by Gregor Xane
"Yes. How'd you know that?"
"My brother, he's a pharmacist, he swears by them."
"They're the best I've seen yet. They induce the most restful sleep without any of the next-day grogginess associated with so many other sleep aides."
"Well, Doc, I hate to ask you this. But, considering they are new to the market, I know that the distributors like to promote their wares—"
"You want to know if I have any samples lying around?"
"Yeah. Like I said, money is tight right now. I am about to finish a job here in the next few weeks. But until then, I'm just barely scraping by."
"No problem. Just ask the receptionist on the way out. I'll tell her to give you a box."
"I appreciate it."
"Our time's just about up. What do you say? Same time next week?"
"Sure."
"One more thing." Dr. Vo stood, grabbed Frank's shoulder and shook his hand. "I'd like to make a recommendation."
"You want me to lay off the Scotch?"
Dr. Vo laughed. "No. Although, that wouldn't be a bad idea.
"No. I was just going to tell you that I have a new book out in paperback. Only a few bucks. I think you might find it helpful. It's called Dealing with Yourself. It's available at most chains."
"OK." Frank dropped Dr. Vo's hand and turned to leave.
"Just thought I'd put that out there," Dr. Vo said. "Keep it in mind, Frank. It's not a prescription, merely a suggestion."
Chapter 8
The cream had gone bad and there was no sugar, so Frank had his coffee black. He shuffled from the kitchen, still in his robe, to the studio and flipped on the light. Sketch books and loose paper covered the floor. Tubes and brushes lay scattered over TV trays. Finished panels teetered precariously on easels throughout the space.
Frank went to the closet and retrieved his portfolio binder, cleared an empty spot on his workbench with a sweep of the arm, unzipped the binder and lay it open.
He looked down at the pile he'd swept from the bench to make sure he hadn't broken anything or displaced something of value. He found Dr. Vo's book resting on the top of the pile. Its corners were worn, but not from reading. The thing had been kicked and thrown around the room for three weeks.
Frank had no idea why he'd even bought the damned thing. He had no intention of reading it. It was written in a cloying self-help tone, and Frank hated self-help books.
Frank had no idea why he still went to see Dr. Vo. The Serapuems were helping though. He couldn't remember ever sleeping so soundly in his life. But the pills did nothing to stop the dream. If anything, they made things worse. Now that Frank's conscious mind could remember the dream, his sleeping mind just wouldn't let him stop dreaming it. He started each morning now remembering Steve's party with vivid detail. The doll's silver hand and the magician stayed with him until noon.
Frank kicked Dealing with Yourself in the corner and buried it in a pile of trash, wishing he'd never admitted to Dr. Vo that he'd bought the thing. He was tired of making up reasons why he hadn't gotten around to reading it yet.
Frank checked the time on the clear plastic desk clock and cursed himself for procrastinating once again. The clock read 12:15, which meant that it was nearly 12:30, and he had be downtown at the opera house to make his presentation at 2 o'clock. He should have assembled the work for the Springville Opera job in his portfolio the night before. But he had been too drunk and too tired, up all night debating with himself on how long he had to wait after his last beer before daring to take his nightly dose of Serapuemide. He had waited until nearly 5 AM before deciding just to take half a tablet. And he was surprised now that he didn't feel groggy on only six hours sleep.
Frank flipped on his stereo and cranked the volume in an attempt to drown out his thoughts. He didn't want to think about bad habits and a shaky work ethic, and he had a feeling that's where his mind was wandering. The speakers blared with the thumping sounds of Fist Machine. It was their new hit single, "Don't Be Afraid to Sell Yourself Out of Slavery." Frank didn't like the band or the song. Their lyrics were the garbage rock equivalent of Dr. Vo's Dealing with Yourself. The band ceaselessly proselytized on the subjects of self-respect and questioning authority. But Fist Machine's pretentiousness didn't affect Frank. The fuzzy guitars and pounding drums filled his head, pushing everything else out. The beat moved his arms, and he managed to clip his finished panels into his portfolio in record time, with factory-like efficiency.
As soon as he finished zipping the binder closed, the phone rang.
Frank saw Steve's number flash across the phone. He picked it up and said, "Hey, Steve. I don't have much time. What's going on?"
"I know, you have that meeting today. I was just calling to wish you good luck."
"You think I need luck?"
"Come on."
"I'm going there to hand over the package and see if they have any last-minute revisions."
"They paying you the second half of your commission today?"
"No. Don't worry I'll pay you back when I get it."
"I'm not worried about that. You know that. You need me to help you out until they pay up?
"I can charge groceries over the next couple of weeks. I'll be OK."
"You don't want to do that, pay interest on frozen pizzas and soup-in-a-cup. Let me loan you some money for groceries. It's no big deal. Really."
"I don't know."
"Just come by the pharmacy after your meeting. I'll take a late lunch or maybe leave early for the day and we can catch a happy hour at the Mosquito."
"I don't know."
"When's your meeting?"
"Two o'clock."
"How long do you think it will run?"
"An hour tops."
"Just come by the Mosquito at 3:30 or 4 then. I'll just skip lunch and leave early."
"I don't know. I have some errands to run."
"No, you don't. I'll buy you a drink." Steve hung up before Frank could offer any further objections.
Frank considered calling Steve back, but he didn't have much time to argue. Besides, he knew that he would want a drink after the meeting, and it would be nice if he didn't have to pay for it.
Frank tucked his portfolio under his arm and began the search for his car keys.
He arrived at the meeting almost ten minutes late.
The receptionist looked up at Frank as he entered the lobby. She was a summer intern named Sandee. But she seemed older than most college students—and meaner. She took the phone from her ear, almost hung it up, before returning it to her face to say, "Never mind. I'm looking at you right now." She brought the phone down and knocked it around noisily in its cradle.
"Hi, Frank," she said. "Disregard my message. I was just talking to your machine."
"Oh," Frank said. "I didn't realize I was that late." He took a quick glance at his wrist. He had never worn a watch. "What time is it?"
"Almost quarter after."
"I apologize."
"Don't worry about it. Morris has no concept of time either. You can go right in."
Morris' door was ajar, but Frank knocked anyway. The door opened wider with each knock.
Frank saw Morris' thin head poke into view. He was craning his neck, adjusting his spectacles.
"Frank," said Morris. "Is that you?"
"Yes, it is."
"Come in."
A waving hand joined Morris' head. "Come in. I have some people here that I'd like you to meet."
Frank didn't like the sound of that. He was suddenly afraid to push the door open the rest of the way. He stood there and stared at the knob.
Morris cleared his throat. He removed his glasses and squinted with concern. "Would you like something to drink, Frank?"
Frank reached out for the knob and stepped into the room as if both feet had suddenly fallen asleep. His steps belonged to someone else, an old stranger shuffling through a nursing home.
"You know," Frank said, faking a cough. "I could use some water. If
you don't mind."
Morris stood, filled a paper cup at a cooler in the corner of his office, and handed it to Frank.
Frank swallowed extravagantly and pretended to be more than refreshed. "Thank you."
Morris waved at him and returned to his seat. The wave said both 'no problem' and 'quit acting like a jackass.'
Frank found there was only one empty seat in front of Morris' desk. The other two were filled with people he didn't know.
"Frank, I'd like you to meet Jane Courtt," Morris said. "Director of choreography."
Jane raised up half-way out of her chair to shake his hand. Her movements weren't graceful in the least. She was awkward and dumpy. This strange maneuver made it easy to imagine her covering up with a newspaper, rising from the toilet to scold someone who had just invaded her bathroom. She didn't look like a dancer, didn't look like she could ever have been a dancer.
Maybe, this is why she doesn't look happy.
Frank could tell by her firm grip that she was a woman who believed in a strict policy of promptness.
"Good evening." Jane Courtt flashed a smile that said she knew perfectly well it was only mid-afternoon. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise," Frank said. "I've heard many good things." Frank had never heard of the woman before.
"And this is Professor Amberhurst. He's the stage director of this fine production."
Professor Amberhurst was a tall thin man and he stood to his full height to greet Frank. He had an awkward manner which suggested that he'd never been wholly comfortable with his lanky bones. His gestures were broad and too careful, the movements of a man learning to walk on stilts. He smiled at Frank from beneath a pointed nose, flashing horse teeth and shimmering gums.
"I've seen your work," Amberhurst said. "Very impressive. Dr. Peel is an old friend. The brochures he showed me were very clean."
"Have a seat, Frank," Morris said. "Show us what you have there."
Frank sat and covered himself with his portfolio. He hugged the thing close to his chest and rested his chin on it. He looked over at Morris like a kid watching from a treetop during a game of hide-and-seek.
Morris reached out his hand, held it there for a long time.
Amberhurst sat down, pulled his left leg up over his right knee, and coughed. Jane Courtt adjusted her clothes, tugged her over-sized sweatshirt, and picked at her drooping stretch pants.
"Frank?" Morris said.
Frank loosened his hold on the portfolio. "I'm open to any suggestions you may have," he said, cautiously pushing the binder away from his body. "We've got plenty of time, right?"
Morris opened and closed his hand. "A couple of weeks. Come on now. Let's have it." He reached out and snatched the portfolio and slapped it on his desk. "I'm sure you have nothing to worry about."
Morris searched the straps, unfastened the buckles, and flipped open the front panel. He scratched his nose on his shirt sleeve and gave Frank a strange look. He adjusted his glasses and flipped through several drawings. He removed his glasses, cleaned them with a soft cloth he kept in his breast pocket, and then put them back on. He flipped to the back of the portfolio and removed his glasses again. He set them on the desk carefully, closed his eyes, and massaged the bridge of his nose.
"What's the matter, Morris?" the professor asked. "Maybe you should get a new prescription."
Morris sighed. The sides of his mouth turned down and his double chin tripled as he sat back in his chair. He placed both hands on the desktop and pushed off. His chair rolled and its broad leather back smacked against the wall. A fax machine rattled on the top of a nearby credenza.
"What is this?" Morris flipped the portfolio closed with disgust. "Some kind of joke?"
Frank knew he hadn't done the best job for this assignment, but he wasn't expecting this reaction. He'd been sleep-deprived and had taken shortcuts, sure, but it wasn't his worst work. He was pretty confident of that. Then Frank thought that perhaps a panel from an unrelated project had gotten clipped in to the binder on accident. He had procrastinated and compiled the thing in a hurry. Frank suddenly remembered some work he'd recently done for Cad Fantasy magazine. Cheesecake drawings danced through his head in thigh-high boots and fishnet stockings.
Frank slouched in his chair and muttered faint apologies under his breath.
"What is it?" Jane asked. She stood and turned the portfolio around to face her. "Oh, my," she said. "Oh. My."
Professor Amberhurst stood at her side and shook his head, clucking his tongue. He flipped through a few drawings and began laughing nervously. He draped his arm over Jane's shoulders as if to console her.
"This is horrible," Jane Courtt said. "Horrible. Unacceptable." She sat down and searched through her purse. "Unacceptable."
Frank stood, peeked around the professor, and expected to see a line-drawing of women in various poll-dancing poses, but he saw mark-up art for the promotional billboard instead. Frank flipped through the rest of the material quickly, in search of the offending panel, and couldn't find it. The portfolio was filled with all the artwork he'd done for the opera house project. Nothing extra had made its way inside. No cabaret. No pin-up nostalgia.
Frank flipped through the binder a second time and was thoroughly confused. "I'm sorry—"
Jane Courtt interrupted. "You should be. We're good people, Frank."
"I know," Frank said. "I mean, I'm sure you are."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Amberhurst asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Nothing," Frank said, raising his hands in surrender. "I'm just confused."
"Give it up, Frank," Morris said.
"I don't understand," Frank said. "I really don't."
"The game is over, buddy," the professor said. "You've had your joke and it was a bad joke anyway."
"Wait a minute," Frank pointed to the binder. "This is exactly what I was paid to produce. I followed the specifications exactly. I just don't understand."
Jane Courtt found her inhaler in a side pocket of her purse and puffed angrily.
"For a minute there," Frank said. "I thought I'd slipped in some drawings from another job. You see, I did this thing for Cad Fantasy. I really needed the money."
"Cad Fantasy," said Jane Courtt. "What's that?"
"It's a…Never mind," Amberhurst said.
"You're not making things better for yourself," Morris said.
"Isn't that one of those—?"
"Yes, Jane," Amberhurst said.
"Oh, my."
"Why did you do this, Frank?"
"I can fix whatever it is, I'm sure. Just tell me."
"That's disgusting," Jane Courtt said. "I don't think I like the thought of being in the same room with a pornographer."
"I'm not a pornographer," Frank protested to Jane Courtt's back as she left the room. "They were just drawings."
"Dirty pictures!" Jane Courtt's words echoed from the hallway.
The receptionist stuck her head in, gave everyone a dirty look, and slammed the door shut.
"She's right," Amberhurst said. "It seems like you could do a bit better than Cad Fantasy."
"This isn't funny," Morris said. "Don't act like everything is OK, Professor. It's not."
"It is funny," Amberhurst said. "Because I don't think this guy has the slightest idea what it is he's done wrong."
"Give me a fucking break." Morris stood up and looked out the window. He put his hands on his hips and dropped his head. "Give me a fucking break. I really don't need this kind of bullshit now, guys. I really don't."
"I'm serious, Morris," Amberhurst said. "The guy doesn't know."
"Know what?" Frank asked. "I'm beginning to think you guys are playing a joke on me."
"Why don't you tell him, Professor?" Morris said. He opened the window and rested his elbows on the ledge. "I don't feel much like playing."
The professor laughed. "You really don't know, do you, Frank?"
"What don't I know?" Frank was starting to get angry.<
br />
"Well, for starters," Amberhurst said, "you have no idea what the opera is even about."
Frank couldn't argue with this. He really didn't know.
"If you did, you wouldn't have let the same typographical error appear on every single panel of your presentation."
"What do you mean?"
"The title. You misprinted the title, in every instance."
"It must be the font I used. I can correct that in a matter of minutes."
"It's not the font, Frank," Morris said, slamming the window shut.
Amberhurst stood and looked at the opened binder. "Nope, it's not the font."
"It has to be," Frank said.
"What is the title, Frank?" Amberhurst asked.
"I know what the title is."
"What is it?"
"Demon Purse."
Amberhurst laughed. His thin legs almost snapped beneath him as he was forced back into his chair.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Frank?" Morris yelled.
"Demon Purse!" The professor cackled. "That would explain the horns."
"This isn't funny," Morris said.
"No, it's not," Frank agreed. He was seriously beginning to believe that he had gotten the title wrong, that he'd put the entire proposal package together and used the wrong title throughout. He'd added horns to the characters to fit an imagined theme, a theme that had absolutely nothing to do with the opera's storyline. And all the while he had no idea that he was doing it. It wasn't a joke. Morris was right. It wasn't funny at all.
"What is the title then?" Frank asked.
"He can't be serious," Morris said.
"You really don't know?" the professor said.
Frank didn't answer.
"Lemon Purse," the professor said. "Purse as in pucker. Lemon Purse as in 'sour kiss.'"
"What the fuck do you think those little kids are doing on the park bench on the front of the program?" Morris asked. "The girl is carrying a basket of lemons for chrissakes!"
"And she's holding a lemon purse in her lap," the professor said. "Nice little touch of symbolism."
"Demon Purse," Morris said, plopping down in his chair. "Where the fuck did you come up with that?"
"It was an honest mistake," Frank said, unable to believe what he was saying.
