C Reiss - Spin

I picked up a porcelain swan by the neck. I knew what I was going to do before I did, and once decided, the tension released.

I smacked it against the edge of the table. It bounced. I smacked it harder. The body broke off, clacking to the ground, and I was left holding the tiny head. In seconds, the tension came back. It was only relieved when I looked at all of my swans and stopped caring whether they ever went back into the cabinet.

I didn’t feel rage when I smashed the swans. I must have looked angry and emotional, but I wasn’t. I was dead, empty, frozen, doing a job I’d contracted myself to do. I bashed them against the marble countertop, leaving millions of plaster, porcelain, and glass shards everywhere.

It took about seven minutes to destroy years’ worth of swans and a few dishes. I stood over the puddle of sharp dust and said what I’d been too upset to consider.

“I want you.”

I pushed a china blue swan wing to the right. It had separated from the rest of the swan but hadn’t broken completely. Not nearly enough.

“I want you, you criminal punk.”

I picked up my foot and smashed the wing under my heel.

“And I’m going to have you.”

 I paid my cleaning lady extra to make sense of the mess, sweep up the porcelain swan guts, and put everything back. I dressed for work before I called Antonio. No answer.

I texted.

—Call me, please. I want to discuss something with you—

I read it over. It seemed very businesslike. I was a well-mannered person, but that didn’t mean I had to evade everything, did it?

—Specifically, your cock—

I smiled. That should do it.

I practically jumped out of bed the next morning. I layered slacks and a tight button-down shirt over a satin demi and lace panties. Rippable lace, because I was going to find that fucker and tell him what I thought, what I wanted, and how I wanted it. He would learn to trust me if I had to give him a signed affidavit and a blood sample.

I heard Katrina downstairs just as I was deciding to leave my hair down. No, I didn’t hear Katrina—I heard a dish clatter along the concrete floor as if it had been kicked.

“Sorry!” I called as I ran down.

She blew on a dish and returned it to the pile. “What the fuck?” She pointed to my broken swans.

“You don’t like the mess? I spent eight minutes making it.”

She waved and pulled the coffee down then dropped it. “I don’t care about the mess. It’s you breaking things. You’re Tee Dray. You don’t break things.”

As she scooped the coffee, I saw her hand shaking.

“Directrix,” I said, “have some chamomile, please. You’re jacked up.”

“We’re almost done. I’m excited. You coming to the wrap party?”

“I’m springing for an open bar.”

Katrina flicked on the TV. The talking heads talked, and the news ticker ticked.

“You should bring the hot Italian,” she said, reminding me of my text.

I checked my pocket. No response. “I might. The last time I saw him, it was weird.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You’re busy.”

“So what happened?”

My lips stayed closed. I focused on the way they touched, because I had to shut up. It was just that kind of casual sharing and speculation that worried Antonio, and with good reason. I wanted to earn his trust behind his back.

“I think it’s over,” I said to deflect further questioning.

“Probably for the best. You know southern Europeans. They have a Madonna-whore complex. They either debase you and kick you to the curb, or revere you and never fuck you.”

Again, I pressed my lips together to keep from speaking. He’d fucked me, and fucked me dirty. I felt a familiar tingle between my legs just remembering it. But he didn’t want me to know about his life. It seemed as though he had disappeared long enough to get horny and then relentlessly pursue me when he wanted a whore. I hadn’t noticed the pattern because I’d been so close to it.

I shook it off. I didn’t have time to worry about how I was seen or wonder what he thought. I had to do what I wanted, and I wanted to feel alive again. He was like my drug, and I would either get a hit or go into withdrawal, but I wouldn’t abdicate my right to chase him.

I checked my phone again. Nothing. Just a traffic alert. The 10 was jammed up because of a car-to-car shootout that had resulted in a five-car pileup and police actions across a mile-long stretch. Venice Boulevard was in the red from the overflow.

“Fuck,” Katrina said.

“Yeah, the 10,” I replied, but Katrina was looking at the TV.

“This has been going on for days already.”

I looked over her shoulder. I recognized LaBrea Ave. The shot was daytime, and the tag said yesterday.

Two days of gang violence across the west side. Two shootings, one death in a seemingly unmotivated spree.

Daniel’s face filled the screen. The signage in the background told me the news crew had caught him at a campaign rally. “We’re working closely with the police to make sure justice is served.”

They cut him off there. God help him if that was the meat of the interview.

Could this be Antonio? Somehow? If he was what Daniel said he was, then he certainly could be involved, but there were hundreds of gangs in the city. The victims didn’t seem related, and the violence wasn’t all deadly. There was speculation about Compton gangs, the SGV Angels, and an Armenian outfit in East Hollywood.

“Good thing we’re downtown,” Katrina said, turning away from the TV. “But everyone on the west side’s going to miss call time.”

Daniel appeared again, mouthing the same promises. His hand appeared on the screen. The right ring fingernail was bitten down.

I'd learned when a script supervisor was needed and when she’d spend hours waiting around, so I knew when I could split for an hour or two. My first stop was the garage in Mount Washington.

I got in my car, which had been quickly repaired once the ignition coil had been reconnected. My mechanic had shrugged. Old car. Things bend and tighten. It happens, apparently. I asked if someone could have done it on purpose, and he said something noncommittal, like “Anyone can do anything on purpose.”

Especially when they wonder if you’re snooping around.

I got to Antonio’s repair shop in record time. A chest-constricting worry nearly kept me from driving in. The hum of activity I’d noticed last time was gone. The lot held half as many cars, and I didn’t see as many guys in jumpsuits. When I got past the gate, no one greeted me. I parked and went into the office.

“Hi,” I said to the woman behind the desk. “I’m looking for Antonio.”

“He’s out. You can just pull into the garage.” She was new, her black hair down and gum cracking against her molars. She had an accent. Italian, again. She was older, but I couldn’t help wonder if he’d fucked her.

“I was hoping to see him.”

“Not in.” She shuffled some papers.

“Any idea where he is?”

She regarded me seriously for the first time. “No. You can leave a message.”

I thought about it for a second then declined. I texted him again.

—I still want to talk to you—

I didn’t expect to hear back, and I didn’t. I shot back downtown to finish the day’s work.

Every time my phone dinged and buzzed, I hoped it was Antonio. But it was always Pam with some new meeting or appointment. I started seeing the world through the hopeful window of my device.

“Hey.”

I spun around to find the source of the voice.

Michael stood behind me in costume: Dirty jeans. Grey T-shirt. A filthy apron and hair net. “We got a place from ReVal for the wrap party on Saturday. Some corporate loft they haven’t staged yet.”

“Wow. Nice work. Are we starting filming?”

“Nah, they’re still getting the lights up.”

I stepped deeper into the parking lot. “That getup really works for you.”

Anything would work for him. He was a celebrity waiting to happen.

“Like it?” He pointed to a particularly egregious brown smear. “I had this chocolate streak put on just so people would think it was shit.”

“Bold.”

“That’s my middle name. Speaking of—well, no, not speaking of. This is actually a major non sequitur.”

We walked through the lot, ignored in the busy hustle of the camera crew testing every corner for the right light, adjusting scrims and lamps.

“I like a good non sequitur as much as the next person.”

He stopped and turned toward me. “I heard we lost our post funding.”

“You know Hollywood gossip is cheap.”

“My agent told me.”

“And agent gossip is the cheapest. Seriously, Michael, consider the source. Pilot season’s happening when you’ll be doing scene pickups for Katrina. He can’t like that.”

“You’re not denying it.”

“You assume I know in the first place.”

“Still not denying it. You’re an artist at that, you know.” His smile seemed genuine, but it could have been acting. “Now, Ms. Ip? Not such an artist.”

He took out a pack of cigarettes and poked one out. I was reminded of Antonio Spinelli’s fluid motions, his clacking lighter, the smoke framing his face. Michael was less intense. My observations could have been colored by my sexual indifference. Sometimes, between two people who shared so little heat, a cigarette was just a cigarette.