Brief Pose

by Wesley McCraw

  Sex would require other people, and needing people is not who I am. For the first time in a long time, my lack of a love life feels dysfunctional.

  Customers continue to flood in.

  On my break, outside on the sidewalk, I gaze longingly at the BP storefront. I check if Loo is watching me. BP has officially opened, and I don’t want her seeing me going over there.

  Loo, unaware of me watching, takes cash from the register and hands back some change. If there’s anyone I could possibly have sex with, it’s Loo.

  No. Royally bad idea. I’m her superior. We work together. We’re friends. Sort of.

  She smiles and looks customers in the eye, treating everyone with warmth and respect, even on a day like today. She doesn’t judge them just because they like something as mainstream as Mermaid Coffee Co. Maybe she sees them as patrons visiting her art installation.

  “Any change?”

  Marshall stands beside me.

  “Sorry, Marshall. No change today.”

  People come out of Brief Pose with bags printed with muscular male torsos. I don’t know if it’s the shoppers or my shitty Thanksgiving or what, but my social isolation, which usually makes me feel safe, is making me panic. Usually, superficial interactions with coworkers and customers are more than enough human contact. Not today. Something is wrong with me.

  I have no one. And it hurts. Bad. I’m worthless. No one will mourn me when I die. If I don’t hold onto someone right now, I’ll float off the earth into the cold, airless abyss of space. I almost grab Marshall and shake him.

  “Are you okay?” Marshall says.

  “I’m fine.”

  I could scream. I watch Brief Pose as if it might come for me, the people going in and out, the huge posters, and the simple font of the signage. Another catalog is waiting inside. I’m not sure why, but my whole life is in there. I could even buy a shirt. I’ve wanted to try on some of their clothing for forever. When was the last time I updated my wardrobe? It will at least be a distraction. It won’t fix anything, but it’s the only thing I can think to do, and it’s right there in front of me.

  YUKI MYAZAKI, a mysterious twenty-something Japanese American, stands by the entrance. She wears BP clothing, so I assume she works there and is on her break. Her expression is enigmatic. She knows something I don’t.

  We make eye contact for a moment. I’m the first to look away, not wanting her to think I’m staring.

  I don’t realize it at the time, but this is when I meet a lot of significant people that will change my life. Often in a screenplay, major characters get a brief introduction after their name that reveals information that wouldn’t necessarily be evident in the scene. Obviously, I don’t know Yuki’s name yet, or Tara’s for that matter, but immediately establishing names helps distinguish characters that in the finished film would be easily identifiable by sight. It also gives actors, agents, casting director, and others involved with the project a clearer idea about the available parts. Scan the screenplay for a name in all caps and you can see a thumbnail sketch of the part and the scene in which they are introduced to the audience.

  In the coffee shop, Loo is still distracted. If I act now, she won't notice me crossing the street.

  I wait for an opening in the traffic.

  “There'll be change soon enough,” Marshall says.

  I dart across the street.

  Yuki smiles (maybe smirks), and I smile back as I pull open the door. That one positive moment makes me feel more stable, as if one day I could still belong somewhere if I tried.

  “Hey! What’s up?”

  BP employee HUNTER ETIENNE, a 21-year-old, dressed in cargo shorts and a BP polo, greets me in the entryway. His black skin and buzzed scalp contrasts with the huge poster of white, exposed skin behind him. They probably have Hunter here greeting people because of the accusations that BP lacks diversity. Or because of his smile. He has a damn cute smile.

  TECHNO CHRISTMAS MUSIC blares from further inside the store. In a screenplay, sound effects and music are also in caps. I don’t make the rules.

  Hunter’s smile fades but not completely.

  “You know that dude?” He gestures with his chin through the doors and back across the street.

  “The homeless guy?” I say, surprised the greeter is talking to me.

  “The dude grabbed me, yelling about his wife and kid. Total freak. Is he always out there?”

  “They're both dead.”

  My bluntness seems to shock him, and so I explain: “A Lite-Brite knockoff had a faulty wire or something. His family died in the fire. He’s harmless. Really.”

  Why are people surprised that the homeless have histories too? I leave Hunter and make my way through the crowd.

  The music and catalog smell and clothing and customers and posters overstimulate me. Why are there so many ordinary people here? This place is my private secret. The BP employees can stay, though; most are attractive enough. I hunger for that catalog in my hands. I need it! I’m distantly aware through all this that I’m becoming unhinged.

  An intimidating, uniformed marine RILEY MICHALAK leers at BP employee FIONA CORRIE as she passes.

  “Hoo Rah,” Riley says. He’s handsome yet a bit of a lug, with rounded, muscled shoulders.

  Fiona has that pale redhead thing going for her, and she ignores Riley’s leering.

  All these people crowding in reminds me of my dream, of the cocoon of naked people crushing in on all sides. I just need to get a catalog, and I can be outside again.

  There! Catalogs are stacked by the checkout as an impulse buy. Behind the counter, the TVs show models frolicking on a college campus.

  ABIGAIL OCAMPO, an overweight, female geek, buys at least five catalogs. She can’t be much older than sixteen. She appears repulsive compared to the models on the walls and on the monitors and the skinny female mannequins everywhere. I doubt they have clothes in her size. Her black shirt reads, “The truth is out there.” Does she realize she’s pretty much buying porn?

  Loo is right. This company is evil. Nobody can feel good compared to naked perfection. I’ll purchase a catalog and never come back.

  And a shirt. I at least need a shirt.

  Tara meditates like a beautiful Buddha on the counter with her legs folded and her hands in a complicated mudra, while her coworkers struggle to keep up with the demands of opening day on Black Friday. Her peaceful expression calms me a little. Next to her are stacks of more catalogs. A sign reads, “18+ only.”

  She opens her eyes. “It's a real escape.” She winks.

  “The catalog?” I’m an idiot. She must be talking about her meditation.

  She gets down off the counter.

  I seize a catalog. It’s good to have one in my hands again. I feel safer somehow, more solid.

  BP employee ADAM KLINE, a jock in his 20s, mans one of the registers. He’s attractive enough that being near him makes me feel awkward and inadequate. A fantasy of us experiencing the catalog together, admiring each page while jacking off, enters my brain without me wanting it there. What is wrong with me?

  “Tara. Check this out.” He pushes a button on the wall.

  The videos change to surveillance feeds from inside the store.

  A live VIDEO FEED shows Tara and me in black and white from a high angle. We look up into the lens.

  “Tell me those were just hooked up,” Tara says.

  Maybe the cameras caught Tara masturbating. Someone could have been watching. Are the feeds piped to some evil BP headquarters somewhere? Will the footage show up on the net?

  “I'm sure they're closed circuit,” I say.

  She gives me a sharp look that tells me to stay quiet.

  In addition to the catalog, I buy a few shirts and a pair of jeans (more than I can afford) without trying them on.

  The BP bag makes me feel awkward. An inch lower and you would see the guy’s junk. How do straight men feel about caring these around? Maybe it never occurs to them that the pictures
on the sides are so sexual.

  Loo sees me red handed but doesn't say anything.

  I'm not sure why I thought I’d be able to keep my trip to BP a secret. I put the bag behind the desk in the back room and go back out front, feeling remarkably better, and make it through the rest of my shift without having a panic attack.

  4.7

  I try on my new clothes once I get back to my apartment. They’d fit better if I had more muscle to fill them out: a bigger chest, shoulders, biceps, and a slightly slimmer waist, really get that masculine V-shape to my torso going. I don't have any place to wear my new clothes--all I do is work, and at work, I have to wear my uniform--and then I remember Loo's art thingy tonight.

  Wouldn’t she be shocked if I showed? She thinks she knows me so well.

  Mentally, things have stabilized, but for a while there, I was not myself. Crowds give me anxiety, but it was more than that. I’m not sure what was going on, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize my isolation is unhealthy. I get it. I’m not completely thick.

  In the mirror, I examine myself in my new BP clothes. I'm in okay shape. I don’t look that bad. I can hang out for a little bit and show Loo that I care about her success. It’s not that big a deal. After all, we hang out at work all the time.

  I select a single black rose from the twenty-four-hour flower mart near my apartment and, too energized to take a cab, walk a good hour to the show.

  The Wharf is a trendy art gallery on the waterfront. Clouds block the moon, and the nearest street light doesn’t work, so the area out front is dark.

  I hang in the shadows and spy through the window.

  Despite how late it is, the place is packed. If I go inside, I’ll be amongst edgy Goth girls and punk types. And hipsters. There are judgmental, asshole hipsters everywhere, dressed in turn of the century suits. At least six men have ridiculous beards. I’d be a hipster if I knew how (I am an asshole after all), but ironic style and chasing cool have never made much sense to me.

  I hold the rose to my chest, to the Brief Pose logo, and realize my new look will impress exactly no one. These artist types pride themselves on hating the mainstream and embracing individualized self-expression. I'm just another sheep duped by sexy advertisements. What could be more mainstream than BP?

  Inside, Loo hangs on VICTOR ROSS, an arty bohemian in his late-twenties of indeterminable ethnicity. He wears skinny jeans, a vest, and a bandanna, miraculously not quite falling into hipster parody.

  They stand near a dark painting of a penis that stabs through a heart and pees out the other side.

  Goth art fills the place, some of it covers the walls like graffiti. How much of it’s Loo’s? Did she do all this? Some of it is pretty impressive, and a definite evolution of Loo’s dark yet playful aesthetic. She has gotten so good! Look at that tentacle monster that changes into crows.

  She talks into Victor's ear, and he laughs. They must be together. Why did she even invite me here? I’m not one of these people, and she has a handsome suitor hanging off her to keep her company.

  I throw the black rose on top of an overflowing garbage can at the corner of the block and trek back to my apartment. The whole time I’m fuming.

  Fuck her. Fuck her whole scene of pretentious assholes.

  4.8

  The next morning I’m still angry as I get ready for work. I’m normally so numb that these mood swings are scaring me. I’ve been looking at the catalog, but it hasn’t helped.

  A few blocks down the street from my apartment, the Brief Pose billboard of the cavorting friends has been altered: Skulls have replaced the models' perfect faces.

  I grasp at my messenger bag to make sure the catalog is still in there and stare at the billboard for longer than I intend (we open soon).

  The skulls are melted like wax, with eyes and mouths that gape. It’s disturbing. “Brief Pose” has been changed to “Body Poison.” It’s a personal attack. My house has been invaded and burglarized.

  I exhale warm breath into my cupped hands and rub my freezing fingers.

  I glance around, suspicious the graffiti artist might be nearby.

  It’s still early, and no one is around.

  4.9

  As Loo and I prepare to open the cafe together, even before I’ve caught my breath from running most of the way to work, I realize where I've seen those skulls before, or at least something very similar.

  “You did the skulls,” I say. “By my apartment.”

  (Some of her paintings at The Wharf were in the same style.)

  “I was wondering if you’d notice. You were a no-show, so I thought, why not bring my art to you? How did you know it was me?”

  “I showed. You just didn’t notice me. You were too preoccupied with that guy you were hanging on.”

  “Did you come inside?”

  “You defaced a billboard.”

  “It's called Culture Jamming. You like?”

  “It's called vandalism. That was someone’s property.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “You’re the one that’s not serious.” What does she want Brief Pose to do, use ugly people in their advertisements? Or maybe they shouldn’t advertise at all. Oh wait, she’s not suggesting solutions. She’s just trying to feel like a revolutionary. “Stop pretending you’re doing us all a favor.”

  “You’re jealous.”

  “What?”

  “You should’ve stayed around. You missed out. You could’ve seen me crash and burn.”

  “The place was packed.”

  “Whatever.”

  Throughout the rest of the day, she gives me the silent treatment again, which she does whenever she’s mad at me. Normally I like the quiet, but this time, it gets under my skin. She’s a talented artist. I used to think that was a quality I wanted to be around. I thought it would help me get back into filmmaking, but I’m not that person anymore. I imagine all the time the movies I could film, but being around Loo only makes me feel worse that those films will never be a reality. I need to let the ambitious part of myself die. And that means letting Loo go. We don’t have anything in common. She wants a revolution. I just want a place to belong.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Break into Two

  5.1

  To escape my coworkers (I’m their supervisor, not their friend, and that’s how it should stay), I go over to Brief Pose every day between my shifts. Over time, I learn people's names, mostly by overhearing their conversations.

  A core group of five people gets most of the hours. I cast them along with the models from the catalog in my imaginary films. When I get to know them better, I imagine filming a documentary or even a reality TV show about their interpersonal dramas.

  Adam Kline is into Rugby, beer, and getting laid. His enthusiasm makes me uncomfortable, and so I minimize our interactions. Most people find his zest for life charming. He flirts in a playful way that the girls seem to like. He’s close with Hunter, the black guy, who I’ve probably talked with the most, and the marine Riley, who doesn’t work here but hangs out a lot. The three of them play on a men’s 15s rugby team. The morning after a game Adam orders ginger tea because of his hangover, instead of his usual blended iced coffee that he always seems to drinks too fast, triggering brain freeze.

  Hunter Etienne might be the first black guy I’ve ever really gotten to know. Unlike Riley and Adam, he never seems hungover after their nights out drinking. He’s extremely friendly, always smiling, and talks a lot about the drama in the store. Adam has a tendency to steamroll over people with his macho banter, and I think Hunter just likes that I listen without interrupting.

  The three girls that get the most hours (a redhead, a blonde, and a brunette) get along remarkably well, at least a lot better than the girls at my work. They often come into Mermaid Coffee Co. together and order skinny lattes. I couldn’t have cast them better. They have a real chemistry that’s almost impossible to capture on screen or with a screenplay. Sometimes it’s hard to tell that T
ara is the manager. They all act so casually with each other.

  Fiona Corrie, the redhead, doesn’t really talk about herself. Most of the things I’ve heard about her are from Hunter. Riley has a thing for her, apparently for him it was love at first sight (“Hoo Ra”), but she isn't having any of it. She’s self-deprecating, often complaining about her freckles and pale skin, which of course look gorgeous on her. Out of the three girls, she plays the innocent, shocked by almost everything they say. I’ve gathered that she often takes time off to go to casting calls.

  Despite the collegiate public image of Brief Pose, the only college student of the core group is Juliet Stevens, the blonde. She’s an outspoken feminist and studying something technical, like physics or biochemistry. She’s in the same math class as JuanCarlos. Loo has been giving him advice on how to woo Juliet, mostly advising play it cool and treat her with respect, but Juliet’s nerdy interests, while making her easy to talk to, make her hard to flirt with. Everyone seems to end up in the friend zone by default. JuanCarlos isn’t alone in his crush. The guys that visit her at work appear to be in love with her too, and she always seems purposefully oblivious.

  I’m hoping Juliet is a lesbian and has a thing for chaste Fiona. I’d love to see JuanCarlos get shot down. Sexuality is hard to tell with girls, though. They always touch each other and give compliments and act flirty.

  These people are my personal soap opera.

  And then there’s Tara, of course, the most authoritative of the women. She’s an exceptionally young manager for a retail store in the heart of the city. She could probably kick my ass, she does kickboxing or Tae Kwon Do or something and has this Zen quality that seems borderline crazy. She spouts Buddhism at the weirdest times. “Walk as if you’re kissing the Earth with your feet.” “You only lose that which you cling to.” “Embrace faith and let go of certainty.” “People suffer only because they take seriously what the gods made for fun.” She’s also blunt, in a non-judgmental way that I relate too, that comes off as bitchy to most guys, like the time she told Riley to stop being a sexist pig and show some respect, then maybe women would like him more. She kind of rocks. She’s also curvier than Juliet and Fiona, like she actually eats food.