| She woke up when the movie ended and the lights came up. “Happy ending?” she said, stretching. “The crazy boyfriend shot the architect,” Joe said, standing. He shook on his coat. “Happy if you were the guy’s competition, I suppose.” “I need some coffee,” she yawned. “Or maybe we should just call it a night. Oh – gosh, right.” “I can drive.” They stood outside the theater and lit up. Joe looked at the matches. “Your alma mater?” he said. “What? – oh, those. The Art Institute of Minneapolis. I went to the Institute of Art. The Art Institute was our bitter rival. We beat them every year in football,” she yawned. "Jeez, I'm beat." “She looks like you.” “She probably is me,” Jane said. They walked back to the car in silence. He suddenly felt exhausted; the day seemed to have lasted forever, and the morning seemed like a week ago. “You okay?” she finally said. “You’re all clammed up.” “Aw, I’m just tired. I’m not sure I trust myself to drive. It hit me a few minutes ago.” “Well, let’s get a room.” He felt a twinge in his gut. “Really,” she said. “You take the floor. Or you take the bed and I’ll take the tub. Anyplace horizontal; I just don’t feel like sitting in a car seat curled up like a shrimp. How about that place where you got the paper? It seemed nice enough.” “Sounds good. And I’ll take the tub.” He parked the car and got his grip out of the back. He’d brought it down to the coffee shop at noon, intending to head home afterwards; didn’t think it would be masquerading as luggage. “I’ll check in, head up to the room," Joe said. "Give me five minutes then I’ll meet you at the bar.” “I’ll bring the secret rocket plans in my brassiere,” she said. The desk clerk looked over the counter at Joe’s bag. “Do you have a commercial rate?” Joe asked. “Yes sir we do. If you’ll sign here – thank you. You’re on the fourth floor. The elevators are through the lobby to the left. If you need anything –“ “You’ll be the first one I call, thanks.” Joe walked across the lobby, feeling dangerous. This was the sort of thing men of the world did. Strange town, dangerous woman. Okay, Columbus, and a sleepy girl who was probably snoring in the front seat. He pushed the elevator button and heard the car rumble down. For a moment he wondered what he’d say if Seamus was sitting behind the controls. He pictured them riding slowly up to the fourth floor. See you Monday, he’d say. Seamus would nod. What if it was someone else? Someone who knew him? Some old friend of the family who’d give him a look of surprise and confusion. The priest from the church who’d come to give last rites to a parishioner on vacation – I’ll tell your mother hello, Joe. I don’t stay in these sinful places myself. Ding! Empty. The room was nice. He pulled back the curtains, examined the view: eh. Columbus. He took a leak, smelled the soap, splashed his face and had a drink of water. The towels were thick. He looked at the shower and thought of Jane standing there tomorrow morning, and the image made him rearrange his drawers. Down the hall. Ding! One guy in the car. White moustache, cloudy blue eyes, yellow tie, crimson nose. When they got down to the first floor Joe followed him, figuring he’d head to the bar. Jane waved from the end, by the rails. She was talking to the bartender. He threw his head back and laughed. “It’s true,” Jane said. “Oh, sister.” The bartender shook his head and grinned at Joe. “What’ll it be? We’re closing in ten.” “Bourbon.” Jane smiled. “This is a nice joint.” Joint. Grift. He wished some words didn't come so easily to her. “Yeah. The room’s okay.” “Shh. Fred will think we’re up to something.” “Fred.” “He’s okay.” She finished her drink and waggled the glass at the bartender. “Well, this has been an adventure, hasn’t it?” “Sure.” He took out his smokes and lit one. He placed the matchbook on the bar. “You serious about this being you?” “That’s me,” she sighed. “Pixie. Art Institute of Minneapolis. The Paris on the Mississippi.” She lit her own. “It’s a mail-order school, as I’m sure you know, these things are everywhere. But. They have classes too. I ended up in Minneapolis a few years ago, and I was waitressing, downtown? One day I noticed that the address on these matches was just a few blocks from where I caught the bus. So I went down to see if I could enroll, take a class or two. They didn’t say no. You could draw an X on a rock with some coal and they’d take you, I think. Anyway I didn’t have enough money to take the classes, but – Fred! Service, Senor! – “ she looked back at Joe, smiling. She was a little drunk, he thought. “But, if you modeled you could get a discount. So I did.” She tapped the matchbook. “I had to wear a towel. I guess there’s some law. The school was right across from a newspaper, this big stern Daily Planet building, and I used to sit there every afternoon holding a towel to my sinful self, wondering if all the wolves at the paper were staring out the window and taking pictures. I couldn’t believe it when I saw these matches. I never got a dime outta that. But! I’m famous.” Fred set down another drink. Jane cocked her head and peered at Joe. “You ever try to draw me?” He shook his head. “It’s my job, not my hobby.” “A friend of mine’s still at the school and he tells me they’re going to replace me and you know why? No one does a good job. Not that it matters but even the marks know they’ve done a bad job.” Joint. Grift. Marks. “Lincoln they could draw. The turtle they could draw. The pirate they could draw. But they can’t get me right.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “What’s so hard about me?” “Last call,” said the bartender. “Can I take it up to my room?” Joe asked. “Sure,” he said. He wandered down to the end of the bar. “How’s the tub look?” Jane asked. “I could sleep anywhere.” “You take the bed. I’ll take the chair.” They rode up to the room in silence, holding their glasses. She held his bourbon while he fished out the key. Inside the room she shut the bathroom door; he heard the water run in the sink for a few minutes. He sat in the chair and finished his drink. It was a soft chair. It was good bourbon. All things considered, not the worst Friday he’d had. She came out of the bathroom and turned off the light. Joe stood up. “Thanks for all this,” she said. She took his hand. “It’s an adventure.” “I mean thanks for being decent.” “I don’t know what you mean.” She squeezed his hand. “I don’t do this sort of thing. I feel safe with you.” “Then I’m doing something wrong.” “Oh, Joe.” And she kissed him. It was a good kiss. She put a hand on his chest and gently pushed him back into his chair. “Good night,” she said. “Dream about me, will you?” “Not tough,” he said. “I’ve been practicing.” He heard her laugh; he heard her shoes hit the floor. Bedsprings. A sigh. Silence. He sat in the chair and listened to her sleep. It was two AM when he finally stood, and left. |
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this is a work of fiction c. 2005 j. lileks. / joe home / lileks.com home