in. I too go out of my way. Clean T-shirt. Her hair is dirty
blonde and straight; it stands up on end. Mine is curly and
black; it stands up on end. We both comb our hair with our
fingers. We make it stand up more.
Uptown there is a lawyer who is going to turn us into a
corporation. He is silver from top to bottom. The spittle pours
from the edges of his mouth as he listens to the details of our
film. Of course he will incorporate us for no fee: but, leaning
over, and over, and over, almost stretching the trunk of his
body further than it could possibly go,
come to the Village for a private screening. Village, private
screening. Saliva pours out, a thin, dripping creek.
56
Uptown there is a producer: will he sign N up and make her
a movie star and then we can make our film with that money?
Someone who discovered a famous rock singer sends us to
him. We wait in the chilly waiting room. The sweat and the
dirt that never comes off is pasted on by the cool air of the air
conditioner. The men in suits and the women with lacquered
hair and neat blouses and modest skirts stare. The receptionist
is visibly disturbed. Inside the office is huge. It seems the producer is a quarter mile away. His huge desk is at the end of the huge room. We are told to sit on a sofa near the door. He tells
N she isn’t feminine. I say unisex is in. I say times have
changed. I say people are riveted by the way N looks. The
producer keeps staring at her. He talks and stares. He is hostile.
She mumbles like Marlon Brando. The door opens. His wife, a
famous singer but not a star, comes in. She looks old. She is
dyed blond. Her skirt is short, way above her aging knees. Her
makeup is serious. Each detail is meant to remind one of
youth. Each detail shows how old her face is and how tired
her soul is. The old legs on top of the high heels bounce under
the short skirt as she makes her way across the huge room to
kiss the producer. This is a woman, he says. You see what I
mean, he says, this is a woman. We stare.
Uptown there is an advertising executive: he wants to give
money to bright young men who want to make films. We sit in
his small office. It is chilly. He stares. We discuss the film
scene by scene. He discusses his advertising campaigns scene
by scene. He stares. We ask for money. We leave the script
with him. We are hopeful. N isn’t really. I am. She is right.
The air conditioning always helps.
The offices are strange places.
The people in them seem dead.
It is the straight world of regular USA.
We abhor it.
We go back to our world of slime and sex tired and bored:
to be alive as we understand living.
*
