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  • theaptPORTFOLIO

    theaptSHOWS

    December 1, 2009

    quo 11

    episode 11: shaggin’ thru everybody’s morning

    hoboken bars, to queens progeny, rolled like sighs from a tax pusher, shallow breaths. the path flushes the river like a turd, stepping out onto wash and 5, out the ass of manhattan and into jersey trash. hoboken was a new location for ms. okereke, but she had her beeline all set, 9 p.m., mario’s on park street. no-?-asked adult friend finder hookups were a specialty of the oughts, ifa had moved away from craigslist connects as their hermetic seals busted. this meet was a double dutch of sorts, both a fuck find and a finance shake. the woman she’s to meet has her neck deep into the north jersey avalon jet set, housing market crash had money in neat sativa pinches, and even though business mixed with pleasure, ifa kept a clear eye on the six ball. stepping from the hackney at washington, mario’s slouched under blue and red striped awnings, like a single uncle, like a champ. staccato aromas of stetson, long soaked into clothes, of bar fruit and dried booze, hit customers on the schnoz upon entering. ifa dipped into the shit like a surfer, nose down arms back. beyond the first empty chairs two legs stretched from a work skirt, the bird itself, rosy, ginger locks coming down from what once was a bun. terry maculane nipped a whiskey smash, chatted up by the company. an attache sat under her pins, and the best thing ifa could think to say was “nice gams,” turn of heads.

    parking lot, sheet music. dent had a hundred & one names for blow. pushing out six lines, the ritual always reminded him of jersey diners, doing the same with sweet n’ low when he was a kid. “who knew bomb shelters were chic?”, dent posited as he built rails. “i mean, we could cover with sod, gut the place to the girders, and cut an entrance through the rear, right?” cloris pulled her shrink wrap shirt over her head, lit a parliament, and sat in dent’s lap. back to paces. “it’s…smooch…going to be…smooch…up to olen, yes?”, cloris passed on deliberating. “phiffiz!…i’ve seen olen’s schematic, we’ll need contract to work on the doorway…phiffiz!” blowing & planning was jenga for the two, cloris going topless when mike needed inspirato, it also felt good to get the girls some fresh air. cloris headed for the kitchen, dent stood, pants off. quomodo’s walls had been done with rust-oleum dry erase paint. dent popped a red expo, had at the blank. “understated integration w education ideal / direct lines fr library 2 schools / work projects, food chain, paper making / neutra glass.” michael p. dent was raised drawing on walls, making the scene of his kid room a pollock of crayola red. his mother gave up at five, and had his walls routinely papered in white. natural born brainstormer, not many had it like he did. a longways half-watermelon shape fell from the line of dent’s pen, “like a whale mouth, a ball dome,” he said into the office’s dark, empty air. “what was that?”, said a curious cloris, mixing tomato juice, tobasco. “i said whale mouth. this is perfect.” ms. archangeli thought of whales, recent discovery shows, gaping holes in the earth. tomorrow she’d clean up good, take to the rails with the crew, and cut some serious teeth in peekskill.

    “i’m naw goo in bed,” a fumbling drunk olen struck convo, “itz naw dhat…” shush, shush, tamar stuck long finger to his mouth. “finish up, and let’s get home. no negatives.” olen tippied the highball to his lips, thought of that scene in catcher where holden watches a couple drink highballs. he looked at tamar’s chest, then at her ears, where hung a pressed lace of gold in each. tamar had pushed one drink too many down the noble maw of olen ragnarsson, and now she had to get him to a toilet. it was written on his brow, which sweat bullets, remained pasty. his cheeks had reddened. “you’re certainly a boy,” she said into his shoulder as he stood on a foot, “i’d hate to see you naked, but it looks like that’s in the cards, maybe a shower.” tab paid, 3 a.m., tamar naser lifted her architect and savior into a cab, pushing his behind with her bare foot as a shoe fell off. she enjoyed this sensation, stored it. “i just love your behind, mr. olen,” as she sat in the cab. “years of biathlon training gone to good use…vurrp.” at least his sense of humor stood erect, yet the rest of his body would fall into question. tamar had a plan for this, it involved her roommate, and a very large bed. “58th & 10th,” the yellow pulled out into traffic, the city beginning to rest, brooms at the doors.

    finger pointing, curses had finished darby & renee’s night at blue ribbon. darby himself making threats in an english not even he understood. renee’s legs shook under the aftershock of darby’s work. mr. mcclure seemed to have passed on the glow, opting instead for rancor to fill his larder. “…and i dinni’nt find a pearl, you swine!”, said a red-faced darby naked to the waist. “doll that’s oysters not sushi, and not much of a come back,” a flushed renee pushed him into a yellow. touching his cold back, done with red ink chains stretching around the torso, reminded renee of her cousin, mowing the lawn when she was six, shirtless, cursing the machine. snapping out of this dream, pressure in her pants, the cab pulled out, “chelsea hotel”, she said, and they were off, 11 p.m. “i’ve got a room, a hotel room. you and i are gonna burn it down, turn in early.” her quomodo proposition sweetened as the night lengthened. thoughts of employment somehow made their way in between darby’s two cold fingers. pressure, release, pressure. renee’s back arched, her foot pressing against the cab door. “how many pieces will you leave me in?”, she asked the man from glasgow. “eleven, one for every hour. that’s a promise, spitfire girl of a gori.” pushing into the hotel with arms slung under one another, the two breezed by the desk, making for the lift. a voice from the lobby posterior said, “welcome back ms. du lac.”, to which she quickly replied, “isn’t heeee marveluss?!?”

    “the foundation fronts 400,” terry offered her hand to ifa out of a cab. “we can match that with two-fif, that is, if dent can liquidate what’s necessary.” the ladies didn’t touch other than hands, walking up the sandstone steps to terry’s flat, talked more business. “estate offers book donations from their coffers and a revenue stream from tours. you should be set for the fiscal.” ifa reached for terry’s hem, tucked a ring finger behind a seam, breathed deeply. “two minutes talk, then I begin pulling.” terry could be seen blushing under the yellow hallway lights, “i’m done with numbers. give me that.” in updike’s worst sex scenes the protag always cups something supple. in contrast, these two bodies, tempered under tri-state realty rackets, merged roughly into one another, each to each a muscle for bone, a mouth for a mouth. it wasn’t much for ms. okereke, but terry had spin class legs. tomorrow morning, ifa’d be pants up and out the door by six. terry’d lie naked, still awake. heading back to bowery with a crick in her neck, ifa okereke would smell of whiskey & new business.

    bon weekend? quomodo comes back from vacay with a postcards. the samurai mount an offensive from grand central. everybody got some. darby’s sketching copy on a menu. renee just holds that muscle. dent & cloris build bullet points. olen ropes some dog hair for his hangover while tamar considers her roommate lucky. ms. okereke returns to rouse the lot, stops by a bodega for smokes. quomodo, it’s fallout shelter fabulous.