EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” SOS

Frigid Clones’ Diary
by Sugarpuss O’Shea

Monday, 16 August:
0 bitten nails, coffee units 3—only one (1) Mocha-Latte Rush Hour Frappe (v.g.), cigarettes 32 (v.v. bad, particularly since also chewing Nicorette—must quit, but helps stop nailbiting—ugh)
9:20 a.m. I am destined for inner poise. Started work at the Gift Horse Gallery—no more pocket smocks, condiment guns and grease traps for me! (v.g.) My three years at college is definitely paying off ( btw someday soon will finish degree—now am a brill. career woman). I am surrounded by absolutely the mooooost gorgeous, brilliant artwork! (v.v.g.) I mean, it’s not the Louvre, but like, who can afford a Mona Lisa? The Gift Horse Gallery specializes in Gifts of Art No One Can Refuse! That’s kind of our company’s mission statement, so that’s how we’re supposed to answer the phone, and say it with a smile like Mr. Delphonse wants. In particular, we are the totally exclusive gallery for Dream-Putti figurines, and that means we are the only place people can see the newest designs! Of course, I didn’t know what Dream-Putti were at first, (v. bad during interview with Mr. Delphonse mistakenly referenced the kids toys we gave away at my old job with our Patty Whack-Packs). But now I know. Dream-Putti are like, the coolest art! Along with our line of Fine Art Prints and accessories from the spiritually focused watercolorist C. Gathering Moss. (Everyone’s heard of Moss, he’s God’s Little Paintbrush. He’s like on QVC, even.) Then Gift Horse Gallery features the Dream-Putti. They’re like little naked babies, with no teeth and curly hair and kind of made in different poses. For instance one of them spilled a jar of glitter labeled “Smiles” and that one is called “Oops! I Did It Again!” Or “Hang In There!,” where the naked baby is swinging from a gold cord attached to a star and they’re sort of crystal, but something harder to break called resin. There’s way more detail than say, Pokemon, but these are collectible art works, as big as Lladro or Hummel figurines, and they are absolutely not toys… I just looove them! I’m so glad we sell them, because sometimes art isn’t very nice to look at, you know? Really! These are absolutely the cutest, and they are very artistically made. The original factory designer, Miss Rae-Lanaea Woodelf went through dozens of old like, Sears Portrait catalogues, until she found like, the perfect baby face (she says “her muse,” in the brochure). It was pure inspiration.

I read all about them in the Dream-Putti brochure so I can remember how to talk about how special they are with the people who come to the gallery, and how they “make such unique gifts for family and fortunate friends.” While I was reviewing my text (on my lunch hour, mind you—v. v. motivated and job-oriented, so Mr. Delphonse can see I’m a valued employee), Conklin came up and said the brochure is “grossly misusing” the term unique. He calls them Frigid Clones, instead of Dream-Putti, and said people don’t know what art is—all this while standing and eating a microwave burrito practically in my face, totally acting like a slobby English teacher or something…

1:20 p.m. I don’t think he’s happy as a person, really…

5:20 p.m. (btw: Conklin works in shipping.)


Friday, 20 August:
5 bitten nails (v. bad, like chips once I start I can’t stop), coffee units 15—(v.v. bad. Ugh, Cuppa coffee bar, WAY too close to the gallery. I did only have 12 officially caffienated units—that makes 3 de-caf, v.g.) cigarettes 3 (v.v.g. need for nicotine replaced by protein in nails?)

11:45 a.m. The first week at The Gift Horse Gallery has been, like —long—but I’m learning all about all kinds of stuff. It’s not like I’m wasting my life frying food, watching people eat, getting yelled at when the garbage is overflowing. I work in the Fine Arts business. I’m selling beautiful art that makes people feel good. I’m learning from Mr. Delphonse about how to put things in the gallery so people like, can’t help but like love it and buy it.

I’ve met a lot of collectors, which at first I thought meant they were really super fabulously wealthy. But, like this guy came in, wearing sweatpants and a Le Tigre shirt—if he had a whistle, I thought he’d start ordering me to do layup drills. He kind of slouched around, then asked if we had any phone cards? I told him we were an art gallery, and No—Sorry, no phone cards, (is this like a 7-11 or something, I thought?) But, sure enough, he was a phone card collector. He informed me that phone cards can be quite artistic-ally made, and of course, once they stop being made, then they are collectible and highly valued.

Wow, it’s like there’s all these levels, you know? I mean, really, I could see how people would collect certain phone cards, with like maybe a really famous picture on them? You’d like have an artistic phone card, you know—it’d be unique, just like everything we try to sell, I mean “exhibit” (preferred term) in the G. H. Gallery. I was thinking about what I’d collect. It has to be something unique—maybe all my Frappe takeaway cups? They have great designs on them! All cleaned up, on one of the gallery shelfs, they’d look good, like Italian made or something…

2:45 p.m. Oops! I’m not paying attention again. (btw: de-caf just doesn’t cut it.) Cletus and Bettina, the Idaho potato candle artists are here, paying a visit to the G. H. Gallery, telling me where their New Spuds line should go. They are very inventive, having made candles that look totally like potatoes, but made from the potatoes—It’s very eco-friendly artwork. Somehow, it involves soaking them in some kind of ureal sodium laurel immodium sulfate emulsification—it’s kind of technical. I sort of mentally glazed-over (v. bad) when Bettina was talking. But in the end they create candles in all the colors of… well—a potato bin. Like red ones, yellow ones. They brought us a sampler of their new “Exotic Tuber” line, which look a little alien to me. But, they are very unique works of art, and you can use them, like at a big dinner party or company picnics (they keep away the bugs too!)

Cletus and Bettina came all the way to our shop with new boxes of potatoes because this other batch has been getting deformed at room temperature, which is kind of bumming people out when they bring them home. And they have a new display basket, which looks just like an old busted farm basket, but keeps all the potato candles cool with a built-in refrigeration unit.

It’s just such a super fabulous clever idea, I can’t believe people in Idaho are like so—sophisticated. I mentioned it to Conklin, since he was unpacking the new display, and he just looked at me like I’d been sick on his shoes. “God—you are really a dupe…”

He walked back to shipping with the emptied boxes and packing materials. For a moment, I thought that maybe Conklin was from Idaho, and I’d just insulted his jr. high 4-H background of animal husbandry awards.

“What, how am I a dupe?” I said following him into his windowless lair. Conklin seemed to menace me for a fraction of a second with his box-cutter, then set to slicing the box into manageable panels to recycle (not so nice stains from the wax potatoes, couldn’t re-use that box!) He went a beety red all of a sudden (from exertion of box cutting? less burritos would help) then practically hissed, he was talking so fast through his clenched teeth.

“I am on the outer-ring of the universe of art, cusping the ‘fine craft’ market, where little resin putti called Zingleberries, Kute-n-Krylic, Dream-sicles, Frigid Clones, whatever—are kept under vitrine and collected—but in a thinner atmosphere than say, the local Photo-On-A-Mug! shop. This turn of events is the bitter irony of realizing early on that I could never be a successfully independent artist, but always wanting to do something ‘artistic’, preferably a job ‘in the arts’… My god, hadn’t I heard the phrase, ‘Be careful what you wish for’ enough times?!”

Conklin thrashed around with the box, then swept past me to go out side to the recycling bins. The heavy shipping door seemed to suck all the room’s air out, as it slammed behind him.

4:03 p.m. I decided I’d ignore his outburst. I mean, he didn’t even seem to be really, like, actually talking to me, so I wasn’t going to absorb this weird toxic mood of his. Remember: inner poise. Conklin was a box-and-foam-peanut wrangler, probably best friends only with the UPS guy. I couldn’t be bothered. I had to get back to my job, in the gallery. With the artists. And the art! …But first a smoke…

4:05 p.m. Gawd, yourself, Conklin… Had to puff in front of the hair salon next to the gallery—didn’t want to ruin the nicotine high watching an angry man crush cardboard round back…

What was the deal with Idaho? Some kind of hot button, or was it the hot potatoes? (v.g and v. bad pun all at once!) I laughed to myself. This was only my first week, and I knew Conklin had been working at G. H. Gallery for like four years. Though I was new, Mr. Delphonse had praised my work. He’d crowed in front of the other staff (all three of ‘em inc. Conklin) about how I was “really generating heat” in the gallery sales. It’s not like Conklin got that lady to buy the whole set of “Dream-Putti on Vacation” figures (naked babies with sunhats and unfolded maps, etc.). I told her that the set would become like, heirlooms—she immediately gave me her Platinum card. I almost passed out… Dream-Putti, incidentally, are like, very expensive…

5:10 p.m. My first week, shaken not stirred, thank you. Feeling a lot of Inner Poise, sort-of stored up to face next Monday. Just have to stop nailbiting, (v. bad when pointing out details in the C. Gathering Moss Fine Art Prints, people distracted by swollen ragged cuticles and not getting spiritually moved). And regulate the caffeine intake. And learn more about art so I can really help people learn about it too… And ignore the Angry Shipper.


Wednesday, 25 August:
3.5 bitten nails (v. bad, especially with Berry Bright colored nail polish I put on to keep me from ripping into them) coffee units 5—(v. good, 1.5 a day. keep it up!) cigarettes 0 (v.v.g. need for nicotine replaced by vast knowledge of art)
9:05 a.m. At my appointed spot, in total command of the G. H. Gallery. Mocha-latte Frappe nearby but am nursing it (v.g.). My phone skills are surpassed only by my penmanship, Mr. Delphonse says. He just can’t stop praising me—well, it’s better than getting letched on by my old Patty Whack boss. At least I’m in a job with an appropriate sounds important because it is career title, “Gallery Associate.” Super saleswoman that I am, I have been helping the gallery visitors understand it’s the emotion that makes our G. H. Gallery art so unique. For instance, just look at the Dream-Putti brochure—“Happiness is Homemade: the feelings of joy mingled with warm laughter a parent (grandparent, older sibling, caretaker) gets when their child (grandchild, sibling, ward of the state) tries to make cookies for the first time.” Or maybe when there are too many things to do and not enough time to do them, those are the emotions that are captured, soooo perfectly in artworks like Dream-Puttis “Time Out!” figurine. That’s the one where the little naked baby is sitting on a tall stool, its fat little arms all crossed like it’s been given a scolding, with very artistic airbrushed details— or Moss’ Fine Art Print, “Balm of Gilead.” And even customers who can’t afford a whole Authorized Open Edition Series of Fine Art Prints, they can probably go home happy with his Signature Series Praiseful Photoframes, each one with a sticker of authenticity from the C. Gathering Moss factory artisans. Oh, and a bible verse embossed on a gift card for free!

11:05 a.m. G. H. Gallery has just received a huuuuge shipment from our overseas artisans for our Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas stock. Mr. Delphonse asked me to help Conklin in shipping, and learn how items are entered into the G. H. Gallery database and inventoried. Ugh. I’d rather have tapeworm. I flash on a biology lab from college Conklin the Co-worker = Nemesis, similar to nematode (eg. flatworm, or i.e. parasite), space-invader, irritant, fungus, eye-sore, fly in the ointment… But I am Employee Extraordinaire, and so I tap into my Inner Poise. I can easily rise above the Angry Shipping Man. I will ask pertinent, thoughtful questions—remaining dignified in the crypt-like Fortress of Bubble Wrap, while Conklin shows me what the Alt-F6 command does, and how to get the FedEx labeler to print correctly. I will be professional, a willing to learn, ready to help multi-tasking genius employee. This is what separates the wheat from the chaff, the strong from the weak… I look at my remaining fingernails—I’ll just keep my hands behind my back. No problem.

3:45 p.m. (had to take a smoke break, collect lost Inner Poise) So hideous! Conklin’s like, more socially retarded than I thought… Has no sense of the “proximable bubble,” (term from Soc. Psych class)—crowds right up on you, totally repugnant with his hot burrito breath mingling with like menthol-rub, or whatever he puts on wrist, (carpal tunnel problems, still gross). After like a blazing, fast-forward example of the inventory process, Conklin had me sitting at the shipping computer, while he rummaged down into the Chinese crates, extracted enamel boxes ornaments, delicate crystal clowns (handling them all like he was digging in a sock drawer—Hello? That’s art you’re handling, bucko… Mr. Delphonse must have never seen him do this). Anyway, my Co-Worker from Hell’s Shipping Dept. barked instructions to press this key and go to this or that field, and for God sakes don’t keep clicking on the mouse—all at louder than conversational levels, and then comes over and literally pressed his lower abdominal area into my shoulder, while I sat at the computer, suddenly pointing at things on the computer screen barely missing my eye.

Then, after huffing about my poor keyboard skills, and crushing into me several times stabbing at the commands while I leaned exagerratedly the other way (was that his?… ugh I feel soiled) Conklin said I could just probably handle cleaning the new stock with a soft rag, to get rid of the woodchips and newspaper dust. Ass. Whatever. I resigned myself to cleaning the artwork. I was like moving slowly, purposefully. Focused grace. This is an important step, cleaning—like curating, like they do in the art museums. I held a small starfish figurine. The starfish wore a chef’s hat (on one of its arms?) and proffered a platter. It was really unique. The figure, from Bubbly-Wubbleton’s new 2001 collection was entitled “Salty Sam’s Seafood.” Perfect for a fisherman—or anyone with an aquarium. I had six cleaned, and ready to be put in our inventoried and placed in the vault, when I realized Conklin was talking to me. He was just going along, tapping the keys and streaming words as if I had been completely involved in the conversation. As if.

“…how does one find themselves with a career in certain fields? Like ‘Fat Renderer.’ That’s got to be grim, huh gathering carcasses? I always thought it was just ‘parts-is-parts’ from meat-packing, but they’re actually getting most of their ingredients on the highways. Sail-cats, greasespots, road kill—you know that’s where those post-mortem roadside attractions go? If you think about it—at least that work has some integrity. It’s the life-cycle, re-translated for our paved over plastic-wrapped world. They’re the equivalent of anthropomorphized mushrooms, giant legged earthworms with bright blue trucks; de-composing the icky and the dead into a more purified substance.”

Silently, still cleaning the fine ash and odd horsehair off the artwork, I looked at the back of Conklin’s head. Hmmm. Early male pattern baldness. No wonder he was Angry Man.

Conklin continued, “Honestly though, I think that employ has it all over a fast-food worker—that’s a job I wouldn’t take on a bet! Those team-player corporate uniforms, scratchy and made by designers at Dow Chemicals, with a Dyna-labeled name tags, so any Neo-Nazi can get in your face and say, ‘Hey, Heathrow! I said NO tomatoes!” But, God! To be aligned with the depressing line-up of sub-normals who they hire. I shudder to think…”

I started to blush. I mean, like—did he know I used to work at Patty Whack, or was this just random convenience food slagging? I could feel my face burn and my back tighten, like when he’d leaned on me. I wanted to elbow him in the gut.

“The typical kitchen, composed of delinquent syphilitic home-girls who’d rather shiv you than take your order, or the flaccid out-patients who obsessively mop the same tile while they urinate themselves, or the Hamburgler College manager who secretly knows he’s a useless human being with no real purpose, in charge of a sebaceous scabbed crew pumping out the deflated looking patties, adhering them with the pus-orange thin-set sauce supreme to tortillas or buns or wraps. It does almost make me sympathize with Neo Nazis—like maybe extermination for these crap centers is the only solution, and only majorons eat there, because only majorons would work there…”

I meant to sound tough, he was so superior sounding! But I bleated at him, like an irate nanny goat—“You’re like, so perfect, right Conklin? You never had to take a job you thought maybe was below you, maybe just to make a living?”

“Oh no? What do you think I’m doing here?” He turned slowly towards me in his perch, like Dr. Evil. I imagined he built robots at home to serve him and do his evil bidding. “What is it, Miss Frigid Clone, that you think you’re dealing with here? The Art World? We’re not even in the same galaxy. We are the short muscles in the sphincter end of the collectible tchotchke beast. You and I both pimp in this Authorized Dealer of the World’s Finest Non-Recyclable Durastone Landfill Trinkets and Googaws. You just don’t even get what’s going on. You’re a dupe. A tool. Strangely enough, I feel sorry for you…”

That tears it. “Conklin,” I hissed through my own clenched teeth trying to craft my scathing exit line, “Don’t bother. You’re the one who’s balding…”
I yanked the door open and left him in his tape-gun and postal-meter cell, to wallow in his own stupid smug stupid juices. Angry Balding Disgruntled Shipper—whatever… I lit a cigarette, and alternated chewing off nails and taking long drags. A Zima was in my future tonight, for sure—maybe several…

Friday, 27 August:
9.25 bitten nails (v.v. bad, have had to keep hands behind back, sort of gesturing at things with elbow or head-nod—pointing bad habit anyway) coffee units 0—(v.v. g., however…) cigarettes 48 (v.v. bad need for nicotine driven by total loathing of psycho co-worker)

9:35 a.m. All the joy in my new vital brill. work is just draining out, sucking through a big black hole, that pulses and throbs like some Star Trek effect back in the shipping area. Thankfully, Mr. Delphonse has not said I need to be trained any further by the cruel and unusual Conklin, and I have avoided him as much as is humanly possible for me and whatever he is (sooo not human). Of course, he’s been shooting daggers at me whenever we pass, because, unfortunately the designated smoking area is out behind G. H. Gallery with the dumpsters and all the foam peanuts and cardboard and other discards. It’s like startling a giant rat when he’s out there, his eyes narrowing at me, and his moustache (crust-ache more like) and chin fringe, they literally bristle.

I am, however, calm in appearance. I know, now, that I cannot fight this foe with words—only serenity and obliviousness towards him will succeed. I merely light my cigarette (number 49, must regain Inner Poise before lungs give out) and pretend to be terribly fascinated with the precautions posted on the dumpster. Please, can’t you see I’m on a break…

3:05 p.m. Mr. Delphonse is out of his private office, next to me and totally beside himself—excited, squeezing my shoulders in such an enthusiasticly fatherly way, I’m sure he’d pick me up and swing me around if he thought it wouldn’t throw his back out.

After ushering in a group of eight tourists before 11:00 am., (btw all in town for a Dowsing Convention, weird even so), showing them almost every single Dream-Putti in stock (hello? that’s over a hundred ugh), I have just finished the invoices. The grand total of purchases is $2,750. No surprise that Mr. Delphonse is just about to puddle on the floor.

It wasn’t to be believed, really—like, they all seemed to want to keep outbuying the other. Like one of them thought she wanted to buy a C. Gathering Moss Limited Edition “Bells of Saint Catherine” (btw which is a genuine bell with Moss’ real artwork reduced to fit on side of bell)—and the others just tittered and said O What will your Tom say? and she’s like I can get buy things without Tom’s permission and they were all like Hmmm, and kind of like, biting their lips kind of fretful, or not really I guess because, suddenly they all picked up one of the Moss Authenticated Artwork Accessories (candle-holder, memo-pad box, illuminated miniature ceramic bible pew, sachet) and said, I’d like to get this please, can you wrap it? All this small stuff. Conklin was going to writhe in agony. “Oh, yes absolutely,” I said as I buzzed the intercom for him to come get the purchases, “It’s our pleasure.”

I walked away while Conklin came to gather the items, and that’s when the woman who’d wanted the bell first asked How much for this painting? It was an enormous back-lit C. Gathering Moss Authorized Artwork (btw all Moss vendors were obligated to exhibit it in their showrooms) and it showed the “Garden of Utter Purity and Right Faith” which resembled an indoor flower show I’d seen once in Stockton. Except, in the middle of a mound of tree-ferns and mammoth orchids, sat a male-model Jesus-type. And a fluffy lamb, head in the rather overly toned lap of Gorgeous Christ.

“That’s not a painting!” Conklin snapped, causing all the Dowsers and myself to jump.
Rude snapping turtle-man was right, but he didn’t need to shout. I was the Gallery Associate. I would handle this—all Inner Poise and Amazing Art Expert.

“My co-worker is correct—this is not a painting ‘per se’ but actually a genuine C. Gathering Moss Authorized Limited Edition Offset Reproduction from an original oil painting,” (v.g. remembering brochure verbiage) “There were only 2500 printed in the U. S. territories by personally selected print houses on textured canvas, and Mr. Moss not only wrote his signature on each Fine Art Print, he added his own extra brush-stroke, can you see it just like, there—to suggest the light coming from the… central figure.” I just like, couldn’t bring myself to quote the brochure “the Righteous J.C.” Ooh, oh yes, uh huh the Dowsers said. Conklin was making a slight retching sound, but I didn’t react. And how much is it?

“$2,000…” So, so, quiet even with ten people in a room. The frame is very… unique, wife of Tom commented, drawing further sighs and agreements from the others. I could hear Conklin retreating to wrap the selections, by the sound of his slapping sandals. “Well, it is Moss’ artistic aim to uplift a person by showing the way of faith through the magic of his inspired painting, uh…” (not, per se…), “which is then made accessible to like, a lot more people… Because this is a Fine Art Print, and he’s signed it, which makes it very valuable. Especially on the secondary-art market. It’s a good investment… In art.”

Silence from the Dowsers group, while they stood in front of the couchlong image. I was worried maybe I’d quoted too freely from the swirl of C. Gathering Moss “Higher Aim Sales Guide” brochure text. It had all suddenly flowed so fluidly from my head and mouth, that I actually felt a little drained.

I’ll take it. It’ll fit right into the new enclosed porch—You do ship don’t you? The wife of Tom handed me her credit card, and I sold that painting—duh, print (btw no. 1778 out of 2500 LE), thinking maybe we should order two more, in case this happened again…

In the back of the shipping room, I thought I heard a sob…


Friday, 1 October:
1 bitten nails (v.g., totally over bad nailbiting habit, except for one thumbnail I reserve for emergency gnawing) coffee units 4 (v.v. g., one puny coffee a day, with only a drop of fake milk. I feel saintly) cigarettes 3 (I am Super Woman, lungs like a free-diver)

11:30 a.m. I was reading an article last night from some paper (don’t know… “Your Life’s Work” title made me look again) about twenty-somethings, and the author was all like:

We all struggle, after all, to find purchase on the rocky shores of gainful employment. We’re trying to scratch out a niche; a special place where we may seek edification, acceptance, restoration, or vision; it is more than a Mc-Job—it’s the definition of the calling, the vision of oneself defined for life, that only priests and street-mimes, unfortunately, seem to hear.

A certain person takes a certain job. Well-suited. Full-time. Satis-factory. These terms blend both the practical and the prosaic into a near meditation.Om-padme-on-an-hon-estli-ving… Remember to breathe. Repeat.

Everyone deserves a job, finds a niche, or at least can find a place to do good —so says an endless list of teachers, counselors, teen-club leaders, and U. S. presidents. Yet and still, who’d take any of their thankless jobs? Not me, not on a bet…

Yikes! The last sentence returned me to that freak show Conklin put on in shipping that day. That’s what broke my three-week record of no smoking—I had to smoke three butts to keep from like, eating my fingers. Saying those things like about people who happen to work in fast food (only two years at Patty Whack!)—that’s just such total arrogance. And that’s all like, some kind of insecurity, anyway. Maybe he wasn’t breast fed enough or bigger boys teased him in the showers… (ugh I don’t even want to go there!)

And today should have been sooooo nice—no Angry Shipper. Conklin has today off (don’t know, don’t care) and it was going to be a super fabulous Friday, because, as of a week ago Mr. Delphonse told me my probationary period was over. He said he was so delighted with me and my good work ethic, and all super sales that like, I was getting my extra .50¢ an hour starting that day, and a key to the whole Gift Horse Gallery. He was leaving for a weekend business trip this Friday, and I was going to close-up for him!

Then like, Susie, who does the bookkeeping, who is also in the gallery with me to help with customers, but is like behind a kind of screen, because her desk is seriously stacked with clutter and calculators, was all, “Mr. Delphonse has really taken a shine to you,” but she actually said it in this real dull, kind of like listless way with no expression on her face. I mean, her face is sort of leathery and tight (frequent Cabo vacations v.v. bad) and she doesn’t seem to have eyebrows, so it’s like hard to read Susie. (btw Susie used to be an Aerobicize instructor and she sold Herbalife—don’t really know what that is, but she said she’d made and lost several fortunes through the 80s.) But I got the impression, just like a hint, that Susie was not 100% pleased with my ascending role as brill. and Sensitive Art Genius Gallery Associate earning private time in Mr. Delphonse’s private office.

Anyway, I didn’t want any flak with Susie—there had to be sisterhood with us, even if she’s like old enough to be my mom she’s still a hardbody, so I said I like, really loooved her shoes. Her tan taut cheeks mottled, “What? Oh, thanks… These old things—Charles Jourdan’s you know—an ‘Herbalife’ celebration purchase, long time ago…” She sort of buffed a toe on the back of one of her thin but completely smooth mocha colored calves. Her line rang, “Well, anyway, better get back to our work…” Susie seemed to bounce a little bit, as she walked back into her screened-space. I watched Mr. Delphonse’s head appear as he leaned back in his chair from his private office desk. He was like, full-tilt, watching Susie reseat herself—then noticed I was watching him watching her, and shot forward in a kind of catapult move.

Smooth, no one saw a thing… As if! (btw Mr. Delphonse is married.)

5:30 p.m. So, Mr. Delphonse has gone over the closing procedure with me several times (v.v. obsessive oh well). Which displays and artwork stay lit, (always Dream-Putti always C. Gathering Moss) where to put in a back-up disc to download computer stuff, bring in this sign, make sure garbage is out, bring shoe mat in, turn off coffee-maker, punch in this code to set alarm—(my attention, only slightly waning, because like you know, only one coffee, and that was ages ago!) And he pointed out the phone list next to the alarm, with the security business emergency line in case I flip out or the police come. He says it’s simple, really, and I agree—I have the G. H. Gallery situation well in hand. I am fabulous indefatigable Security Woman. I have the key. Piece of cake…

6:20 p.m. So, Mr. Delphonse is gone. Susie’s left. Conklin, not in (v.v.g). There’s another guy, Laramie, who does parttime warehouse/delivery and also maintenance work—not even sure what his hours are, but he came and went by like 3 today… Anyway, I’m all ready to set the alarm.

6:21 p.m. The alarm isn’t working. It’s supposed to say ‘Alarm Set’ after I code… Punching in code again…

6:22 p.m. Ugh! I have like no idea why the alarm won’t set… Will punch in code again, harder (maybe it’s my nails getting in way, disrupting sensors in key pad?).

6:28 p.m. Gawd! This is supposed to be easy, and now I’m like practically perforating the stupid alarm buttons! What is up?!

OK, calm. Breathing. Restoring Inner Poise. Contemplating cigarette—but first, must do this simple task correctly.

6:36 p.m. Yeah, right… this is way stupid. Like, I’m doing it correctly, but it’s as if this pad were some kind of mock-security calculator someone stuck up here on the wall. It’s like just adding my code number in one long googeley list… I can’t even clear it! I’m calling the security company (btw top of the list of phone numbers).

6:52 p.m. Panic is imminent. Called security phone number, (multiple calls, each one takes longer to ring v.v. bad!) enter a voice mail maze of more access numbers. I don’t have an access number, I have a code number for this alarm!! No humans seem to be employed by security company, just a remote computer bank silently routing my desperate phone calls into a dump-run… I stare at the phone list. “Emergency Contacts” : security company, police, fire…
“Employee Contacts” column: first on list, hi-lighted in acid green ‘Conklin, S. 425 0099, lives close by’… Acid-green is flashing me and I realize I’m chewing on my index finger. (v. bad ugh— now I want a smoke, seriously)...

I consider calling police. Maybe they’d agree to just drive-by, make sure people don’t loot the building over the weekend? I can’t phone Mr. Delphonse, obviously, he’s gone. I phone Susie, hoping to get her machine. Her telephone goes unanswered, where is she? She’d only left a bit earlier today, not that she tells me about her life, but she didn’t mention she was going out of town, I mean, you’d think a person just might say, And oh yeah, I’m off this weekend! you know just courtesy— and her phone has rung a gazillion times. I hang up disgusted with her living in the 80s lifestyle, so of course she doesn’t have machine! I could call Laramie, but his name isn’t on the employee contact list, I don’t know what his last name is. My name’s not listed either, and someone named Evelyn, C. who I don’t know (someone not keeping up-to-date on v. v. IMPORTANTlist!)— and the acid-green line wavers, sort of enlarges a bit on the sheet…

I’m not calling Conklin. I’d rather sit here, and smoke all night by the dumpster. Anyway, it’s not that bad— I’ll give her some time. Susie will be home soon…

7:45 p.m. I have let the phone ring while I lean on the back wall, just around the ‘Private–Staff Only’ partition, where I can see the limpid light of Moss’ eternally glowing picture. I watch the dusk get blanketed over by evening through the G. H. Gallery picture window, and now its dark outside. At some point, I realized I had the phone to my head for so long, I have ceased to hear Susie’s Trim-line phone jingle at all. Half of my nails are torn-up, nail-polish is probably stuck between my teeth. I’ve spaced-out— she could have even picked-up— but no, the ringing went on… What about just leaving, just saying, well the alarm wouldn’t work, you know the system just broke down, you know if somebody had just updated the list— Damn! I mean seriously, this is stupid and sucks. I look at Conklin’s number— I mean, he’s not going to be home, I punch the seven numbers, it’s all stupid, so I can’t say I didn’t tr…
“Yeah? Hello?”“Uhm— Conklin?” I’m shocked to be speaking aloud again. “Yup. Hmm–is this the Miss Frigid Clones?” Is he slurring? O god, “Yeah, right whatever. I was uh… I’m at the Gift Horse and I can’t leave.”
“You should…”
“No, I mean— I’m supposed to close, you know, but it’s stupid, the alarm, it won’t set and I can’t phone anybody to help me…”
“Yeah, right, the alarm is stupid.” Nice, nice guy… “Listen, I need some assistance. I need to close up and leave. Can you help me? I wouldn’t have called— believe me, this is just my first time doing this, and I don’t want to have Mr. Delphonse freak out on me.” There’s a muffled sound on the line— I hear a bottle, no, bottles moved around, sorted and clinked. Music is on in the background, or a TV. But low. I’d guess he was alone on Friday night…

“So?” I am not sure if he’s still on the phone.
“Yes?” Maddening! “Can you help?! I can’t get through to the alarm company— I don’t have an ‘access number,’ nobody said I’d need an access number, and I’ve been here for over an hour, and…” I just barely cough up a “please” at the end.
“OK. I’ll be there soon.”
“No! Just, well— Conklin, can’t you just tell me what to do? Do you know the…”
‘click’

As I hang up, I can feel the heat rise from inside me. Pure rancor. I want to kick something, break a pine board with a high karate chop— this was supposed to be simple, dammit, I’m competent!Not a frail! Not a victim! I didn’t want this— the Angry Shipper, my knight, the gallant Sir Conklin is going to help me out, and I’m going to owe. Big time. He’s like leveraged me— somehow, I know this is going to end badly…

I try the alarm code one more time. Nothing.

I’m going to go smoke now.

8:05 p.m. Out by the dumpsters, I’ve already started on a second cigarette when Conklin bikes up sort-of wobbly. I know he’s been drinking. I mean, like it’s Friday night, what else?

“Still smoking I see?” He’s in his usual slob-clothes, I mean, just loose, slack looking. There are spots all over his pants and shoes. Paint. And a bulging backpack,
“What are you talking about? I haven’t said I quit or anything.” “I quit. Six years ago. On my birthday.” As he talks he sort of tips off his bike and sheds the backpack. It rattles when he sets it down. “Six years ago, today, in fact… Wanna drink?”

From out of his bag, he offers two bottles. Zima malt beverage. I like Zima. Too much, maybe. I reflexively reach for it, then stop. “We’re like, standing in the florescent glare of the door light in the back alleyway of the Gift Horse Gallery, where we both work, which is still not properly closed-up, next to the dumpsters, and you want to party?”

“Miss Frigid Clones, c’mon— take it for later then. I just thought you’d celebrate my birthday with me.” I look at Conklin. I think he may be trying to smile, though it still comes off smirky “Is it really your birthday, I mean, is that why you had today off?” I gingerly take the bottle. It’s ice-cold. I love it ice-cold.

“How did you manage without me?” Conklin laughed, and opened up his bottle and took a long drink. “You need help with the Zima too? You don’t need an access code, I’ll let you use my opener.” I just smiled a little bit at the dig. I mean, yeah, I had like asked for his help and it was his birthday… It was nice to have a drink with my smoke, I had to admit.“It’s funny you like Zima—”
“It’s repellant actually. Worse than I thought it would be.”
“What? Why are you drinking it? If it makes you so sick?” I was having that urge to kick-box him, while he made a face and swallowed.
“You like it.” I was taken aback. “How would you know?”
“Your keychain, Miss Frigid Clones. I observe details. Elementary, my dear…” He swigged from his bottle, and sat down on the stacked cardboard by the dumpster. “Why do you like it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really drink much alcohol. I mean, I did. In school. My second year at college… It was some stupid radio promotion, partially sponsored by the proud makers of Zima. There were the DJs, and some other like seniors, giving away the usual t-shirt and stickers— lots of free ice-cold malt beverage, and keychains…”

I stopped talking and drank. The cold, vaguely lemony taste was so relaxing. The bright blue keychain, was pathetically, my only college momento that hadn’t been packed away or inadvertently lost. Somehow it remained, and I had been drinking the brand ever since—a convert of convenience. It was cheap, nobody else bought it, yet all the diviest bars and liquor stores seemed to stock it. Conklin shifted on the collapsed cardboard boxes. “The gallery isn’t going anywhere, would you like to sit down. I don’t carry a box-cutter on my days off, so you’re safe.” He patted a spot next to him and his backpack with what looked like an entire six-pack in it— I sat, and tucked my skirt under my legs, as he pulled out two more bottles.

“Anyway… the keychain from college? I didn’t know you had a degree.” He slurred a little, but the sarcasm was clear enough. I glared at him, but his face didn’t match the tone— he was smiling, I mean like he looked friendly… Maybe the Angry Shipper just had a speech impediment, that made him sound like an asshole. Maybe I was just too sensitive. I finished the bottle I had and opened the second Conklin had put in front of me. This was odd, but I was starting to relax— may as well enjoy my Friday.

“Yeah. It’s sort of my two-year chip. I had grabbed at the keychain absently, drunkenly, like it were a gold coin or a necklace thrown at Mardi Gras. The senior who tossed it to me, came over and offered more Zima back in his dorm room after the event, where we sort of groped each other on the narrow bed. I wasn’t used to that. I was having an out of body experience, watching myself kiss him, watching him operate. When he tried to convince me to pleasure him while his roomate was out watching TV in the student lounge, I observed myself get up, redress and leave. I imagined him and his roommate talking,‘and then she just like walked out, what a fucking tease…’”

I paused for a moment. Why did I just talk about all that? Am I a chatty drunk? I hardly ever drank with anybody else. Just I glanced over at Conklin, who appeared to be picking at the paint on his pants leg. I pulled my purse over, and took out my cigarettes and lit one.

“So you were… harassed out of school?” He looked over, and his expression was hard to read.

“No. I’m just rambling, sorry— but it was that event, that whole afternoon, the feelings of being near to things I thought I wanted, belonged to, but didn’t really feel part of— I decided not to go back to college the next fall. Two years, and nothing had shown me the way. I went to all my courses, I did the work but I didn’t feel well-rounded, and educated— I felt shapeless, unfocused. So, well, the rest of tuition went back to my parents. They were divorced by then, so like they fought about who should get more. After I found a job, I just stayed in the area.”

Conklin drained his bottle and plucked a fresh one out of the bag. “For not liking them, you sure can drink them down.” He smirked. “Well, let’s just say, I’m trying to appreciate the subtleties of Zima. And more is better.”


(FCD narrative To Be Continued)