By Darren Kaminsky
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Darren Kaminsky's novel, Sugar Spun Sisters, appears in serialized form every Monday right here on Me Three. The story follows the lives of five twenty-somethings living in Washington D.C. As far as the editors are currently aware, none of these characters work in politics.
Chapter Forty-Six
October 31
A meeting was called at the Embassy for Space. Representatives in attendance would be from the United Council of Kabbalists and the Union of Allegorical Detectives. The society for forgotten manuscripts and the Chief Librarian of all non-fact that was currently in hardback. “Non-fact is NOT fiction,” the chief libarian was quoted as saying. “And that’s what this is about, Space. Space will be saved if we can protect it using a buffer of non-fact.”
The meeting convened with an emotional reading of some of Madame Frankenstein’s love letters to her genius husband. Some of the delegates wept.
The chairman ex officio of the group was a cigar wielding giant golden lizard. The lizard gaveled his desk with increasing force. The desk started to whimper and squeal, then to ask for mercy. It had no mouth but it was asking for mercy. I heard it.
The example of the grovelling desk, yelping for mercy, in turn, caused the combined delegates to grow silent and await the great proceedings. Flags were marched in. All of them...blank.
I woke with a start...late...as usual. It was almost nine. I would surely be in some well-earned trouble.
Sunday night, I had gotten back from visiting Dani again. At first the weekend had begun badly. I’d gotten there on Friday and she was impatient, barely even talking to me. As we’d gone out to eat that night, I’d tried making conversation and was talking about things we’d do when I moved up to NYC. She just listened and after a while, looked up and snapped. “Could you stop talking about moving up already? Either do it or don’t do it, but stop talking about it.” Ouch.
She knew it had hurt, and after that she’d warmed up. There’s more than one double-standard at work between us. I’m not allowed to talk about moving to NYC, but she’s allowed to talk constantly about how little money she has.
And it had passed in a flash and now I was here again. Back.
Yesterday, I’d received a phone call from The City Press to photo the Annual Halloween Drag Race on 17th Street. Thankfully, they just want photos. No need to be attached to a journalist. There shouldn’t be any experiences like last time. At least I have to hope not.
I got out of work at about 5:30pm and rode my bike back home quickly. I had called Bella. Some of her friends were in the drag race or were going to be forming “pit crews’ to support friends in the race. I was going to meet her and her little gang at The Fox and Hound somewhere around 7pm and then stay for the race.
I’d been trying to look better at work lately; I was Gapped out---button down shirt and khaki pants--so I put on a PIL t-shirt circa 1989 and some blue jeans and grabbed my camera bag. I wanted to ride my bike down, but decided that it was better to take the bus. One less thing to keep track of in any potential chaos. Plus, it probably be tough to find something to lock the bike to.
Down on 17th, things were starting to get started. The police had closed off a portion of the street and there were banners being hung between streetlight posts.
None of the racers were visible, but there were plenty of race organizers wearing cowboy hats or wigs and standing around with bullhorns in one hand and their other hand on their hip directing the placement of roadblocks and etc.
I found Bella and a few of her crowd with a table right at the edge of the outdoor space, prime real estate. There was already a collection of empty glasses. I was introduced to an Albert and waved to a Dave, who I already knew. There was a Sheeby who had been named Gayle when Bel had first known her. (First, she’d changed her name to Sheeba and that had become Sheeby.)
Sheeby, a member of ‘3 Black Artist Attack,’ a group of three dancers (they called themselves performance artists...I wasn’t always clear on the difference) with shaved heads who went around together trying to attract attention. The other two were exceptionally gentle and delicate looking and not likely to attack anyone in the literal sense.
Sheeby was complaining because her two partners-in-crime, Greg and Raymond, were allowed to participate tonight, but she wasn’t.
‘How would they ever know?’ I asked while indicating to the waitress that I wanted a vodka tonic (’indicating’ consisted of me nodding, pointing at Bel’s vodka tonic then giving a thumbs up).
"They wouldn’t if they didn’t already know me. That’s the thing. Tons of women are going to sneak in. I’m sure of it. It’s not fair,“ she said. ”Just because they know me, I don’t get to participate?“
I drank slowly and mixed my tonic water in slowly, adjusting to the slow burn of the vodka, which, quality-wise, was much closer to propane than actual vodka. But who’s complaining?
I knew that I already missing crucial photos, but I hadn’t seen Bel in a while. There were plenty of questions that I surmised were designed to tell the current status between Dani and I.
Then she changed vocal tones, "I have to talk to you about something serious."
I was annoyed that we’d suddenly changed directions when I had already dawdled too long. Couldn’t we have gotten serious and changed directions a half hour ago? But this is just like Bella. We talk pleasantries and make nice conversation and whatever it is that’s important for us to say gets left until the last possible moment to say it. I understand. I feel the same sort of anxiety. The almost physical exertion it takes to open the mouth and say whatever that uncomfortable thing is. I wonder what it is? Is she going to tell me that she still loves me? Or that she’s in love with someone else? That she’s going to get married or already is married? Maybe she’s been married, has a kid, and a Caribbean island.
"I think Imogen is in trouble," she said and turned away from me.
I didn’t quite expect this. I thought that this would be about her? Or me? Or me and her?
"You know that Imogen and her father don’t get along and that no matter how much money he has, he wants her to, you know, get a job and a career..."
Her face crunched up when she said, "job and career." That expression is not precisely disgust. More like ‘mystery.’ Like she’s saying that Imogen’s father wants her to adopt the religion of the Aztecs.
She continues: "...when he found out that she’d put up your bail, he really lost it. Yelled at her. Cut her off. She wasn’t getting any money. So she’s been sleeping on my sofa for the last month."
(In other words, whatever comes next is my fault.)
"Anyway, she got a job at a coffee shop and has been trying to save money, but the girl’s used to spending $1000 a week on clothes. Minimum."
"Yeah, that’s me too," I said doing my best to be deadpan. I looked down to silently inspect the eight separate small holes in my t-shirt. "...at least $1000/ a month."
"Maybe a 1,000 pennies,“ Bel said with a big smile then her face got serious again. "OK, so Imogen’s father calls again a week ago and says that all would be forgiven if she goes to this Congressman’s cocktail party. He’d seen Imogen at some function a while ago and was into her and now Imo’s father needs him to pass a bill for him or something.“
"Yuck, that’s like prostitution," I said.
"Her father didn’t say that she had to sleep with the congressman."
"Yeah, but it’s implied. She’s supposed to make this congressman happy. How do you do that without...you know."
"Well, it doesn’t have to be sex. It can be just be leading him on. Flirting."
"Dangerous."
"He’s a Congressman, not a serial killer."
"There’s a difference in how they act, but there’s probably a similarity in their psychology. Congressmen and serial killers both believe that the laws of the world don’t apply to them, that they’re above them, set apart by their specialness."
I looked over. The crowd was growing dense. The racers had arrived. I could see their wigs and head pieces bobbing over the crowd.
"Hey Bel," I said. "Do you mind if I dive in and take the photos?"
"Oh, yeah. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?"
I realized that I was supposed to answer that in some way, but the crowd was roaring and I wasn’t seeing what they were roaring for. "I’ll be back," I screamed, trying to roar above the roar.
I started pushing my way through, diving under legs and pushing right through some people who were holding hands. I was so panicked at the idea of missing the race that it didn’t matter.
I got to the edge. There was a wall of police and race organizers between me and the street. I showed the pass that The City Press had provided. The guy I showed it to just stared at it. “Can I go through?” I asked. He didn’t answer so I moved along that line, pushing more people out of my way, showing it to everyone of them until someone felt sorry for me and let me through. I crouched just beyond the line and starting taking photos.
The racers were large women with muscular arms, heavy make-up, some with powder white faces and Marie Antoinette wigs. Others with sequined ball gowns. A group of mermaids wearing fake breasts made of plastic and glittering green skirts shaped like fish tails, split just enough at the bottom for them to walk, looked especially aggressive. They were screaming at the crowd. I didn’t see how they’d run, but race times would be secondary to considerations of costume. Someone shot a flare gun. I crouched lower. It was race time...
Darren Kaminsky is a writer living in Brooklyn. He can be contacted at sugarspun @ bigbagoftricks dot com.
© 2006 Me Three
