irma, you get to be boss of Irma.”

“She
has a point,” Edison said.  “Oh my God, here comes the mail.”  Edison put down
her brush and hurried around to the front yard, intercepting the mail carrier. 
Jordan watched in amazement as Edison smiled and chat-chitted with her.  “Does
she have a thing for the mail lady?” Jordan asked Irma.

Irma
clucked her tongue.  “Is absurd.  Everyone knows civil servants have no heart. 
Edison makes fool of herself every day.   Ask nonsense questions, talk about
weather, price of stamps.  Utter foolishness.”

Jordan
studied the mail lady.  She was cute and she did have nice legs.  Besides who
was Irma to be talking about heart?  The Tin Man had more heart than Irma.

Edison
hopped from foot to foot and the mail lady didn’t seem to find it odd.  In
fact, she seemed to be flirting back.

Jordan
watched Irma watch Edison.  If she didn’t know better she would think Irma was
actually jealous.

Several
minutes later, Edison came flying back up the path to the house waving a rather
elaborate piece of mail.

“What’s
that?” Jordan said, setting her brush down.

“
It’s addressed to you.  I signed
for it,” Edison said.  “Open it up.”

Jordan
took the envelope and studied the front and back.

“You
think she’s cute?” Edison said, gushing but trying to hide it.  “She has great
legs, huh?”

“If
you like civil servants,” Irma said, her voice dripping with something that
sounded a lot like jealousy.

Jordan
opened the envelope and peered inside.  “It looks like an invitation.”

Edison
snatched it out of Jordan’s hands and looked it over.  “It
is
an
invitation.  From that new theater down on Hawthorne.  There’s going to be a
short play, a comedy act and a poetry reading.”

“They
send invitation?  What is so special they send invitation?” Irma said.  She
swung her arm in emphasis and nailed Mr. Pip with a glob of paint.  He hissed
at her before scurrying away.

“Oh,
looky here,” Edison spit.  “Guess who’s doing the poetry reading?”

“Oh,
no,” Jordan said.  She only knew one lesbian poet.

“Irma
despises rhetorical questions.  They serve no purpose,” Irma said.

Edison
glared at her.  “Petronella, that’s who.”  She looked back to Jordan. “We can’t
miss this.  We have to go.”

“Why
would we want to do that?” Jordan said.

“We
could extract revenge for the violation of your bike,” Edison said.  “A dish
best served cold and all that.  And I know just how to do it.”

Irma
sighed heavily.  “Irma can imagine your plan.  One brain, two lesbians.”  She
slapped more paint around.  Jordan and Edison moved back out of splatter range.

“Listen,
Jordan.  We take my remote control car and create havoc during the poetry
reading.”

“And
how are we going to create this havoc?” Jordan said, pouring more paint in a
tray.

“I
haven’t gotten that far, but you have to agree that my car is on the breaking
edge.  We have to test drive it.  Keeping it hush-hush, of course.  If the
government finds out about my advanced technology…”

Irma
interrupted, “Advanced piece of crap.”

“You
missed a spot,” Edison snapped.

Jordan
took her tray and brush around to the back of the house.  She was hoping for
some quiet time away from the others.  Unfortunately, Edison followed her.

 “What
I’m saying is that my car led you to Amy, right? And I think it can rid you of
Petronella.  Just think of my newest invention as a good luck talisman.”

Jordan
rolled her eyes.  “I think Petronella will get tired of her little game as soon
as she finds a new girlfriend.  That’s how she works.”

“Rubbish,”
Irma said, joining them in the back of the house.  She wagged her brush at
Jordan.  Jordan dodged the flying paint spatters as Irma said, “Petronella is
gorgeous, sexy, smart woman.  She could have any person she choose.  She choose
to not have girlfriend because she is not done with you.”

Edison
spoke up, “You sound like you have a crush on Petronella.”

Irma
said, “Irma recognize beauty and brains when she see it.”

Edison
made a barfing sound.

“Maybe
I should hook you two up,” Jordan said to Irma.  “You could divert Petronella’s
attention away from me.”

“Yeah,
right,” Edison muttered.  “That would never work.”

“You
are only jealous,” Irma said to Edison.  “You do not want to share your Irma.”

“Your
Irma?”  Jordan couldn’t believe her ears.  “What are you talking about?”

Her
question was met with silence.  Irma and Edison painted furiously, both
concentrating on their brush strokes.

“You
two have slept together!” Jordan accused.

“It
was an accident,” Edison sputtered.  “Completely unplanned.”

“Yes,
a most unfortunate accident,” Irma said, slapping more paint than the brush
could handle on the side of the house, splattering green globs everywhere.

“Unfortunate? 
You didn’t seem to think it was unfortunate at the time,” Edison snapped.

“Irma
was drunk on juice of potato,” Irma said.

“Where
was I?” Jordan said.  “Why didn’t I know about this?”

“You
were on your museum date with Amy,” Edison said.

“Edison
was depressed.  Irma cheered her up,” Irma said.

“How
sweet of you,” Jordan said.

Irma
didn’t hear the sarcasm in Jordan’s voice.  “Irma has hardened shell of a
Soviet, yes, but under the armor Irma has beating heart of black wolf howling
for mate.”

“So
you mated with Edison?”  Jordan was still trying to process this.  She had
always operated under the assumption that they barely tolerated each other –
and now she finds out they slept together.  It was a lot to swallow.

“It
was one time bedding,” Irma said, dismissively.

“Were
you all right…afterwards?” Jordan asked Edison who was avoiding her gaze.

“Well…”
Edison muttered.  She averted her eyes. “My you-know-where was a little
you-know-what.”

“Huh?”

“Please
don’t make me say it again.”

Irma
answered for her, “Edison had smagina. Irma cured her.”

“She
had what?” Jordan asked.

“Smagina,”
Irma said again.  “Is word I create.  Means small vagina.  Two words smoosh
together into one word.  Small vagina.  Smagina.  Is funny, no?”

Nobody
laughed.  They all resumed painting.  In silence.  For a long time.  Finally,
Irma broke the silence.  “Is like cold war.”

Irma
put down her brush and marched over to Edison.  Edison froze.  “You have nice
vagina, Edison.  Irma apologizes for remark.  Is small and cozy vagina.”

“Thanks,
I guess,” Edison muttered.

Irma
continued, “The lining of vagina is stretchable.  It is written that one vagina
can stretch so far as to completely envelope the planet.”

Edison
shuddered.  “Well, if I ever want to hug the world with my vagina, I’ll let you
know.”

“Well,
as touching as this scene is, I need more paint.  I’ll be right back.”  Jordan
walked around the house to the front porch where the rest of the paint was
stored.  She walked up the steps and stopped.

She
screamed.

Painted
on the porch was one giant word:  WHORE.

Someone
had opened one of the many cans of paint stacked on the porch and painted the
word in huge block letters centered directly in front of the door.

Irma
and Edison came running.  They skidded to a stop when they saw the painted
word.

“Well,
I wonder who did this?” Jordan said, pacing back and forth in front of the
word.  She considered herself a pacifist but right now she wanted to strangle
Petronella.

“Perhaps
is joke,” Irma suggested.  “Funny, no?”

“No!”
Jordan and Edison yelled.

“Irma
did not think so,” Irma said.

“Nah,
there’s only one person who despises Jordan enough to do this,” Edison said.

“I’m
going to finish painting,” Jordan said.  She stomped up on the porch and grabbed
the open paint can.  She stalked down the steps and across the front yard.

“Do
you think she’s having a delayed reaction?” Edison asked Irma.

“It
would seem so,” Irma said.

They
both eyed Jordan who was trudging back to the painting site.  Suddenly, Jordan
spun back around and said, “Remember what I said about the poetry reading and
your revenge plan?  Cancel that.  I want to go.”

Edison
gave a little leap. “With my remote control car?”

“Definitely
with the car,” Jordan said.

“Will
you help, too, Irma?” Edison said.

Irma
smiled and rubbed her hands together.  “Of course.  Irma loves lesbian poetry.”

Amy’s Big Coming Out

Amy
was high.  She didn’t know if she was high on love or high on life, but
whatever it was felt delicious.  Jordan had called her last night and asked her
out on another date.  Amy said yes before even asking where they were going. 
Jordan told her they were going to a lesbian poetry reading and she thought it
was going to be quite the spectacle.  Amy didn’t care if she was inviting her
to the dump to shoot BB guns at rats, she would go anywhere with Jordan.

Today
was her day off and she had bounced out of bed and gone shopping.  She bought
47 different pair of panties with matching bras.  That should have been her
first clue that she was in love.  Nothing says “I’m in love” like a woman
buying new underwear.

On
her way back from the mall, Amy slammed on her brakes when she saw a familiar
pair of shoes sticking out of a dumpster.  They were turquoise cowboy boots
with pleather snakeskin uppers.  She would have known those boots anywhere.

Amy
pulled her car up next to the dumpster and honked the horn.  The boots wiggled
but didn’t come out.  Sighing dramatically, Amy got out of her car and
approached the dumpster.

“Mom,
it’s me,” Amy said.  “Your daughter.  Remember me?”

The
boots wiggled in response.

“Can
you please come out of the dumpster for a moment?  I need to tell you
something.”

To
be continued…

Claire’s Story

Long
before she dove
headfirst into dumpsters, Amy’s
mother, Claire, was a sorority girl dating a frat boy at an Ivy League
college.  They fell in love, graduated and married.  Everyone thought them the
perfect couple until Amy’s father, Brent, discovered the two true loves of his
life:  Golf and Philandering.  Amy often wondered if her father had always been
a philanderer.  Did he also cheat on her mother when they were in college?  
She liked to think that he’d been madly in love with her mother once and cared
for her deeply before he turned into the Brent-the Fuck-o-rama Man.

The
part that Amy despised the most was how her mother didn’t do anything about
it.  Claire had to have known she was being cheated on.  If Amy had figured it
out, then surely Claire had.  But instead of leaving him, Claire enabled him. 
She made excuses for him not showing up at Amy’s seventh birthday party.  She
laughed over the telephone with other women and told jokes about being a golf
widow.  Amy swore that she would never be like her mother.

Then
the unthinkable happened.  Brent didn’t come home one day.  A week went by and
Claire received divorce papers.  Amy was helpless to do anything but watch her
mother go off the deep end.  Claire became a hippie artist who dumpster-dived
to gather her art materials. She filled their house to overflowing with smelly
objects rescued from dumpsters.  Amy was embarrassed to bring friends home. 
Then the backyard filled up with junk that was welded together to form totem
poles.  And wind chimes.  And windmills.  And anything else imaginable.

Amy
graduated high school and left home.  She went to med school on her father’s
dime and didn’t feel guilty about it.

She
visited her mother occasionally.  Two or three times a year they would get
together at a local restaurant.  (Amy never went to the junk house.)  Claire
called Amy occasionally and they would chat about Claire’s art.  Claire had
become a locally famous avant-garde bohemian type artist whose art shows
embodied buzzwords like “upcycle,” “recycle,” and “unicycle.”

So
when Amy saw her mother’s trademark turquoise boots sticking out of the
dumpster, she thought it was fate interceding.  Now was the time to tell her
mother she was in love with a woman.  If she couldn’t deal with it, that was
her fault.