Amy giggled.

Jordan shrugged.  “You can turn anything into art.”

Soon, there was a large crowd of people gathered around the car.  Cameras flashed, people talked excitedly, throwing around phrases like social commentary and melding of reality and art.  A pencil-thin woman wearing glasses emerged from the crowd, ran up the museum steps, stopped, turned, and flashed off several photos of the car and bike.  Then she pulled a steno pad out of her purse and called out, “Who is the artist?  Does anybody know the artist?”

Jordan stepped forward and pointed an accusing finger at Amy.  “She is the artist.”

Amy playfully slugged Jordan’s arm.  Jordan whispered, “Just go along with it.”

The woman hurried over to Amy.  “How wonderful to meet you.  Do you mind giving me an interview?  I write for The Oregonian.  I would love to feature you in our paper as an up-and-coming artist.  What’s your name?”

The crowd of people surrounded Jordan and Amy, cutting off any easy escape route.

Amy eyes widened.  She looked to Jordan for help.   Jordan stepped up to the plate and told the reporter, “Sorry, but she’s quite shy.  You know artists and their peculiarities.  Her name is Amy Stewart.  This installation piece is entitled First Kiss.

“What an unusual title,” the reporter said.  “Is there a meaning behind it?”

Jordan raised an eyebrow at Amy, openly daring her to continue the charade.  Amy accepted the dare and spoke up, “It’s the melding of… it’s about… Well, look it’s a car, right?  A tiny car that is as much like a bike as it is a car.  And you have a bike.  A wounded bike.  Its tires are slashed and it may never… transport… again.  Until it meets the car.  Then through the power of duct tape it is carried by the car.  So, it’s like kindred spirits.  Meeting.”

“Huh,” the reporter said.  She turned and studied the car and bike for a moment.  She popped off another couple of pictures with her camera.  Finally, she said, “I get it.  It’s like they’re kissing, right?”

When she turned back around, Jordan and Amy were kissing.  She got a picture of that, too.


Aunt Jemima

“You look like a sexy Aunt Jemima,” Chad said, standing in Amy’s office doorway.

Amy had been hoping her do-rag would turn him off.  Instead, here he was remarking on it.  Not only remarking on it but flirting with it.  “It’s the new me,” she said.

This morning, Amy had chosen a black do-rag bandana with a yellow day-glow Ms. Pac-Man on it.  She felt it embraced her burgeoning sense of feminism.

“I heard rumors about your new wardrobe.”  Chad came around the desk and peeked under it.  “They are Dr. Who shoes.”

Amy whacked him in the head as she opened the desk drawer.

“Ouch!”  He rubbed his forehead that now had the imprint of a tiny keyhole.  “Is this still about the cheese?”

“Cheese?” Amy said.  She had no idea what he was talking about.

“You know the other night when you were throwing cheese and crackers around.”

“Oh that.  No, I just don’t like you looking under my desk uninvited.”

Amy got up abruptly and he quickly stepped back.  She almost laughed.  He actually looked intimidated by her.  This was new.  Maybe a brand new pair of shoes did improve one’s self esteem.  She might need a few more pairs.  “I have rounds to do,” she said, “I assume you have the same.”

“I’ve been off for an hour.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“I was hoping to see you.”

She crinkled her brow.  Hadn’t she made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want to have anything to do with him?  “Why?”

Chad unrolled The Oregonian newspaper and held it up.  It was folded over to the Art section.  “Can I have your autograph?”

Amy zoomed in on the paper.  There was a photo of Amy’s car with the bike duct taped to the top.  The caption underneath read:  Emerging Artist, Amy Stewart, Exhibits One of the Many Uses of Duct Tape.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Chad said.

“It was a joke,” Amy said.  “It got a little out of hand.”

“I’ll say,” he said.  “You have to make them retract this.  You’re a doctor.  You can’t have things like this tainting your reputation.”

Amy wrinkled her nose at him.  “Are you being serious?”

“You can blame it on that woman.  She made you do it,” Chad went on.

Amy was set to spew bile and hate all over his perfect cleft when her pager went off.  She said huffily, “I gotta go.”  She snatched the newspaper out of his hands and strode out the door with her new tennis shoes squeaking on the linoleum.  As she walked down the hallway, she opened the paper.  She squeaked to a sudden stop.  “Oh my God.”  Below the photo of her car was another photo. This one was of Jordan and Amy kissing.

She had just come out to the entire world.  “What’s my mother going to say?” she said aloud.

Painted Whore

“Irma!” Jordan yelled.  “What the hell?”

Edison laughed.  Irma had sloshed her can of green paint and most of it splattered across Jordan’s face.  Jordan looked like a sad clown at the circus, crying green tears.

“I thought you Slavic people were more methodical than messy,” Jordan said, looking up at Irma who was standing above her on a ladder.  Irma was painting the second story while Jordan and Edison painted the first story.

“We are methodical in techniques of torture and interrogation.  Messy elsewhere,” Irma said.  She was still dressed all in black and her hair was as lacquered and shellacked as an eight ball.  She painted like Jackson Pollack, more dripping and splattering than brushing.

“Well, be careful, would you?” Jordan said grumpily.  “You’re getting more paint on me than on the house.”

Irma held out her can to Jordan.  “Retrieve more paint for Irma.  Irma cannot paint if Irma have no paint. You see dilemma?  Irma have no time for idle chat-chit.”

“You mean chit-chat,” Edison corrected.

“That is what Irma said,” Irma retorted.

Jordan wiped her face, her hands, then her arms and shoulders on a rag.  She handed Irma another gallon of paint and took the empty can from her. “Maybe you could aim it for the house this time.”

“Irma work for free. You pay Irma, you get to be boss of Irma.”

“She has a point,” Edison said.  “Oh my God, here comes the mail.”  Edison put down her brush and hurried around to the front yard, intercepting the mail carrier.  Jordan watched in amazement as Edison smiled and chat-chitted with her.  “Does she have a thing for the mail lady?” Jordan asked Irma.

Irma clucked her tongue.  “Is absurd.  Everyone knows civil servants have no heart.  Edison makes fool of herself every day.   Ask nonsense questions, talk about weather, price of stamps.  Utter foolishness.”

Jordan studied the mail lady.  She was cute and she did have nice legs.  Besides who was Irma to be talking about heart?  The Tin Man had more heart than Irma.

Edison hopped from foot to foot and the mail lady didn’t seem to find it odd.  In fact, she seemed to be flirting back.

Jordan watched Irma watch Edison.  If she didn’t know better she would think Irma was actually jealous.

Several minutes later, Edison came flying back up the path to the house waving a rather elaborate piece of mail.

“What’s that?” Jordan said, setting her brush down.

“It’s addressed to you.  I signed for it,” Edison said.  “Open it up.”

Jordan took the envelope and studied the front and back.

“You think she’s cute?” Edison said, gushing but trying to hide it.  “She has great legs, huh?”

“If you like civil servants,” Irma said, her voice dripping with something that sounded a lot like jealousy.

Jordan opened the envelope and peered inside.  “It looks like an invitation.”

Edison snatched it out of Jordan’s hands and looked it over.  “It is an invitation.  From that new theater down on Hawthorne.  There’s going to be a short play, a comedy act and a poetry reading.”

“They send invitation?  What is so special they send invitation?” Irma said.  She swung her arm in emphasis and nailed Mr. Pip with a glob of paint.  He hissed at her before scurrying away.

“Oh, looky here,” Edison spit.  “Guess who’s doing the poetry reading?”

“Oh, no,” Jordan said.  She only knew one lesbian poet.

“Irma despises rhetorical questions.  They serve no purpose,” Irma said.

Edison glared at her.  “Petronella, that’s who.”  She looked back to Jordan. “We can’t miss this.  We have to go.”

“Why would we want to do that?” Jordan said.

“We could extract revenge for the violation of your bike,” Edison said.  “A dish best served cold and all that.  And I know just how to do it.”

Irma sighed heavily.  “Irma can imagine your plan.  One brain, two lesbians.”  She slapped more paint around.  Jordan and Edison moved back out of splatter range.

“Listen, Jordan.  We take my remote control car and create havoc during the poetry reading.”

“And how are we going to create this havoc?” Jordan said, pouring more paint in a tray.

“I haven’t gotten that far, but you have to agree that my car is on the breaking edge.  We have to test drive it.  Keeping it hush-hush, of course.  If the government finds out about my advanced technology…”

Irma interrupted, “Advanced piece of crap.”

“You missed a spot,” Edison snapped.

Jordan took her tray and brush around to the back of the house.  She was hoping for some quiet time away from the others.  Unfortunately, Edison followed her.

 “What I’m saying is that my car led you to Amy, right? And I think it can rid you of Petronella.  Just think of my newest invention as a good luck talisman.”