Here's a short story...crying out to be a book, or something.

Still waiting to hear back from the writing gig... and I 'm in a strange mood to watch some Audrey Hepburn. Actually, I want to watch every movie from the Golden Era of Hollywood. I miss the classiness of the 50's. Well, I can't miss it...I was never there. So I miss the depictions of classiness in the 50's in older films. But not the racism. Boo to racism. ANYWAY...

Here's the damn thing.

Chloe sorted through the stack of mail on her desk and stopped at a blue envelope embossed with gold lettering. It was from the Bachman Art Gallery downtown. As she opened the envelope, June strode up to her desk. Inside were two tickets to an opening Friday night for Carl Pulda, an up and coming photographer and painter.

“Um—“ she began.

“I was luckily able to grab some tickets at the last minute so that you don’t have to wave that horrid ‘press card’ around.  To be honest, I’d rather you not let anyone know who you are.”

“So am I reviewing the show, or interviewing the artist?”

“Both. But don’t make it seem like an interview. I just want a couple of good nuggets…” June smirked, shaking her head. She briskly walked away, peeking over various shoulders on her way back to the office.

“Carl Pulda,” she recited slowly. The name sounded familiar, but nothing came to her. She quickly pulled up Google and typed his name in the box. Nadine strolled around the corner, sitting her jealousy-enducing slim body on the edge of Chloe’s desk.

“Very good idea to look him up. It will save you a lot of embarrassment.”

“What do you mean?” Chloe asked, scrolling through the results. She clicked on an article that talked about his artistic genius, and how if the rest of the world were to look at the human anatomy as he did, the world would be in a much freer state of existence.

“Save yourself the pretty words. Just go to images.”

Chloe clicked on ‘Images’ and recoiled in shock. All of his artwork were photographs or paintings of

“Penises?” she said aloud. Nearby workers looked at her in confusion.

“Penises. Of all kinds. Black, white, asian, young,, old, really old—“

“Okay,” Chloe stopped her, holding a hand up. “I’m pickin up what you’re layin down, babe.”

“Yeah, and he’s layin down a lot of pipe,”

“On canvas.” Chloe clicked on a couple more photographs and paintings.

“But wait, you said, ‘young?’ How young are we talking?”

“Any age. The man does not discriminate.”

“Isn’t that illegal…? Or considered indecent?”

“Honey, it’s art. And completely consensual from the parents and kids. What else do you need?”

Chloe looked at the tickets again.

“It’s on Friday. You wanna come?” She asked, waving a ticket in front of her. Nadine took the ticket placing it down on the desk.

“Mm…love to, but mere images of penises just don’t turn me on like they used to. Besides, I have a date at the premier for The Barber of Seville.” she replied, raising her eyebrows.

“But you hate the opera. He must be hot.”

“Absolutely. His name is Gregory, and he’s a broker. My broker, in fact.”

“Mixing business with pleasure? Not a good idea…” Chloe warned. “What’s his last name?”

“Oh, no, you are NOT “Google-ing” this man to freak me out before I go on a date with him. Besides, I already know his romantic history. He’s been tied to Kate Winslet, and some model named Giovanna Bledel.”

“Really?” Chloe began typing rapidly.

“No! Chloe, I swear, I will not let you ruin this for me!” Nadine threw her body over the keyboard. Chloe laughed.

“If you already know about him, what’s the harm in satisfying my own personal curiosity? Besides, nobody can ruin your date but you. Or him, if he turns out to be some mentally unstable possessive guy that wants to lock you in his bedroom for three weeks like his father used to do to him. Or worse, he loves anal.”

Nadine stood up and stormed off to her desk, fists clenched.  Chloe loved to get under Nadine’s skin. The teasing really was for the best. She just wanted Nadine to understand that there had to be some boundaries…it wasn’t the 60’s anymore. Free love is a myth in this modern world of immediacy and instant boredom. The famous words, ‘Love is all you need’ were replaced by, ‘what’s in it for me?’ But Chloe was also aware that Nadine was merely playing a game, like the rest of them, mostly to test if her newfound weight loss really played such a factor in her attractiveness. She was coming to find that it did, and wanted to revel in it. None of her “relationships” (if you could call it that) meant a thing. There was nothing deeper in her constant trysts than the depth of her own womanhood. Chloe knew the day would come when the sex just wouldn’t be enough.

Chloe met up with Josephine on the corner of Maple and Third Ave.  As they walked down the street toward Bachman Art Gallery, Chloe nervously began to crack her knuckles.

“Honey, its okay, it’s just a penis,” Josephine reassured her.

“That’s not why I’m nervous. It’s my first job, and June says she doesn’t want anyone to know that I’m from the magazine. How am I going to get close enough?”

“Flirt! You’re an attractive woman. And if he turns out to be gay, impress him with your knowledge of him. I’m sure it’s his favorite subject,” Josephine checked her lipstick in her compact mirror.

After handing their tickets to the Doorman, they stepped into the gallery; it was dimly lit with hues of orange and a very light pastel green.  In the background there was light classical music being played.  The walls of the gallery were randomly holding Pulda’s paintings, while the prints were hung from the ceilings in darkroom fashion, creating makeshift aisle ways in the expansive space. The paintings were surprisingly colorful; it didn’t seem as if one piece had any less than four colors blended in it. The photographs were mostly black and white, but enhanced with chiaroscuro. However, the color photographs were the ones that stood out—Chloe actually managed to flinch slightly upon seeing one—making the male anatomy actually seem more graphic than all of the other pieces.

They walked around viewing all of the artwork, and it wasn’t too long before they were greeted with a cocktail waiter that offered the women champagne or Gin martinis.  Chloe began to look around for Carl Pulda, but she did not have to look too far. A young woman toward the back of the gallery began speaking into the microphone,

“Good evening fellow art lovers. My name is Clara Bachman. As owner of the Bachman Art Gallery, let me first thank you all for coming out tonight. You all are here to witness the beginning of a revolution in the art world.  I must say, I was so flattered to have Carl Pulda, extraordinary photographer and truly gifted painter offer to show his collection in my gallery. This is a man coming from quite humble beginnings…” as the woman continued to speak, Chloe overheard a woman nearby whisper to her colleague,

“Sure, if you call a home in the Upper East Side and boarding school in London ‘humble beginnings’. The brat was born with a silver spoon in his dick-loving mouth.”

“…so without further ado, please join me in welcoming the man of the hour, Carl Pulda!”  the entire audience clapped as the artist stepped up the platform to the microphone. He seemed to be only about 5’5” and was very slim, with strong, sexy Latin features, despite having very fair skin. He smiled shyly, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Pulda—what country is that name from?” Chloe whispered to Josephine, who was finishing off her champagne.

“Not his, that’s for sure,” she replied.  Chloe slowly nodded in agreement, deciding to write it off as a married name. Perhaps his mother remarried when he was a child, which would explain it. That, or he changed it to hide his heritage. But who does that anymore?

“Uh, thanks.” He cleared his throat, letting out a little bit of a whimper. “Uh, thank you all, for uh, for coming. I, uh…” he chuckled, shaking his head.  “I hate speaking in front of microphones, so just come talk to me after, okay? So, uh…enjoy the rest of your night.” He quickly stepped away from the mic, and everyone clapped again as if he had just given the Gettysburg Address, crowding around him instantaneously.

Chloe checked her watch. 7:45. She had 2 more hours to talk to him.

“Come on,” Josephine said, grabbing her hand. “Let’s eavesdrop on fancy art conversations.”

As they slowly ambled around, feigning interest in the paintings, a short round man surrounded by a very postmodern looking thick framed spectacled entourage stopped by one of the photographs of an 8 year old boy’s penis. It showed him from the waist down, and was one done in color.

The round man gasped loudly, startling everyone around him.

“My God! Can you believe this?! It’s absolutely beautiful! I MUST have it!”

“But, this isn’t for sale individually, Matthew,” one of the nerdy ones said.

“Nonsense!” He bellowed. “Money talks! I am the highest paid Art Critic in the Midwest! Let me see this Carl Pulda now!”  He spun around, immediately marching toward the back where Carl was being held hostage. His entourage quickly followed behind, muttering to each other how he was so ‘commanding!’ and how ‘rich’ he must be to demand something that wasn’t for sale.  Chloe and Josephine rolled their eyes at each other, completely aware of the type that tried too hard to be ‘a big deal’. Moving on to a painting of a rather ‘blessed’ subject, they walked in on a conversation between two gay men.

“That’s mine,” the redhead with the lime green t-shirt said. His counterpart, an older black man with a Gomez Adams mustache, quickly snapped his head toward him.

“Honey, that’s mine. Someone’s a little too confident. Yours is that tiny little thing all the way in the corner back there,” he replied, pointing to the back left corner of the gallery.

“Yeah, well, he saved the best for last. After all, he doesn’t just sleep with any model.”

“You did NOT sleep with him!” he whispered sharply, crossing his arms.

“Jealous?” the redhead asked, smiling.

“Hella,” The two men walked away to look at more, while Josephine and Chloe stayed around.

“You know, his stuff isn’t half bad,” Josephine said, looking around.

“Well, his use of chiaroscuro amazes me, especially in the black and whites of the older men. It actually makes them appear to be younger.”

Josephine stared at Chloe with a raised eyebrow.

“What? I like art, too, you know,” she replied, taking a long sip of her Martini and walking away. It was almost nine, and she still hadn’t gotten to Carl yet. It was time to go in.  She quickly downed the rest of the Martini, knowing she would need it for good luck.

“Whoa there, lady. You’re not trying to sleep with him, just talk to him,” Josephine said, taking the glass.

Chloe walked up to the crowd wondering how she would get through. She saw Carl in the center, grudgingly taking a photo with a young man from the Alternative Weekly free magazine. The short fat man, Matthew, was standing on his other side, obviously trying to convince him to sell the photograph of the child’s penis. Carl attempted to listen, but others yelling his name kept averting his attention.  Chloe could tell he was suffering, and did the only thing she could think of. She quickly grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray on the nearby podium, and pushed her way to the front. Readying herself, she yelled,

“Mr Pulda!” his eyes looked in her direction and she winked. Strategically, like a professional klutz, she threw the champagne in his general direction, spilling it on his jacket.

“Oh my God!” she said in mock horror, dropping the glass and rushing to his side.

The crowd gasped, while she used the downtime to grab his arm, pulling him away toward the bathroom.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry, Mr. Pulda. Please let me help you clean that up,” she escorted him into the bathroom, and asked a nearby waiter for soda water and a towel. Carl took off his jacket, grabbing paper towel to blot his shirt.

“Excuse the drastic measures,” she said, once the door closed.

“It’s alright—I was being eaten alive out there,” he replied. The waiter came back with a glass of soda water and a towel. Chloe thanked him and then pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her clutch, handing it to him and whispering into his ear. He quickly nodded, leaving.

Chloe began cleaning up his jacket, leaning against the wall. After a few minutes, Carl broke the silence.

“So, uh, what was that for? I mean, I’m thankful, but you probably want something, I assume.”

“Please don’t get mad, but I did want to have a chance to talk to you, Mr. Pulda.”

“Carl,” he washed his hands, smiling at her.

“Carl. Your artwork, I have to admit, completely startled me when I first saw it.”

“It’s…an acquired taste, yes.”

“So what made you choose photographs as one of the mediums?”  She grabbed a dry paper towel to dry the jacket off.

“Well to be honest, I like to push the envelope—“

“Mr. Pulda! We know you’re in here! That little ‘Out of Order’ sign doesn’t fool us!” a lady yelled outside the door, rapping incessantly. Carl looked at Chloe with a raised eyebrow.

“Darn. Foiled again,” Chloe said, snapping her fingers. She handed the jacket back to him.

“Look, if you’re not busy tomorrow, can I meet you for lunch? We can continue this conversation, and you can get your article finished,” he fixed his tie and collar in the mirror.  Chloe’s mouth hung open. Was it that obvious?

“Oh—I---okay.” She fumbled in her purse, pulling out a business card and handing it to him. He looked it over and held out his hand.

“She has a name! Nice to meet you Chloe Grier,” she sheepishly took his hand.

“You too Carl Pulda. Until tomorrow,”

He opened the door for her, letting her face the unscrupulous crowd first. They stared at her questioningly, but darted their attention back to Carl when he stepped out. Josephine was chatting with one of the waiters by the bar that seemed to be trying to give her his number.  She pushed his hand back, but he tried to hand it to her again. When Chloe walked up, she immediately grabbed her waist.

“Here she is. Joseph, meet Chloe.” Chloe smiled, knowing she stepped into something, while Joseph eyed her up and down.

“You don’t look like a dyke,” he said, crossing his arms.

“We walk amongst you, you know,” Chloe replied in a low voice. She then pulled Josephine away, walking toward the door.

“So did you get what you needed?” she asked.

“No, but I got him alone long enough for me to give him my number. We’re having lunch tomorrow.”

“Chloe! What did I tell you?”

“Relax, it’s for the article. He knows I’m press.”

“Mm-hmm,” Josephine wasn’t convinced. But Chloe had to admit; she wasn’t too sure herself.  Either way, she would be able to get her first Arts and Entertainment article finished with the possibility of an artist exclusive. 

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~