by Jeff Carlson
Someone would surely object to his placing a group of young women way down on the leg when the young men graced the shoulder, no matter that the space in between was filled perfectly with themes of age, professions, shots of guys shopping and girls watching sports.
This was Bezerkley after all, so packed with liberal freaks that during the Vietnam War, their city leaders had actually proposed seceding from the United States of America.
Someone would cry sexism and Sauber dreamed of protests and media frenzies. He wasn't stupid. He had learned that talent wasn't enough to sell — and controversy was publicity. He might even get national coverage after people started recognizing themselves inside the skin and filing lawsuits.
"Please," Nina said. "I'm better than anything in here."
She lifted a Greenwald's photo packet from her purse. Thirty-six exposures, regular 35mm film. Jennifer Crisp. She'd stolen it herself!
Sauber reached for the packet and Nina flashed her chipped tooth at him and laughed.
Moments later, they began to spread other lives across his kitchen counter, their fingers bumping together again and again, warm, eager.
"That one's ridiculous," she said. "Throw it out."
"You won't find a camera owner in the world who doesn't line up their friends and tell them to smile."
"In a parking lot. Jesus."
"But don't you see what's happening, the blonde's always in the middle and the fat one's on the end again. There's a whole series here. The dynamic—
"Boring! Throw it out."
#
"Ooh, look at all that sushi, the colors are—"
"Come on, these Barbies don't have any imagination, they're just posing again. We got a bad batch."
#
"Jesus. Now this lady needs help."
"Are you kidding? I love this shot."
"It's of a wall, Sauber. The camera must've gone off by accident."
"...there isn't space for it anyway."
#
Sauber didn't object when Nina swept both sets of pictures into the garbage in great, messy handfuls. He liked the way that she pinballed through her decisions. Typically he'd brood over shots for days, even those he knew he wouldn't use, gleaning clues and patterns, groping his way into different realities.
She clapped her hands together. "It must have taken forever to get all the pictures you needed."
He shrugged and nodded.
"I can show you whole libraries of stuff. Edgy. Weird. We'll download whatever you want."
"Download."
She flashed that tooth again.
#
Parking in her neighborhood was impossible. Nina beat her hand on the steering wheel impatiently and Sauber hid a smile as they glided up the street and down again.
Even in low gear, they moved faster than he could walk, allowing only time for fleeting impressions. It made him drunk. The Berkeley hills were thickly populated and the steep lots demanded unusual architecture — houses with rooms lined up like train cars, tiny yards on top of jutting roofs.
Her place reeked of candle wax and incense, a tiny attic studio at the same level as the uphill street. Her kitchenette looked directly out on the tires of parked cars. Sauber loved it. He imagined eating breakfast at the window, watching shoes match up with vehicles as each morning commute began.
City maps covered the short walls — the same map, Berkeley. He stepped around her rumpled bed for a closer look as she booted up a shiny new tangerine iMac in the corner.
Tangled, angled lines had been sketched in a rainbow of colors across the black and white grids.
"What's all this?" Sauber asked.
She said, "The big one by the window is you."
#
Nina Chavez had worked in credit fraud protection for less than a week before she grew obsessed.
"Look," she said, pogo-sticking an index finger across the city, "this guy's so anal he'll skip the gas station right next to his house and drive all over town looking for a deal even though he must spend twice what he saves just cruising around. Same with his groceries. Same with his dry-cleaning. Almost never the same place twice."
"Wow, neat, okay."
They stared at the hectic patterns and finally Sauber had to touch the map so he could feel the man's days.
Nina made a low sound in her throat, cat-like, pleased. He turned and saw that her lower lip hung open one slight, inviting fraction. Her eyes shifted toward his. Sauber looked away, but he thought maybe her gaze had flickered down to his mouth too.
He said, "What about this guy? He's just two big blots."
"Electronics freak." Her tone was boasting. "He’s always in the same couple shops. Probably he uses cash for everyday stuff. I'm sure he doesn't have any other cards, we barely approved him and he's already at the edge. Minimum payments, always late."
"And me?"
She held his eyes, not smiling. She smelled terrific, like mango, he guessed.
"You're in a world of hurt," she said. "I've written off almost three grand for you as merchant error or duplication in the last two months, otherwise you'd be maxed."
Sauber had to sit down.
There were a few big purchases he'd kept waiting to pay for, but he'd thought... He didn't know what he'd thought. Deb was the math wizard.
The idea of losing the very last of his possessions, his tools, the sculpture — no. He would become a thief before selling off what remained of his soul. The realization made him glad and sick. Two or three robberies a month might be enough and he knew dozens of stores intimately now.
Nina perched on the end of the bed beside him, intent on his face, but he was afraid to let her see his eyes. He was afraid of what her reaction might show.
The bundled sheets were ripe with her scent, worn soft. He snuck his fingers deep into their folds.
"It's okay," she said. "I can buy you more time."
#
They stood shoulder to shoulder by the filthy window, examining his map. The trails he'd established weren't as curiously random as the penny-pincher's or as compulsive as those left by the electronics freak or those of a woman Nina called the Porn Queen — but nevertheless his pattern had intrigued her. It shrieked of desperation. Most people didn't use credit cards for eleven dollars at the grocery store every other day, much less for a buck seventy-five at Peet's Coffee.
Sauber had also drawn big cash advances at the end of the past two months, she assumed for rent, and he was constantly visiting hardware stores and craft shops.
"I had to know what you were doing," she said.
Like the others, his map bore a tiny label at the bottom. Nina's handwriting was all sweeping jags and flares: Timothy J. Sauber, thirty-eight, 1113-C Bishop Dr., teacher, salary range $19,750 - $23,000.
Resentment crept through him as he understood that ten thousand computers and clerks had him pigeon-holed. He'd never thought of himself as an instructor; it was just a job, a trade-off for studio space and a paycheck; and yet unseen armies considered this a vital definition of his being.
Nina bumped his hip with her own. "You think I'm nuts?"
"I think your maps are great." Her maps were alien. "I think we see things most people don't."
She made that low sound again, Mmm.
#
That night and the next were ideal. Sauber wished someone could take a picture. Nina sat cross-legged or happily lay belly down on the floor, shuffling her maps and colored pens and the print-outs she'd stolen from work. He typed carefully at her computer. Sometimes she got up and stood behind him, sharing. Sometimes she laid a hand on his shoulder.
The first sites and galleries she'd suggested seemed to lack authenticity. The scenes were too spectacular: sleek girls painted by dance lights, a skier cutting through sprays of powder. But he was captivated by the promise of wealth.
They chuckled together over morons posing with their pets, even fish tanks, and took turns reading aloud from personal web pages and Facebook. Entire famil
ies were on display, labeled, often with short bios and home addresses.
"That's crazy," Sauber said.
He got excited over a poorly lit shot of an all-girl garage band fronted by a heavy teen in a wheelchair. Nina showed him how to download files and to use her printer.
"How much does this special paper cost?" he asked, but she just shook her head.
He caught her smiling at him six times.
When she was in the bathroom, he smelled her bed again and felt the inside of her jacket. He never wanted to leave this quiet, oddly shaped apartment. But he was gentlemanly. Before ten o'clock, he excused himself.
Nina held out a key. "I love watching you work," she said, "but I'm at my job all day. You shouldn't have to wait."
The damp fog and cold did nothing to quell his exploding mind. He would've said I love you too but it was too soon.
#
Striding down the hill seemed effortless. Inspiration struck as he passed a jam-packed mailbox. Sauber stuffed his pockets with everything that wasn't obviously a bill or advertising, then hurried on.
The night was full of lighted windows like big TV screens, all tuned to family dramas.
When he got home, his answering machine had two messages, only silence again. He smiled to think that she didn't know what to say, either. He would have called back, but he wanted to keep the stolen mail a surprise until he could see her face.
#
Nina seemed to purr, humming, growling, as she marked one of her maps to show the five addresses where he'd taken mail. She could not sit still, bumping his side, throwing herself on her stomach, climbing back onto her knees. Sauber's eyes rarely left the hem of her skirt.
"Listen!" she kept saying, "listen to this," smoothing out personal letters and waving a postcard from Washington, D.C. Every phrase was wonderfully mundane.
Finally her energy carried her to the door.
"How about some take-out Chinese," she said. "I'm buying."
As they exited her building, she took his hand like a little girl, smiling, tugging him up the hill to her car.
#
She sped by an open space right across from the restaurant and pulled into a dark lot. She turned off the engine. Sauber took off his seatbelt but paused with his fingers on the door when Nina touched his other hand.
"Wait." She gazed at the busy street — random pedestrians, a pack of thirteen-year-olds smoking cigarettes under the brilliant lights of a corner store.
She brought his hand to her sculpted leg.
Together they pushed her skirt up to mid-thigh. Then she parted her knees.
Nina was loud, maybe deliberately. Twice people on the sidewalk looked around as she ground down on him, her face turned to the window. Beneath her skirt their skin overheated like putty, but his scalp felt chilled — his feet, his gut.
He was so distracted he didn't finish until she'd exhausted herself and slumped against him. His release was abrupt, an afterthought.
She laughed against his neck and buried him in her hair.
#
When she came home on the fifth night, he had a pot of canned ravioli waiting but Nina ignored it, pawing through the stacks of paper by her printer.
"What the hell is this?" she said.
"Read the parts I marked, it's really incredible."
"You spent all day in a chat room?"
"Yeah! It's almost like watching people think."
"Boring. All they do is complain."
"It gave me an idea for a new piece!" He dripped sauce on the stove-top, gesturing, and she started to say something but he couldn't stop. "Imagine an American flag constructed out of special computer monitors, ticker-tapes maybe, one stripe would be these anti-government loons, the next would—"
"I can't cover for you forever. What happens when you're out of money? You'll be on the street."
"I'm almost done, I have enough pictures now."
"Give me your key. Get out of here. Go finish it so you have something to sell. Otherwise you're dead meat."
#
But he couldn't stay away. Not because of the sex or her wicked smile, because of her computer or — as Deb would insist — because he was subconsciously delaying the bleak, tiresome process of marketing himself to yups and straights. No artist enjoys explaining why beauty is beautiful, pimping for $12,000 civic improvement awards, wasting days hoping to impress gallery managers with overcrowded schedules.
He couldn't stay away because of all these things.
He got spooked about the mailboxes he'd ransacked and hiked around the long way, approaching her house from up the hill. He wondered how many passersby were tempted to crouch down and peer through her kitchen window.
He wondered how long Nina had been two-timing him with the chubby guy assembling radio equipment on her desk.
It was the electronics freak from Map #6.
#
Just a week before, Sauber probably would have left, let it end, and turtle deep into his work. But Nina had made him bold. He eased up the narrow, creaking stairs to her attic, taking the steps in random batches of three and two, waiting for noise from other apartments, the rattle of plumbing, television laughter.
Initially he thought Nina had several men in her place. He thought disgusting things. Then a shriek of static made him realize that, of course, the voices were radio broadcasts.
Nina was loud: "Try that one! No, no, go back."
She was like a kid with a new toy.
Sauber considered ways to win her again.
Then she said, "How about some take-out for dinner? I know the perfect place."
#
He must have slept some that night because he dreamed he was back in her cramped stairwell. With the logic of nightmares, he pushed her after he had already fallen and they lay together in a shattered heap, the chubby guy reassembling them incorrectly—
#
Sauber made the call the next evening. Waiting for Nina to pick up, he finally realized it wasn't her who'd left those silent, searching messages.
The chubby guy knew where he lived.
He was sick with jelly-hard blood when she answered. Sauber wanted no part of a grudge war. He wanted out.
"It's done," he said. "I thought you should see it first."
#
The upstairs neighbor always banged when Sauber used his power tools, and sometimes the people next door beat on the wall so hard that he imagined they'd break through.
He was pretty sure everyone was home from work when Nina arrived — it was after seven — so he began shouting as soon as he'd locked the door behind her: "You whore, you little whore, who else is part of your harem?!?"
Nina had walked directly to his sculpture, which stood now in the middle of the living room. She turned and stared, but someone next door was quick to thump on the wall and suddenly she was yelling too, her small hands shrunk into smaller fists. "I saved you!" she said. "You don't—"
"Who else knows about—"
"You don't have a chance without me!"
She advanced on him, aggressive as always, chin up, legs scissoring beneath her skirt. She probably figured that if she twitched her hips for another ten seconds, he'd mount her right there against the kitchen counter while the neighbors listened.
But Sauber had carefully placed his electric saw on the shelving alongside the door.
Nina froze when he grabbed it. Then her arms lifted out from her sides like a woman on a tightrope. She made a noise like a word, "Nuh."
She screamed over the high whine of the saw, lurching back as he jumped after her with the churning blade held up between them. Just to destroy her composure was intensely gratifying. He laughed and she screamed again and he thought he heard his neighbors panicking somewhere beyond Nina's voice and the snarl of the saw as he pressed it down through the upholstery and the wood frame of his couch.
It couldn't last, of course, this chance to master her.
He hurried when he wanted to dally, beyond excitem
ent, near hysteria, adding his shrieks to hers.
Too soon there were sirens outside and the first shout at his door was a woman's: "Police, open up!"
He held them off until the media arrived, sixteen more minutes, cramming his hand over his gasping laughter now. The cops couldn't seem to negotiate without hollering since there was a door between them and a terrific circus outside as residents evacuated and news vans jammed the street.
Sauber was too familiar with confusion and fear to have difficulty pretending. "What are you doing!" he yelled back. "What are you doing!"
"Sir! Sir, just open up!"
He had allowed Nina to circle around him as the sirens approached, and she'd clawed at the door hard enough to leave one fingernail on the carpet before escaping. If he was lucky, that would be the last he ever saw of her.
His landlord would be furious, yet Sauber had been careful to damage only his own furniture, and eviction proceedings in renter-friendly Berkeley moved with all the speed of a drowned worm. A charge of disturbing the peace was probably the worst he'd face. Nina wouldn't press charges — assault with a deadly weapon, whatever — because she had too much to hide. Even if they stood him in front of a judge for obstructing a peace officer or resisting arrest, Sauber had no record. They couldn't jail him.
He only hoped Nina never understood his true intent, because he didn't think he could outsmart her twice.
Soon enough she might suspect, unfortunately, if everything worked out right. If it was a slow night, local news footage of his sculpture might get thirty seconds or more in a million homes across the Bay Area, and that was exactly the kind of notoriety that started bidding wars.
Sauber wasn't crazy.
END
Afterword
The technology is dated now, but people still use cameras with film, and I continue to see photo processing departments in drug stores.
"Pattern Masters" is one of two stories I wrote before my wife Diana and I went digital. Because I’m a disturbed monkey, I constantly wondered what would prevent me from taking an envelope full of pictures that weren't mine. The drawers where the photo department keeps the finished envelopes are self-serve. They alphabetize them. You're supposed to find your own, then bring it to the register with the rest of your shopping.