| They had driven for an hour without a destination. What if never go back? Joe had thought. What if this is the start of a new life? Forget it, he’d told himself. You don’t want a new life. You got a pretty good one. You got a job and a house and a few bucks in the bank. Your new life would end up back in Cleveland, broke – job gone, house empty with a yard full of weeds. And what about mother, eh. In the stories where someone just up and left with some woman (moll, he thought, smiling; dame. Frail. A twist. A skirt) they never had a mom at home waiting for you to come by and help put up the screens. A new life would be a bad idea. A new life got old faster than the one you left. “- so I quit art school,” Jane was saying. “I didn’t want to design clothes for runway shows that no one would ever wear. You know how it is? You sketch out your ideas, give it to the seamstresses, and they turn your ideas into the real thing. As far as I can tell you don’t really have to know how sewing even works. It’s like designing houses by drawing a little picture, you give it to the guys who figure out the pipes and the wires and things, and then they build it, but you get the credit for saying ‘a window should go here,’ and the window is slightly more square than last season’s windows, so you’re a design Einstein. And everyone who lives there says oh this is a Jane Kelly house, like I personally put the carpet down. Forget it. I just figured I’d draw and go into commercial art. And that’s where I am now.” “Where’s that?” “Unemployed. And driving a strange man through the heart of deepest Ohio. You hungry?” They pulled off at the first diner they found. Jane said it was “Hopper without the cheer,” which made him grin. They had hamburgers and coffee. “I’m going to go see if they have some matches,” he said. “Oh I have some.” “I know – I just want to see what they have.” “Oh, so you can sell them a bright new design? You’re not on duty.” “Sometimes I just to see what they have. For the collection.” “You collect them too?” “Well, yeah.” “I suppose. Like an etymologist collects butterflies in his spare time.” “Like that.” They just had hand-outs – Wrigleys, in this case. He took two. “Let me see,” she said. “Oooh. I like that.” “It catches the eye,” he said. “Copy’s a little rough. ‘Millions Do.’ Do what? Aid your teeth? I don’t want millions aiding my teeth. Layout works when you look at it horizontal like this, but most people don’t. They see her head sideways 20 times then throw the book away. Maybe it’s supposed to work off a billboard campaign. I don’t know. The yellow looks like bile. We used to have a dog who threw up that color after he ate a bone.” “On second thought, I don’t like it,” Jane said. She wagged a finger at him. “And not because you said so. I’m not that kind of girl.” “I never thought you were.” “Which is why I let you tag along, of course.” She winked. “No, it’s her eyes. There’s something spooky about them, do you think? It’s like she’s not there. She’s under the sway of some mesmerist or tribal doctor. Or she put on the mascara with a spoon. The more you look at it, the more it makes you uncomfortable.” “So don’t look.” He put it in his pocket. “That’s the secret.” The sun was heading down; red warm light flooded the diner. “Either we have pie and head back,” Jane said, “or we find dessert down the road.” “I say we move on.” “Me too.” She’d scrunched up her shoulders and wrinkled her nose. “Jeez, this is fun.” Tuesday morning Joe opened the window of his office. There were workmen across the street pasting a new billboard on the building down the block. It the Wrigley ad, same as the matchbook. They worked fast. They had most of the face up when he first noticed them. He watched until they put up the eyes; he stared at them for a while, looking for something in the black empty holes. I should be happier, he thought. Why aren’t I happier? “What the hell is she laughing about?” he said aloud. “It sure ain’t gum.” |
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this is a work of fiction c. 2005 j. lileks. / joe home / lileks.com home