Brief Pose by Wesley McCraw
A breeze brushes my face, and I smell the ocean.
I hold my breath and hear my heart beating. Faint, in the distance, I also hear waves rolling onto the shore.
“You about done in there?” Tara says, startling me.
Afraid she’ll somehow see my insanity, I close the door and lean back against it as if demons will burst forth from paradise if I don’t hold them back.
The doorknob is gone. Not just the knob, there’s now no door at all. There was never a door. Of course, there was never a door. Yet, the memory of the hallway leading to the tropical beach is still vivid. Dreams can be vivid. It must have been a daydream. A daydream that felt entirely real.
I snatch the catalog from the bench.
Outside the dressing room, CLARA POWERS, a single mother, prods her teenage SON forward. Clothing overloads her son's arms.
“Try everything on,” she says at the door. “I don’t want to have to come back here because something doesn’t fit.”
“Mom, I got it! Chill!”
They have no idea what I just saw. Without anyone else to see it, I can’t know if it actually happened.
Clara crosses her arms. “You think he’d be more grateful since he’s using my money.” She adds more loudly to make sure her son can hear, “Money I can’t afford.”
I take the number off the doorknob.
She notices that I don’t have any clothes, just the catalog.
“I read it for the articles.”
She looks at me blankly, not seeming to get the joke.
Tara takes my number card. “Enlightened?”
I go with her to the checkout and buy the catalog, all the time desperate to say what I saw. It would sound crazy, so I remain silent and isolated in my own little world. Tara wouldn’t understand. No one would.
CHAPTER SEVEN
B Plot
7.1
I struggle to lock up after work, juggling a bag of leftover baked goods, a Brief Pose bag, and my keys.
I imagined the whole thing in the changing room, obviously. Why had it seemed so real? The simple answer: I’ve gone insane. But going insane means believing the delusion. And I don’t. Not for a second. It seemed real, but it wasn’t real, obviously. I’m not crazy.
“Hey!” Loo smiles at startling me. She wears red sneakers and a bomber jacket with spray paint misted sleeves. “I thought we had to throw everything out.”
“Oh, the pastries,” I say. “Yeah, I guess I'm a criminal.”
“A real psycho killer.”
I hold out the bag. “Wanna murder a pastry?”
“No thanks.”
What does she want?
“I heard BP's stock is going through the roof. Everyone thought BP was on its way out and now--”
I interrupt. “You do realize I'm not an investor?”
She looks at the BP bag with the naked torso on the side. “Could've fooled me.”
We stare at each other for an awkward moment.
Without another word she grabs my arm and pulls.
I don't budge.
“Come on.” She stands at a forty-five-degree angle as she tugs, with no effect. “You trust me, right?”
I don’t trust anyone. But if I had to trust someone, it would be her.
She keeps struggling to get me to move; it’s so pathetic, it’s cute, and I surrender.
She pulls me forward like an overeager child, and we hurry south a few blocks.
Most places are closed for the night, but interesting shops and restaurants line the street on both sides, with surprisingly distinctive architecture. I like places that get more bizarre on closer inspection. On my days off I used to explore the city, always by myself, and I’d take pictures of the little details I thought no one else noticed.
I stop. A sign above a descending staircase demarcates the subway entrance. The plain white text on black. The row of colored circles with black letters inside. It chills my blood.
“What's wrong?”
“Can we take a cab?”
“But it's on the red line...”
I don’t want her to see, but my fear must be apparent.
“We'll walk.”
I follow the huge Cthulhu patch on the back of her bomber jacket.
The streets are mostly empty as we head into the old meatpacking district. I yearn to tell her about my dead foster parents -- because of the subway it's all I can think about -- but it might ruin this moment. Loo and I are together outside of work. I’ve feared this and hoped for this. Maybe she broke up with that guy I saw her with at her show, or maybe they were never really together.
I’m guessing she wants to show me her art. If that’s true, why not just ask me?
Oh, right. Because she’s asked me before and I’ve blown her off.
“There used to be cow tunnels here.”
“What?” I say, thinking I must have heard her wrong.
“Cow tunnels. Tunnels for cows underneath the street. They’d usher the cattle off the boats in the harbor and herd them through these tunnels directly to the slaughterhouses.”
“Cow tunnels.”
“Yep.” She changes the subject. “That night at my show, I was waiting for my mom. She’s an RN. I owe her everything. She raised me by herself.”
This isn’t the direction of The Wharf, not that The Wharf would be open at this time of night. This is an industrial part of the city that’s been gentrified with trendy shops and clubs.
“My mom always puts on a happy face. It drives me crazy.”
We walk away from the light and down a back alley. It’s a little scary, but Loo seems confident enough. “Anyway, I painted this portrait of her sort of like the Virgin Mary. With a crown of thorns. She’s holding this pigeon with a bandaged wing. You know, sort of like she is taking care of the city.”
She unlocks a door into what looks like a warehouse.
“What is this place?”
She doesn’t say. We climb a flight of stairs and walk down a hall of doors. Each door has a number like a hotel, but if it was a hotel, there should’ve been a front desk. Maybe we went through a back entrance.
“The later it got, the more I thought she wasn’t coming. I was really proud of my work, especially that one painting. As I was waiting, and it was getting later and later, I realized all I wanted was to make her proud. I didn’t care what anyone else thought. My mom’s was the only opinion that mattered.”
We stop at one of the doors.
“I had this picture in my head of her coming in and seeing that portrait and crying and hugging me and telling me how proud she was.”
“She didn’t show?”
Loo unlocks the door.
Easels and half-painted canvases, highlighted with spotlights, clutter a dark art studio. Most are Goth art, but there are also a lot of straightforward figure studies and cityscapes.
“No, she came, just like she promised. She hurried over right after her shift at the hospital. She slowly walked around with this look on her face that I have seen a million times before. I should’ve expected it. I’m not sure why I didn’t. Stupid, I guess. It’s this polite smile where you know she doesn’t like what she’s seeing, but she’s trying to be polite, trying not to hurt your feelings. Which was fine. She doesn’t like morbid stuff, I get that, and a lot of the stuff at the show was dark and twisted. So she looks at the portrait that I poured my heart and soul into. I held my breath, afraid that she’d hate it. She looks at it for the same amount of time that she looks at all the other paintings, with that same exact polite smile, and moves on to the next.
“She’s not an art person. I should’ve been happy she was even there. She was tired after her shift, but I suddenly got so angry. I stalked over to the painting, tore it out of the frame, and ripped it in half in front of everyone. I ran out of my triumphant show humiliated, ugly crying, not able to stop.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Mom didn’t do anything bad. She was just trying to be supportive. A
She lifts a sheet to reveal a painting of TWO MEN KISSING. “So, what do ya think?”
Loo watches me as I examine the painting of the two men. I feel a ton of pressure to react well after her story. Nothing about the picture is pornographic or shocking. They are dressed in leather, and their kiss is passionate, but it’s more tender and romantic than provocative.
And then I see the signature. “Unless your pseudonym is Victor, I'm thinking somebody else painted this.”
“He's cool. He's okay with morbid. You can talk about death as much as you want. We share the studio space. He’s a real sweet guy.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded.
“Eric, it’s okay if you’re gay.” The stark shadows on her face enhance her manipulative innocent expression. She wants to pawn me off on one of her friends. “I told him all about you.”
I’m just some problem to solve. I don’t have any words and walk away.
“Just one date.”
I slam the door behind me and stalk down the hall. She has some nerve; I’ll give her that. As if it’s any of her goddamn business who I sleep with.
Both ways down the hall look the same. Which way is the fucking exit? I charge forward having no idea where I’m going.
Besides, I don’t have sex, so how does my orientation even matter?
Eventually, I’m out into the dark alley.
A group of thuggish guys with shaved heads and face tattoos eye me as I pass them. It’s hard to tell if they’re queer or skinheads.
A car alarm goes off in the distance, and I walk with purpose and hope Loo gets home okay.
7.2
Rain pours hard outside my apartment the next day. The world remains dark. A lot more rain has fallen this year than snow, but it’s been miserably cold outside all the same.
I'm busy smoothing out air bubbles when my phone RINGS. I don’t remember the last time I answered my phone. I check messages and text. I never talk.
The phone buzzes from a text message.
I deserve a mental health day from work. They can survive one day without me. I work twice as much as everyone else. Honestly, I’m just avoiding Loo.
I smooth out the last page. That’s two walls: the largest wall for “Back to School” and the wall with the windows to the fire escape for “Paradise.”
I wash wheat paste from my hands in the sink. My jeans and sweatshirt are dusted with flour. Next season I can use the last of the wall space and maybe the doors. After that, I could cover the ceiling.
My intercom BUZZES.
I dry my hands on my BP sweatshirt, push the button, and say into the mike, “Who is it?”
“Donnie Darko. Buzz me in.”
It's Loo. I glance back at the catalog-page-plastered walls, and it dawns on me how obsessive it might look from an outside perspective.
“It's not a good time, Loo.”
“How can you say no to 2001 Gyllenhaal? He's such a hottie. Okay, you called in sick. What's up?”
“I'm fine. I scheduled someone to cover for me. Everything is good.”
“So can I come up?”
I need an excuse. I can't think of anything off the top of my head. “No,” I say.
“If you're depressed, it's okay. You're always depressed. I wouldn't like you happy.”
“I'll see you later, Loo.”
There's silence.
“Loo?”
I guess no answer means she left. Usually, she’s more stubborn, but time is on her side. I have to go back to work eventually.
The text I received earlier is from Loo. “I come in peace. :)”
I’m tempted to text her back but instead, delete the message.
There's a knock on my door.
“Pizza delivery!” It's Loo. She doesn’t give up. “Warm cookies!” She knocks again. “Chinese…” I look through the peephole. A sopping-wet Loo, in a simple black dress, stands at my door. “…hooker,” she finishes.
Her hair is matted against her cheeks, and she moves a tress from her eyes. She has on black lipstick but has forgone her usual dark makeup around the eyes. She looks vulnerable all wet like that without a coat, but if I open the door, give her a towel, she’d see the walls covered in catalog pages.
“Eric, I know you're in there!”
She pounds again.
A garment box is in the crook of her arm.
She sighs, giving up. I’m simultaneously relieved and ashamed.
She kisses her hand and places it on the peephole.
I put my hand to the peephole too, touched by her gesture.
I open the door enough to look out into the hall.
She rushes back, delighted. “I knew you couldn’t resist a hooker.”
I roll my eyes, and she laughs at my irritation. “You’re soaked,” I say.
“Are you gay or not?”
I can’t believe her! “You don't give up, do you?”
“No… Well?”
I lean forward on the door frame. We’re almost close enough to kiss. “I find women attractive.”
“And men?”
I don't say anything as she stares at me. She smells of lavender and rain.
“You want Victor's number or not?”
I pull back. God dammit! “You're impossible.” Can’t she see I have feelings for her?
“I'm impossible?! Why didn't you say something when I was seeing that girl?”
“It's no big deal if a girl's bisexual.”
“I'm going to ignore that. Now Victor's a really nice guy and—”
“I don't want to go out with Victor!”
“You don't even know Victor. Okay, fine, what do you want then?”
I stare at her. My heart is practically beating out of my chest. I’ve had feelings for her this whole goddamn time. She has to know.
“What?” she says.
I'm deflated. She must not think of me like that. Why else would she not realize how I feel about her?
“Friends, I guess. I guess I want friends.”
“You said friends are like cancer.”
“So?”
“I've been trying to be your friend for like two years.”
I don’t want friends! And yet I do. Of course I do. I’m not stupid. I’m not the one person in the world that doesn’t need human connection. So why is it so scary? Why is it so hard to admit?
“You wouldn't understand,” I say, tempted to shut the door. “I'm messed up, okay? I'm fucked up.”
She presses forward. “So you're insecure about your sexuality. Big whoop. Can I come in?”
I hold the door firm. “It's not about sex. It's about people. I pride myself in not needing anyone. It’s just who I am.”
“You can talk to Victor. It doesn't have to be a date. You can trust him. He's been through a lot too.”
“You don't know anything about me.”
“And whose fault is that?”
It’s my fault. Everything is always my fault. “You should go.”
“You should let me in.”
“What if Victor doesn't like me?”
“You'll die a horrible death.”
“What if I don't like him?”
“Horrible death.”
I picture Loo getting hit by a car. Blood streams down her face. She’s being sarcastic, obviously. No one is gonna die if I have coffee with some guy. But that’s not how it feels. People in my life die or reject me.
“You really are scared. Not just about Victor, about getting close to anyone.”
I open the door a little more. I’m on the edge of tears.
She puts her hand on my chest, and I still picture her dead. I want to jump off a tall building. Tall buildings are nice. I like tall buildings. Tall buildings are my friend.
“What happened to you?”
“Fine, I'll do it.” Is she happy now? Can I be alone? Please go. Please.
“You'll call him?”
“Yes. Now goodbye! I have s
I close the door in her face. It doesn’t quite close, and so I slam myself against the door so I can turn the deadbolt. She must think I’m a freak. I'm disturbed. Something is seriously wrong with me. What a disaster.
But I opened myself up to Loo and didn’t die. Everything is fine. I agreed to go on a blind date. I almost had an anxiety attack talking with Loo, a girl I work with nearly every day, and now I’m going on a blind date. Everything is not fine.
I’m going to have a heart attack.
CUT TO BLACK.
7.3
INT. SUBWAY TUNNEL - NIGHT
FADE IN:
A steel ladder juts from a dark hole in the curved brick ceiling. I struggle on the bottom rung, fifteen feet above the tracks. The rectangular metal grate of the rung digs into my fingers as I hold on for dear life.
I pedal my feet, trying to pull myself up.
My biceps swell and ache. I climb up one rung, but my arms are too weak to pull me up any further. I rest my face against the cold bottom bar and grow weaker by the second. An approaching subway train RUMBLES.
“Mindy! Shirin! Help me!”
I can only hold on for so long.
Distinct thuds vibrate through my hands; someone is climbing down the ladder through the dark hole above me.
Dirty Santa emerges headfirst out of the opening like an insect emerging from its burrow. His arms and legs are bowed out. His stained cap points down, coned like a red dunce hat.
Headlights blind me as the RUMBLE rises. The ladder vibrates violently in my hands.
I look up, squinting from the light. Dirty Santa’s head turns at an unnatural angle, and he smiles a terrifying rotted grin.
I SCREAM as I lose my grip to the sound of a blaring CAR HORN.
CUT TO BLACK.
7.4
In the darkness, the sound of STREET TRAFFIC fills me with panic. Each passing vehicle sounds like it could run over my head.
“Call an ambulance!” I hear Tara yell. “She's been hit!”
An ALARM wakes me from my nightmare, pulling me from the darkness into the light.
7.5
INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT
I take a moment to catch my breath while the alarm keeps sounding.
I hit the snooze and turn over and curl up on my side. It’s not really light here in my room, the sun hasn’t come up yet, but it’s nothing like the inky darkness of the dream. Despite my distress, the dream reality quickly fades. Only Santa’s rotten grin lingers.