by T. C. Clover
those who must peer over the edge of a mountain to gain wisdom? When do the ripples in an ocean revert to the droplets of liquid from which they were displaced? –A Mother’s Wrath.
TWELVE YEARS LATER
Litz Rack gazed upon New York City with familiar affection. She leaned further into her downward dog yoga stance, breathing in the fresh spring air. From the balcony of the penthouse, the city seemed tame and approachable, but a closer inspection would indicate otherwise. The twenty-seven-year-old glanced at a tattoo of an Irish car bomb on her right bicep, which depicted the popular mixed drink. It was a colorful illustration of a frothy beer with a shot glass inside, blending translucent yellows with auburn.
She sensed Richard’s naughty schoolboy gaze tracing the curves of her body through the immaculate glass doors at her rear. Litz resisted the guilty pleasure of winking at her adversary, calculating that it would make her less goddess and more princess. The diva rose to a standing position with a rapid snap of her calf muscles, turned on her heel and marched toward the double doors with animal intent.
There was an awkward pause as Litz waited for the electronic motor to open the sliding doors, allowing her to invade the penthouse. She roused a wicked smile from her feminine lips, shuffling with effortless seduction in a pair of formfitting black tights. ‘How does the shark pretend to be the noble dolphin?’ Litz thought with deified rhetoric. The young woman leaned over Richard to see him reading obituaries from The New York Times. Her demeanor sparked as a smug fury, laced with a hint of girlish affirmation.
“Has anyone important died?” Litz asked in a coy manner, bending closer to Richard as if to advertise her creamy white skin and elicit a hungry glance from him.
She noticed a cameraman advancing to capture this moment for the show, and it seemed like a syringe of despair. The liberal woman had relaxed so much in her yoga regimen; she almost forgot about selling her soul to a television network. Cameraman Doug was approaching with the stealth of a black cat, despite his 300-pound body. He hovered over the back of a white sofa to get a shot of their faces. The heavy 3D hologram camera caused his elbows to impress the upright cushions like a wrestler strangling his opponent.
Litz switched her posture to a pinup girl pose and gave the camera a subtle half-kiss, something she had mimicked with her goldfish as a youngster. By comparison, Richard was ever the indigenous family man, refusing to pander to the camera in any situation. He had always treated the Shots Fired film crew like they were foreigners vying for the souls of his tribe.
“Everyone’s death is important,” Richard replied with nervous regret, swallowing hard as he realized that his chosen topic was taboo for 2056. “I was getting ready to check the sports scores.” The thirty-one-year-old backpedaled, crossing his right leg over his left to seem more natural.
Litz opened her mouth at the Republican, wondering where to begin devouring such a fleeting opportunity. The shy man twisted his face in an awkward fashion, looking squeamish under the polarizing light of the camera. Although his tailored gray suit and black tie were doing most of the work to make him seem approachable, Richard managed to mess it up.
“I caught you staring at me on the balcony,” Litz concluded with a wink toward the camera. “Why would you be doing that? I thought you were all about families.”
“I – I wasn’t staring at you!” Richard pleaded in a defense composed of broken English. “I was looking at the sunset.”
“Oh, right…the sunset.” She redirected with a raise of her eyebrows, biting her lower lip slightly as if to question his sanity. “So…does the sunset look amazing as is, or should it spend more time on abs?”
“It was a nice sunset,” Richard declared in a dismissive tone, brushing his right hand through his short black hair.
“You’re busted!” Litz stated with charismatic charm, grabbing Richard’s sinewy shoulders and shaking them like a football coach.
“You had a phone call.” He interrupted with a nervous glance at her satellite phone on the kitchen counter.
She released his shoulders and shrugged for the camera, ensuring that the audience empathized with her rejection. Litz then swatted Richard on the back of his head, restraining herself somewhat; making it look playful. The deified vixen stepped closer to the kitchen counter and retrieved her pink satellite phone from the white tiled surface. Richard grasped the back of his head as if the tail of a horse had just whipped him. He gave Litz a pouty look from his innocent blue eyes, and was surprised to see her return a gaze of innocence. Although it was brief, like the shadow of a firecracker exploding, Richard saw something deep and genuine in the eyes of the busty brunette.
Litz noticed an intimate longing creeping across Richard’s adorable Scottish-American face as she finished listening to her voice mail with the stoicism of a true vixen. After a short pause for a girlie pose, she touched the screen to return the call.
“Hello, this is Great Rack Plumbing,” Litz announced with seductive grace through her satellite phone. “How can we take care of your pipes today?” She watched Richard’s predictable expression of disgust while tapping her right index finger against her lips with vulgar precision. “Oh, your kitchen faucet is leaking? That’s so sad. Well, I can be there in an hour to take care of that for you. What’s the address?”
“What the hell is your problem?” Jazzy Auburn Michelle roared as she exited the bathroom in a towel. “I told you not to shoot me in the shower!”
Richard turned to see paparazzi photographer Fassim Johnson running across the hardwood flooring of the penthouse with Jazzy in pursuit. He found himself tantalized by Jazzy’s water-soaked legs, but glanced sideways at Litz and the cameraman; not wanting to send the wrong message.
Several locks of Fassim’s blonde hair bounced here and there under her fuchsia headscarf, and she looked back at the pursuing comedian with gratuitous pride. The ambitious photographer winked at Jazzy with sisterly affection, and then disappeared into her bedroom at the far end of the penthouse.
After the door had shut, Jazzy seized the brass handle, tugging at it with vigor and staring at the painted oak as if to burn a hole in the material.
“You little mother-” Jazzy roared in a rush while pulling back her long orange hair and censoring what would have been a tirade of swearing on national television. “Don’t ever shoot me while I’m in the shower again! I’m going to get some locks that you can’t open with a butter knife.”
Jazzy turned in the hallway to face Richard and cameraman Doug, checking her body to ensure that the towel was covering everything. The twenty-five-year-old Irish-American woman began to inhale an audible amount of air pressure into her lungs. Her eyes became like those of a boat captain seeking a port at which to dock her rage.
Richard shifted in his seat, feeling nervous that he might be on the receiving end of the famous comedian's wrath. He turned with desperate eyes to ask Litz for help, but she was no longer in the kitchen. Instead, he saw Cody K. Black, also known as CKB, and an attractive woman standing near the entryway. CKB was smiling at him in a manner that was typical of his demeanor, keeping his muscular arms folded to exempt himself from the drama.
“Oh, hey CKB,” Richard began with a smile and nod. “Are you going to introduce me to your lady friend?” He asked with an overdone gesture while rising to his feet to greet them.
“Did you enjoy looking at my body, Richard?” Jazzy demanded as she entered the room, stomping over her previous watery footsteps. “Don’t deny it!” She chastised with melodramatic outrage. “I saw your head turn like a sprinkler connected to a fire hose.”
Jazzy’s rage redirected with birdlike efficiency as Fassim’s bedroom door opened, and the thirty-three-year-old Saudi Arabian photographer emerged with a triumphant smile. The bold woman then made graceful strides toward the comedian, wearing a blue blouse and moderate black jeans.
“You’ve got balls
, girl!” Jazzy exclaimed with a hint of bewilderment in her light blue eyes, and pulled the towel tighter around her chest. “What did you do with that nude photo?”
CKB showed fresh interest in the conversation, and stroked his chin with his right index finger. The criminal's bald head exhibited a pale sheen under the kitchen lighting, which was enhanced by his rich African-American ancestry.
“That photo just paid my wages for the month,” Fassim reported in a cocky manner, adjusting her rimless eyeglasses as she entered the kitchen area. “But don’t worry, I was able to blur out your – nakedness.”
“You people have no couth whatsoever!” Jazzy proclaimed to everyone in the room. “If you didn’t have an immunity deal with the show, I would sue the pants off of you. Besides, I thought you don’t believe in showing images of women?”
“That’s true,” Fassim asserted with the gaze of a friendly school teacher from her brown eyes. “Traditional Muslims do not like to show the naked female form.”
“And?” Jazzy demanded with urgency, curling her petite right hand into a fist.
“I’m not a traditional Muslim, and therefore, I can make money with your naked photos,” she explained with a shrug.
CKB snickered somewhat at this exchange, but stopped himself when Jazzy glared at