More Than a Kiss

by Layce Gardner

  “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 dayglo colored Ms. Pacman 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 opened her desk drawer and whacked him in the head.

  “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?”

  “Well, I was kind of…”

  Before Chad could finish his thought, Jeremy poked his head in the doorway, “Hey, way cool do-rag.”

  “Thanks.”

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

  Both Chad and 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.”

  Jeremy looked at his pager. “Me too.” He pulled Amy into the hallway and waved at Chad, saying, “Later, Chaz.”

  “Chad, my name is Chad.”

  As they walked down the hall, Amy said, “Why do you do that to him? You know his name.”

  “Because he’s so pretty,” Jeremy said.

  “Pretty?”

  “Yeah, you know with his whole metrosexual, skinny jeans thing. It’s my petty way of getting even.”

  “I hate him. It’s obvious to everyone but him. What does he want with me? He can have anyone. You can almost hear panties falling to the floor when he walks by.”

  “He wants you precisely because you don’t want him,” Jeremy said.

  “So does that mean if I did want him he would go away?”

  “Not anymore. Initially, that would’ve worked. You would look clingy and that’d freak him out. But now you’re like the prize in the sky. He wants to possess you.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense.” Her sneakers made squeaky noises on the floor.

  “Good thing he didn’t see this.” Jeremy unfolded the newspaper. Below the photo of her car was another photo. This one was of Jordan and Amy kissing.

  Amy squeaked to a sudden stop. “Oh my God.”

  Jeremy said, “I know, right? You just came out of the closet, Doctor.”

  Amy’s face paled. “What’s my mother going to say?”

  Painted Whore

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

  Edison laughed. Irma had sloshed her paint 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 splatting 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 Jord
an. “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 got 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.”

  Jordan rolled her eyes. “I think Petronella will get tired of her little game as soon as she finds a new girlfriend. That’s how she works.”

  “Rubbish,” Irma said, joining them in the back of the house. She wagged her brush at Jordan. Jordan dodged the flying paint spatters as Irma said, “Petronella is gorgeous, sexy, smart woman. She could have any person she choose. She choose to not have girlfriend because she is not done with you.”

  Edison spoke up, “You sound like you have a crush on Petronella.”

  Irma said, “Irma recognize beauty and brains when she see it.”

  Edison made a barfing sound.

  “Maybe I should hook you two up,” Jordan said to Irma. “You could divert Petronella’s attention away from me.”

  “Yeah, right,” Edison muttered. “That would never work.”

  “You are only jealous,” Irma said to Edison. “You do not want to share your Irma.”

  “Your Irma?” Jordan couldn’t believe her ears. “What are you talking about?”

  Her question was met with silence. Irma and Edison painted furiously, both concentrating on their brush strokes.

  “You two have slept together!” Jordan accused.

  “It was an accident,” Edison sputtered. “Completely unplanned.”

  “Yes, a most unfortunate accident,” Irma said, slapping more paint than the brush could handle on the side of the house, splatting green globs everywhere.

  “Unfortunate? You didn’t seem to think it was unfortunate at the time,” Edison snapped.

  “Irma was drunk on juice of potato,” Irma said.

  “Where was I?” Jordan said. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

  “You were on your museum date with Amy,” Edison said.

  “Edison was depressed. Irma cheered her up,” Irma said.

  “How sweet of you,” Jordan said.

  Irma didn’t hear the sarcasm in Jordan’s voice. “Irma has hardened shell of a Soviet, yes, but under the armor Irma has beating heart of black wolf howling for mate.”

  “So you mated with Edison?” Jordan was still trying to process this. She had always operated under the assumption that they barely tolerated each other – and now she finds out they slept together. It was a lot to swallow.

  “It was one time bedding,” Irma said, dismissively.

  “Were you all right…afterwards?” Jordan asked Edison who was avoiding her gaze.

  “Well…” Edison muttered. She averted her eyes. “My you-know-where was a little you-know-what.”

  “Huh?”

  “Please don’t make me say it again.”

  Irma answered for her, “Edison had smagina. Irma cured her.”

  “She had what?” Jordan asked.

  “Smagina,” Irma said again. “Is word I create. Means small vagina. Two words smoosh together into one word. Small vagina. Smagina. Is funny, no?”

  Nobody laughed. They all resumed painting. In silence. For a long time. Finally, Irma broke the silence. “Is like cold war.”

  Irma put down her brush and marched over to Edison. Edison froze. “You have nice vagina, Edison. Irma apologizes for remark. Is small and cozy vagina.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” Edison muttered.

  Irma continued, “The lining of vagina is stretchable. It is written that one vagina can stretch so far as to completely envelope the planet.”

  Edison shuddered. “Well, if I ever want to hug the world with my vagina, I’ll let you know.”

  “Well, as touching as this scene is, I need more paint. I’ll be right back.” Jordan walked around the house to the front porch where the rest of the paint was stored. She walked up the steps and stopped.

  She screamed.

  Painted on the porch was one giant word: WHORE.

  Someone had opened one of the many cans of paint stacked on the porch and painted the word in huge block letters centered directly in front of the door.

  Irma and Edison came running. They skidded to a stop when they saw the painted word.

  “Well, I wonder who did this?” Jordan said, pacing back and forth in front of the word. She considered herself a pacifist but right now she wanted to strangle Petronella.

  “Perhaps is joke,” Irma suggested. “Funny, no?”

  “No!” Jordan and Edison yelled.

  “Irma did not think so,” Irma said.

  “Naw, there’s only one person who despises Jordan enough to do this,” Edison said.

  “I’m going to finish painting,” Jordan said. She stomped up on the porch and grabbed the open paint can. She stalked down the steps and across the front yard.

  “Do you think she’s having a delayed reaction?” Edison asked Irma.

  “It would seem so,” Irma said.

  They both eyed Jordan who was trudging back to the painting site. Suddenly, Jordan spun back around and said, “Remember what I said about the poetry reading and your revenge plan? Cancel that. I want to go.”

  Edison gave a little leap. “With my remote control car?”

  “Defintely with the car,” Jordan said.

  “Will you help, too, Irma?” Edison said.

  Irma smiled and rubbed her hands together. “Of course. Irma loves lesbian poetry.”

  Amy’s Big Coming Out

  Amy was high. She didn’t know if she was high on love or high on life, but whatever it was felt delicious. Jordan had called her last night and asked her out on another date. Amy said yes before even asking where they were going. Jordan told her they were going to a lesbian poetry reading and she thought it was going to be quite the spectacle. Amy didn’t care if she was inviting her to the dump to shoot BB guns at rats, she would go anywhere with Jordan.

  Today was her day off work and she had bounced out of bed and gone shopping. She bought 47 different pair of panties with matching bras. That should have been her first clue that she was in love. Nothing says “I’m in love” like a woman buying new underwear.

  On her way back from the mall, Amy slammed on her brakes when she saw a familiar pair of shoes sticking out of a dumpster. They were turquoise cowboy boots with pleather snakeskin uppers. She would know those boots anywhere.

  Amy pulled her car up next to the dumpster and honked the horn. The boots wiggled but didn’t come out. Sighing dramatically, Amy got out of her car and approached the dumpster.

  “Mom, it’s me,” Amy said. “Your daughter. Remember me?”

  The boots wiggled in response.

  “Can you please come out of the dumpster for a moment? I need to tell you something.”

  To be continued.

  Claire’s Story

  Long before she dove into dumpsters headfirst, Amy’s mother, Claire, was a sorority girl dating a frat boy at an Ivy L
eague college. They fell in love, graduated and married. Everyone thought them the perfect couple until Amy’s father, Brent, discovered the two true loves of his life: Golf and Philandering. Amy often wondered if her father had always been a philanderer. Did he also cheat on her mother when they were in college? She liked to think that he’d been madly in love with her mother once and cared for her deeply before he turned into the Brent-the Fucko-rama Man.

  The part that Amy despised the most was how her mother didn’t do anything about it. Claire had to have known she was being cheated on. If Amy had figured it out, then surely Claire had. But instead of leaving him, Claire enabled him. She made excuses for him not showing up at Amy’s seventh birthday party. She laughed over the telephone with other women and told jokes about being a golf widow. Amy swore that she would never be like her mother.

  Then the unthinkable happened. Brent didn’t come home one day. A week went by and Claire received divorce papers. Amy was helpless to do anything but watch her mother go off the deep end. Claire became a hippie artist who dumpster-dived to gather her art materials. She filled their house to overflowing with smelly objects rescued from dumpsters. Amy was embarrassed to bring friends home. Then the backyard filled up with junk that was welded together to form totem poles. And wind chimes. And windmills. And anything else imaginable.

  Amy graduated high school and left home. She went to med school on her father’s dime and didn’t feel guilty about it.

  She visited her mother occasionally. Two or three times a year they would get together at a local restaurant. (Amy never went to the junk house.) Claire called Amy occasionally and they would chat about Claire’s art. Claire had become a locally famous avant garde bohemian type artist whose art shows embodied buzzwords like “upcycle,” “recycle,” and “unicycle.”

  So when Amy saw her mother’s trademark turquoise boots sticking out of the dumpster, she thought it was fate interceding. Now was the time to tell her mother she was in love with a woman. If she couldn’t deal with it, that was her fault.