Tail

by Julian Duenker

CHAPTER TWENTY

  The spot wasn’t a far distance away, the length of a quiet drive in which anything remotely noisy would have taken up Susan’s entire worth of attention.

  She found herself inside of a blue tinted car glazing along the roads of the city to her shoot. She huddled in the middle seat, giving her ample room to gawk at whoever dared to sit in the car. It was packed to the point of an Indian extreme. Mathew was to her left fixated on whatever drama played outside the window. He refused to share eyesight with anyone, regardless of how many attention seeking grabs he received.

  Across from where Susan was sitting, a young lass with skinny jeans tight enough to stop circulation to the brain, was occupied with her own music. One would think that headphones would keep the music to a personal quiet, the reason for their invention, but this did not apply to her. Susan was sort of taken aback by how loud the music was.

  Quite a few glaring inaccuracies with the reality that presented itself to Susan. Firstly, no one was interested enough to tell the woman to turn the music down. Secondly the music was loud enough to the point where the headphones might as well have been speakers. And lastly, the part that shocked Susan the most, was the music that this girl chose to blast through her ears. A delicate arrangement of angelic singers which culminated to the generic idea of a choir. One that lacked values of religion, but rather occupied itself with the mere gimmick of the genre. Beautiful singers, backed by the slightest hum from the woman that allowed the odd howls to fill the car.

  Susan passively, head bent, leaned against the trust of Mathew. The small group of people entertained the seats with their constant shuffles for more leg space. Susan’s eyes rolled across them as the noise of the city was slowly replaced by the rants of the choir in the car. A van followed, weighted by equipment and hurried by the dwindling daylight.

  The road collapsed along as they went up against pavements titillated from faeces collective and abandoned cock wrappers. An average building rested on a few well treated walls to the right of the road ahead. Dirty mud built the building as if the walls were made from the colour brown itself. Gaps in the building convulsed with distorted proportions that rose to the roof. Vines and holly puked out from gaps hanging themselves by the neck just enough so their toes were centimetres above the wet ground. The cars pulled up opposite the building in a small parking spot.

  Van doors opened creating the abrupt punctuation to the choir music that seemed to follow Susan out of the car. Immediately as she stepped out, a splash from a puddle greeted her, climbing up her heeled cream boots. Ahh for fuck sake were the lyrics in Susan’s head that accompanied the backup vocals of the seriously ridiculous choir music that played through the shoot. She was almost motivated to tell the girl to turn it down, but her attention was torn to more pressing matters.

  Susan was directed from spot to spot with everyone making sure that the produce didn’t get dirty. A group of people set up the equipment flinging metal and lights from every corner of the human imagination. This left Susan to befriend the ground that she stood on. So feckin shad ya know lich. The first spot she befriended was a clump of moss that erupted from the cracks between tar stones. It was her spot. Imagining her name carved into the tarmac made her feel connected to nature. But before she could say hello to the ground, she was moved to another spot by a demanding grip of her elbow. She knew her lowered gaze probably made her look more and more like someone in dire need of a psychological evaluation, but she didn’t care, she couldn’t find any heated reason to care what they thought of her.

  A car pulled up a distance away. Josey came from the driver’s side, stretching her old limbs from the finely trimmed leather seats. As she crossed the road she fixed a baby blue lacy scarf around her neck. Susan watched her cautiously from afar.

  A group, simultaneously apathetic and enthusiastic, formed behind Mathew as he directed the equipment to their appropriate work stations. It was this crowd that allowed Josey to quietly join the shoot without anyone noticing. She slipped in behind a man exhausted from a late night with his wife; Beer was her name.

  Without the need for words, a young woman moved Susan to the front of the Building with all the guns pointed straight at her forehead. Burnt lights, blue gels for that cold feel and wide angle camera lenses were the ammunition. Mathew with his hands tightening his shirt, paused to take an objective look at the area, and with a few, just a few silly seconds having passed, went over to Susan quietly. Her sight of the entire crew was hidden by his heavy chest. The choir was on a lull, everything was cleanly arranged.

  “Just a smile... that’s all I need.” His chest inflated from the fumes that he was consuming and created a smile, a gestured smile, an example, exactly what he wanted.

  Susan gave him a smile, tearing her undergarment skin to an uncomfortable angle. Sexy eyes she added to the expression that she had on sale. Finish this shoot and leave, Susan thought to herself as she swung her hips into action. Then the photos started, flashing the choir to their chorus.

  Looking briefly along the group Susan saw Josey standing arms crossed behind the people. Her eyes were strong with brows showing a clear interest in Susan with every slight twitch. Bend for me were the words spoken by both Mathew’s directing wrist and Josey’s protecting look.

  It was easy for Susan to guess why Josey appeared at the shoot. New talent always needs to be broken in, Susan was just unsure of the saddle that they chose to use. Lined by plastic, lacking soft leather with the bulk consisted of torn cotton. Reminded her of the bag that she dragged around stabbed to her shoulders. Luckily for her and the crew, the cameras weren’t advanced enough to pick up on Susan’s private self-deprecating imagination.

  As the choir raised their pitch until the sounds of the traffic flattened to pancakes, yum, Susan concentrated more and more on Josey. She demanded her eye line leaving Susan to rest in the cradle of whatever hinted gestures she threw past the crowd. The lights changed and a more playful pose was in order. Mathew paced back and forth, gripping his camera, looking from corner of the building to the next to find that angle that cried shit covered beauty.

  Susan had a moment to herself, turning on her heels she took a better look at the building. A burst pipe sprouted from the wall behind her, jizzing out white billowing smoke across the canvas of the fractured wall. Spotted spits of dust came from the smoke falling down like a cheap Christmas carol. It was all fucking beautiful, stroking the rough skin of its own neck trying to grow a few more inches. Filth was the cause, it was too heavy for any greenery to grow underneath. The dirty paws of the fences that surrounded the place held everything down desperately keeping anything from growing.

  The realities of the shoot brought her back from the small break that she allowed herself to have. Susan was torn from her spot and placed in a new posing angle between a ripped metal fence and the residue that seeped from the pipe. Suburban winter is what Mathew was going for if anyone cares.

  Susan looked over to Josey as she rested her hip on her left leg. Josey neared pushed slightly through the crowd for a better look. Josey raised her chin using the tips of her painted fingernails to emphasise the movement while making sure she made eye contact with Susan.

  Without considered thought, Susan mimicked the movement that was presented to her from behind the group. Quiet and hushed body remarks were the only form of contact that kept Susan going at a somewhat professional level. Obliged to obey was how the model felt, perched between stacks of broken bricks and towers of demanding tinted lights.

  She made sure that her jaw was as high and condescending as the one portrayed through the slit in the group. Josey’s older fingers were graceful, dropping from her chin with a brushed sense of glamour. Susan chewed on it with her jaw, a delightful after taste she was left with. Those fingers replaced every placed and paced picture praised in her head.

  The pink hue finger nails from Josey were all she saw, and indulging them made the shoot all that bit more compact. Easier to consume,
even though it still tore a soft amount into the lining of her oesophagus. Not as rough as the equipment lights that shot directly through her skull whenever she looked in the direction of Mathew though. Because of this her neck was always bent away from the camera, and diverted to the puppetry strings that Josey held behind the meandering crew.

  Along the trip of the photoshoot the choir tore their vocal chords further and further bleeding their cheeks until Susan lips were purple. The girl with the headphones wrapped her privacy around her music, as if she was afraid of people listening to her taste in music. Rather pointless to be honest if you have the music that fucking loud. It reached the point where the choir was screaming into a bucket that they held themselves, frustrated at the fact that no one could hear their bowled howls. Contradiction from the listener to the singer, which was clearly apparent to anyone who possessed the ability of hearing.

  Susan’s knees bent, lips stretched, and cheeks perked, with eyes placed upon the throne demanded sexual obedience. Every one of her arched bones were directed by the quiet puppetry hands behind the group. Mathew danced from one puddle to the next in full belief that it was him who gave Susan her perfect poses. In between shots Josey scanned the area darting her eyes from exhausted hips to gasping chests.

  A perfect point for Susan to contemplate the very rippling ground that she stood on. As everyone shuffled around fixing various hanging threads of light, Susan was left to spin on her own. Breaking her neck from every corner of the shoot, she landed her eyes on the only person that brought comfort to her wrapping knees. Josey, back straight to the road, fiddled with her scarf to a position of maternal hierarchy.

  The shoot held its spine upwards with filthy wrists. Everyone paced along the tarmac attempting to kill time. A few helpful hands were appreciated, but the bulk of the work was maintained by Mathew, Susan and Josey. Teased her shirt, pulled on it, and cracked her spine to the steep curve of the day. Susan got used to it the more she dipped her forearms into the motion of it, but she was still controlled, kept cool by the fear of the job, the now panting of the choir.

  Mathew noticed Susan’s broken sight with the camera and turned around to look at what was demanding her attention. There he saw Josey in a relatively similar composition as Susan. Her spine was curved, resting her ass out from any relative sense of gravity. With expectant hands before his chest he stared at her. Twas all an expression of please. Josey paused and read Mathew loud and clear. From his gesture he she could tell that he wanted her to leave. She felt slightly numb over leaving Susan to herself.

  Business was the forefront of what forced Josey however. Due to this it was relatively easy to decide what to do next. Staying would have given conflict to an already “behind the hour” shoot. So she gave Susan a smile derived of confidence and threw it across the group of oblivious heads. Susan was left to herself, left to construct and contract the already stretched muscles that she had on offer for the past while. A cruel situation that she had to mend, one without any safety net from Josey.

  Mathew’s ignorant smile guided the patient shuffles of the crew around him. As Susan watched Josey get back in her car and drive away, the choir started to clap their hands. The claps, those claps increased in length with every slapped breath that Susan tried to squeeze through her bursting red cheeks.

  Then the choir’s hushed voices grew to a constant level, resistant to rest. The shoot had become an unbearable tune for Susan, yet she still ascertained a passable degree of modelling postures, flailing limbs and the like.

  Her heeled boots dug into cracks dished across the ground making it difficult for her to adjust the bend in her knees. One last clap from the choir to numb the senses. It was all good no? The final slap from the high pitched choir ended the shoot. Susan’s ears were ringing to the point where she was left hollow. She attempted to hear what other people were saying at the end of the shoot but she was left deaf. Susan was brought to the car held by the elbow. Smiles of congratulations and a few teeth of indifference were all she saw or felt. Then the choir silenced, exhausted by their own ripping voices and drained by the battery.

  Susan didn’t remember much of the trip going back to the agency. It was derived from daydreams tickled the line between lucid and uncontrollable. Most of her thoughts came with a healthy heft of fantasy.

  Mathew and everyone else left the car and proceeded to pull the equipment back into the agency. Everything that happened next were the hurried steps followed after a shoot. Usually a few chatted words would be shed with the model afterwards but due to Susan’s late arrival this was somewhat forgotten.

  The sounds of skidded shoes and scraping equipment filled the atmosphere of the agency, reminding her that life had once more continued whether she was comfortable or not.

  Balancing her headache upon her wrecked neck she walked to the makeup room, avoiding any opposing stares. She tried to maintain a masked expression across her short journey to the place. She was glad to no longer hear the tears from the choir, but was immediately disappointed with what she was left with. The distant noise from within the agency was a cold blanket filled with holes, uncomfortable and useless.

  The room was empty with everything left in designated and respected spots. Susan shifted her way to the back of the room to change her clothes. The mirrored wall on her left followed her to the pile of clothes. It was such a relief for Susan to rip her work clothes from her heated skin. Her skin flopped, breathed and heaved in the quiet space of the room. Jeans first, pulled to her waist covering her crotch from prying eyes. Then her boots which seemed to be annoyed at the heavy and invisible cotton bag on Susan’s shoulders. The more she thought about the uncomfortable moments of the day the further the bag dug into her skin leaving nothing but red marks.

  Her Boots were unsettled in reflection at what Susan had to go through. They knew from sliding up her heel that they were made for her, that they were what she needed. Her boots wouldn’t have any of it, painful shoes are never allowed.

  All dressed and ready to take the world on she checked her stabbed back as if making sure her bag hadn’t fallen off when she wasn’t looking. The thought of someone shneaky coming up and stealing her bag to gawk at all the misfortunes frightened her. It was a fine line between remembering its invisibility and acknowledging its impact. Her boots shivered knowing that it probably wasn’t a great idea to rummage around in all the bitter tasting words from the day. So she didn’t and instead weighted the bag briefly to get an idea of what was inside. Her back was tired from it, with the hooks digging deeper into the skin pushing blood to make an appearance. The only thing that could rectify the weight of the bag was a wrapped warm bed and a locked flat door.

  Having done everything she needed to, she left towards the exit. Edging out from the room she halted with frozen shock and a stabbed expression. Dropping her hands to her side she held herself, ultimately stalled by the strong stares from the models that collected outside the room.

  They lay up against the wall outside the makeup room with locked fists and teeth directed towards Susan. They frightened Susan sending shivers from the soles of her boots straight to the neck of her cotton Back bag. Abbey was one of the girls closest to the door with her hands resting up against the skin of the wall. Every so often she would have fun with the knives at the end of her fingers. She ran them up and down the wall, caressing the paint job as if it were Susan’s actual skin.

  All of the women’s faces were littered and spread by hinged hatred. Abbey’s lips however were different, enjoying the idea of playing, toying with Susan. Her smile was more akin to the fangs one would see from a canine’s hungry growl. Apathy affected her nose, yet her eyebrows were well aware of the lie that her face told.

  Susan was left hung and dried surrounded by the group of ravenous models, who chewed on their own legs as they occupied the hall. Most of them stood there, following the pack leader who waited with sharpened nails for a response from Susan.

  Her eyes widened not kn
owing what to look at, direct eye contact came with those sharp stomach pokes. Before any words dared to slip out of Susan’s gaping mouth, her boots drove her away from the pack of deprived and hungry women. The more she hung around the more she saw foam build up around their mouths, as if eating meat was the only language that they spoke.

  Abbey followed Susan as she walked away towards the end of the hall, making sure to keep a menacing pace behind her. The more they followed the more Susan sped up, digging her boots into the stiff agency floor that she desperately wanted to leave behind.