“Ooooh, this sounds like Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit.”
“Except it was the Amish version,” Edison said. She stared straight ahead. “I grew up Amish.”
“Amish?” Jordan hit her head on the roof of the Bug. “As in bonnets and long dresses and no cell phones Amish?”
“Is there another kind?”
“Amish? You’re Amish. Seriously?” Jordan was on the verge of laughing until she saw the pain etched across Edison’s face.
Edison covered her face with her hands. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that while you’re driving,” Jordan said, reaching over and grabbing the wheel. Maybe that’s why Edison is such a horrible driver, Jordan thought. Driving a buggy must be a lot different from driving a car. “I didn’t even know Portland had Amish communities,” she said.
Edison took the wheel and miraculously even slowed down. “I’m not from here. I lived in Ohio. I came here after I was shunned.”
“You were shunned? Like thrown out?”
“Yes.”
Jordan was beginning to feel like Detective Joe Friday in Dragnet—she’d loved that show when she was growing up, of course she had been watching ancient reruns not the originals. Plumbing Edison was a “just the facts” kind of interview Joe Friday liked only Jordan wanted the story and a lot more than just the facts. “Why?”
“I was raised in Holmes County, Ohio. We were Swartzentruber, but mother insisted we have a flower garden and a paved driveway so we were already living on the edge.”
Jordan was already lost. You can’t have a paved driveway if you’re Amish? And what did flower beds have to do with anything? “What’s Swartzentruber?”
“It’s like the super Amish. They think other Amish people are not strict enough. My people don’t have running water or electricity. They take the buggy thing seriously. We couldn’t even have one of those reflective triangles on the back of the buggy. Do you know how unsafe that it? We couldn’t use anything reflective.”
“What? You’re being serious here?” Jordan honestly thought Edison was fucking with her and she’d burst out laughing saying something like “I really had you there,” only that part of the script didn’t appear to be showing up.
“Yes. It was the reflective triangle and the sidelong glances between me and Melly that got me shunned. Melly was the preacher’s daughter,” Edison said.
Jordan was lost. “So the triangle was like a symbol of your love or something?”
“No. Even then I was known for my inventions. Being Amish and having limited contact with the outside world, I didn’t know about modern technology. I didn’t known about most ancient technology either. I used to spend my nights in secret in the barn, inventing things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Oh, you know, the Chop-o-matic, Wart Remover, The Clap On-Clap Off, which was much harder to make with oil lanterns than its electrical cousin.”
“I bet,” Jordan muttered.
“Anyway, I had noticed a need for a reflective paint. There had been too many buggy accidents. You can’t see a black buggy on a dirt road at night, you know. One night, Melly and her mother were out helping one of the sick people and they got rear ended by a couple of teenagers who were out for a drive. Actually, I think she was giving her boyfriend a blow job while he drove. They smashed into Melly’s buggy. They weren’t going very fast probably because of the blow job and well they crashed and she bit his penis off.”
Jordan’s mouth gaped open. “Like in The World According to Garp kind of bit off?”
Edison nodded. “The townspeople got a little uptight about it. The loss of the penis proved to be the proverbial straw and things got ugly.”
That was when Jordan realized that the loss of the boy’s penis and Edison’s predilection for inventing fake penii might have an emotional connection. “Then what happened?”
“I tried to fix things. I experimented with fluorescents.”
Jordan thought Edison said that in the same way most people say, “I experimented with drugs.” Jordan pulled the rubber ball out of her pocket and squeezed it. She was now using it as a stress ball. “I’m getting lost. What do fluorescents have to do with Melly?”
Edison flattened out her lips and furrowed her brow. “Let me tell the story in chronological order. I was eighteen and I kissed Melly in the barn. We professed our love. The accident happened. I snuck into the hardware store and stole coated phosphorescent pigment and a gallon of green paint. It’s the only thing I’ve ever stolen. With Melly’s help we painted all the backs of the buggies so they would glow in the dark. This appeased the townspeople. They thought the Swartzentrubers had caved. It was a triumph. I hadn’t counted on that. I just wanted everyone to be safe. I could’ve lost Melly in that accident. Word got out and that was the end of everything. The elders found out who’d done it and I was finished. I claimed full responsibility but Melly got in trouble too. She was only seventeen so she couldn’t go with me. Her parents sent her to live with relatives in Pennsylvania. I never saw her again.” Edison wiped a tear. “I hitch-hiked here.”
“Wow,” Jordan said, shaking her head.
“Don’t tell anybody, okay?”
“Okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”
"Anyway, I'm sorry your lunch date didn't work out," Edison said. "The whole dating game is over-rated. Don't feel bad about it. Lots of people are dating-challenged. You're just one of those people. Me, too. That's why we have each other. As friends, I know what you're thinking, as friends. I totally agree with your assessment on that matter. But if you ask me, and I know you're not, but if you did ask me, I'd say that today's dating disaster was worth it. Now you know that you and Amy aren't compatible. You got it out of your system. You're free to move on."
"Actually," Jordan said, "we have another date tomorrow."
Edison punched the gas and swerved the car around another corner. Jordan hung on for dear life.
Lesbians in the Mist
Amy was nervous. Everything in her mind told her not to go. However, everything in her body told her to go. She was stuck somewhere in between, vacillating between bliss and fear. The middle ground was nerves and that was where she was now. After the almost kiss yesterday under the table, Jordan had asked her to go to the art museum with her. Her mouth said yes without even consulting her brain.
Her brain had kept her up most of the night, dredging up excuse after excuse after excuse as to why she should not go on a date, technically a second date, with a gorgeous, sexy lesbian. Here were the reasons in no particular order:
Dating a lesbian would mean she was a lesbian and if she was a lesbian then --
She couldn’t wear her cute shoes anymore.
She would have to get her hair cut short and that meant it would curl into its natural afro state. Not her best look.
She would have to carry her lipstick in her pocket because lesbians don't carry purses.
They also don't wear lipstick so nix on the last reason.
She would have to learn to cook so she could attend lesbian potlucks.
She would have to learn to like hummus. And learn how to pronounce it.
She would have to get a cat.
Then in an act of fairness, her brain came up with reasons to become a lesbian. Here were the reasons in no particular order:
She would save a lot of money by not buying…
Pantyhose
Dresses
Make-up
Curlers
Razors - she was uncertain whether lesbians shaved their legs or under their arms. She hoped so.
She could share a wardrobe with Jordan.
Amy knew she was being a little silly. Not all lesbians were exactly alike. She had seen a couple of episodes of The L Word. She was pretty sure her career wouldn't suffer and her mother - her father was long gone - would eventually warm to the idea. Still… it was a pretty big step. Especially, for someone as clumsy in bed as she was.
See prior banana peel story. However, Jordan had woken up certain parts of her body that had been hibernating for the past ten years. And like a Mama Bear crawling out of her cave after a long winter's nap, Amy was ravenous.
Amy wished somebody would write a guide book. Lesbianism for Dummies. It would make things a whole lot easier. Or maybe she should infiltrate the periphery of lesbians. Study their culture, their mating habits, their sense of humor, (assuming they had one), their sense of style, (assuming they had that also). She could acquaint and acclimate herself to lesbians after careful study. She could be the Diane Fossey of Lesbians.
Early in the a.m. hours after zilch sleep, Amy decided to quit thinking with her brain. She made a pledge with herself to leave her brain out of the equation and let her heart and body do all the thinking.
The next morning, her heart and body took a shower, bought a new, funky wardrobe and picked up her new car.
First Kiss
Amy parked her new Smart car right in front of the Portland Art Museum, marveling how it could fit anywhere. It was a bright yellow and was cute to boot. She loved how it complimented her new Tardis Blue Converse high top sneakers. She had also followed Isabel’s gypsy advice and purchased a dozen do-rags to wear while at work. She felt they gave her flair.
Amy hurried up the museum steps, her mind blank, her heart pounding, her body tingly. She was so deliriously happy at the prospect of spending the afternoon with Jordan that she didn't even feel tired or sleepy; she felt exhilarated.
She was barely inside the lobby when Jordan appeared in front of her. Jordan was wearing a pair of baggy plaid shorts (she had shaved legs, thank God) and a plain white T-shirt. She had on sandals and her toenails were painted red. She was adorable.
"I hope I'm not late," Amy said for want of anything more original to say.
"C'mon," Jordan said, taking her by the hand and pulling her toward the escalator.
"What's the rush?"
"No rush. I just want you to see what I found."
Jordan pulled her up the escalator, taking the steps two at a time, and down the wide hallway. She pulled Amy into a room and stepped directly in front of her. "Close your eyes.”
"We're in a museum," Amy said, "I thought the whole idea was to see things."
"You will, you will, trust me. Close your eyes."
Amy did as told. Jordan took her hands and slowly walked her forward. Then Jordan put her hands on Amy's shoulders and pressed down, saying, "Sit."
Amy sat. She felt Jordan sit beside her.
"Okay, now you can open your eyes.”
Amy opened her eyes. She saw a large painting, covering most of the wall. It was whirls upon swirls of bright, thick paint. Bold strokes of every color imaginable. A mass of writhing, curving, serpentine vividness.
"What do you see?" Jordan asked.
Amy looked at Jordan. "Is this a trick question?"
Jordan shook her head. "No, not at all. I'm just wondering what you see."
Amy looked back at the painting. She tilted her head to the right. "I don't know. It's interesting in a messy kind of way."
"Keep looking."
She looked at Jordan. Jordan was clearly enraptured with the painting.
Amy looked at it again, determined to see something. She tilted her head to the left. She still couldn't discern any shapes, any type of anything. She thought it looked like a colorful tornado. Or maybe a bunch of different paints being flushed down a toilet. Or a rainbow caught in a whirlpool.
She looked back at Jordan and studied her profile as she gazed at the painting. Amy asked, "What do you see?"
Jordan took her time answering, "Ecstasy. Surprise. Gratitude. Joy. Elation. Happiness."
"All that?"
"And more. So much more."
"Hmmm," Amy said. Clearly she wasn't up to snuff on modern art. She looked back to the painting and tried to see what Jordan had described. "But those are feelings."
"True."
"So, you're telling me that you're seeing emotions when you look at this painting?" Amy asked.
Jordan looked at Amy and smiled. "That's what art does. It shows you emotions."
“Oh.”
"Close your eyes again," Jordan said.
Amy closed her eyes, wondering where Jordan was going to take her this time. But instead of taking her by the hand, Jordan kissed her.
Amy savored the feel of Jordan's lips on hers, the tingling, ecstatic, joyful feel of a simple kiss.
"You can open your eyes now," Jordan said.
Amy did. She followed Jordan's gaze back to the painting. And this time, the colors swelled to life. They danced and twirled across the canvas. And she felt it. It was tiny at first, no more than a pin prick. It centered in her chest, then grew larger and larger. It was warm. Was she glowing? She felt as if she were lit from the inside like one of those paper Chinese lanterns.
Amy didn’t know how to describe it. She had no words for this feeling. It was more. More. So much more than a kiss.
“Maybe I do see a little something,” Amy whispered with her eyes still glued to the painting.
Car, Duct Tape, Art
Jordan and Amy stood on the museum steps, each wanting to spend more time with the other, each unwilling to let the afternoon go.
Amy said, "I can't believe I've never visited here before."
"I come here all the time. At least once a week. I find it very inspiring. Especially the children's art. They have such freedom.” Jordan led the way down the steps and to the bicycle rack where she had locked up her bike.
Amy said, "So, when you're painting, which comes first, the color or the emotion behind it?"
"It's hard to explain. Colors can make me feel, but feelings make me see colors. It's a matter of translating the feeling into color and onto the canvas. You've heard of the expression 'seeing red?'"
"Sure, when somebody's angry," Amy said.
Suddenly, Jordan's face turned a bright crimson. She clenched her fists and spun in a circle, punching the air, saying, "Damndamndamn! I can't believe it!"
Amy laughed at Jordan's antics. "I know what anger looks like," she said. "You don't have to show me."
"I'm not showing you. I am angry!" Jordan said. "Look!" She pointed at her lime green Trek bicycle. Both tires were flat.
"Oh my God," Amy gasped. She moved in for a closer look. "The tires have been slashed. Who would've done such a thing?"
"I have a good idea." Jordan fumed and paced away from the bike. Petronella had obviously followed her again. When she saw her kissing Amy, she'd taken out her revenge on the bike.
Jordan wiped her hand over her face, took a shaky breath and collected herself. "Sorry I lost it like that." Now, she was embarrassed. She didn’t want Amy to think she needed anger management classes, but this clandestine vandalism was getting old. Petronella had demolished her car, now her bike. What was next? She’d be reduced to roller blades?
"I'll give you ride home," Amy said.
"Okay," Jordan said. “Thank you.”
Jordan carried the bike, following Amy to her car. Jordan scrunched her face up when she stared at the car. “This is it?”
“Yes.”
“I like it,” Jordan said, leaning her bike up against the parking meter. She walked around the car. “It’s adorable.”
“It doesn’t have a trunk exactly.”
“Oh, that’s all right. We’ll just Duct tape the bike to the roof,” Jordan said.
“Really?”
“Sure. I’ll line the part that touches the roof so it won’t get sticky.”
“But I don’t have any Duct tape,” Amy said.
“I do,” Jordan said, pulling a roll of hot pink tape from a small leather bag that hung behind her bicycle seat.
“Wow,” Amy said. “Maybe I should buy stock in Duct tape.”
In a matter of minutes, Jordan had her bike secured to the top of the car. Amy backed away from the car and studied it. “It looks like art. Like some kind
of modern art sculpture.”
“It really does doesn’t it?” Jordan said.
A Japanese man stopped by the car, whipped out a camera and took a picture. Several other pedestrians stopped and gazed at the car. “Amazing,” one man said. “It’s a very interesting juxtaposition on the evolutionary drama between humans and their various modes of transportation.”
Amy giggled.
Jordan shrugged. “You can turn anything into art.”
Soon, there was a large crowd of people gathered around the car. Cameras flashed, people talked excitedly, throwing around phrases like social commentary and melding of reality and art. A pencil thin woman wearing glasses, emerged from the crowd, ran up the museum steps, stopped turned and flashed off several photos of the car and bike. Then she pulled a steno pad out of her purse and called out, “Who is the artist? Does anybody know the artist?”
Jordan stepped forward and pointed an accusing finger at Amy. “She’s the artist.”
Amy playfully slugged Jordan’s arm. Jordan whispered, “Just go along with it.”
The woman hurried over to Amy. “How wonderful to meet you. Do you mind giving me an interview? I work for The Oregonian. I would love to feature you in our paper as an up and coming artist. What’s your name?”
The crowd of people surrounded Jordan and Amy, cutting off any easy escape route.
Amy eyes widened. She looked to Jordan for help. Jordan stepped up to the plate and told the reporter, “Sorry, but she’s quite shy. You know artists and their peculiarities. Her name is Amy Stewart. This installation piece is entitled “First Kiss.”
“What an unusual title,” the reporter said. “Is there a meaning behind it?”
Jordan raised an eyebrow at Amy, openly daring her to continue the charade. Amy accepted the dare and spoke up, “it’s the melding of… it’s about… Well, look it’s a car, right? A tiny car that is as much like a bike as it is a car. And you have a bike. A wounded bike. Its tires are slashed and it may never… transport… again. Until it meets the car. Then through the power of Duct tape it is carried by the car. So, it’s like kindred spirits. Meeting.”
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