The Muse

by Stephen Monaco

  The Muse

  Stephen Monaco

  Copyright © 2018 All Rights Reserved

  Porch Swing Books

  Asia Ross had a nervous smile engraved on her face as she eased the door open and peered inside. Her heart skipped a beat or two when she saw the mannequins, scores of them, dressed in all manner of Victorian-era clothing. People bustled about, wheeling racks full of clothes back and forth in a well-orchestrated dance. Sewing machines whirred away somewhere out of sight, and a few makeup artists concentrated on someone sitting in an oversized salon chair.

  Working in the costume department at Blackrock Pictures seemed like a pipe-dream a few weeks back when she casually mentioned it in a conversation with a guy she'd met in a bar. The next day a courier delivered a dozen roses and a job offer from the guy. She called him right away and accepted a second date and the job. Junior Assistants were as entry level as it came, but it was a foot in the door. As a new college graduate, she was thankful for that.

  A heavyset lady with frizzy orange hair and thick-rimmed glasses paused from pinning the hem on a dress. She wore blue jeans and a Van Halen t-shirt that was faded and threadbare across her ample chest. She eyed Asia up and down. "You lost?" she finally said, her face puckering like a piece of fruit left in the sun too long.

  "I'm looking for Nicky O'Brien," Asia replied, feeling a sudden surge of butterflies. She didn't like the way the woman was looking at her, like a bug that needed to be squashed. And squashed quickly.

  "What ya want with her?" the lady said, resuming her work on the dress.

  "I'm Asia Ross. She should be expecting me. I'm the new hire."

  The woman smirked and stuck a few pins between her lips. "You mean Collins's latest and greatest piece of ass," she said tilting her head and talking out of one side of her mouth.

  Asia blushed. She resented being called someone's piece of ass. She liked the guy. They'd been on three more dates since the night they'd met, each more extravagant than the one before. Each one ended with a kiss goodnight in front of her apartment. She'd gone out of her way to avoid being thought of as just another conquest. She could see where George Collins could have been--and likely was--a player. He was six-foot-four, built like an NFL quarterback, blond hair, blue eyes, charming, chivalrous, and head of talent acquisition one of the biggest studios in Hollywood. He was probably used to getting his way with women; she'd hoped that being a little mysterious and hard to get would keep his interest peaked. Apparently, it worked because he kept calling.

  "So, do you know where I can find Nicky?" Asia said, concentrating on not letting anger come through in her voice.

  The lady stood up and sauntered forward, stopping so close that Asia stepped back to avoid coming in contact with her breast. The smell of stale cigarette smoke covered up by cheap perfume billowed out around her. Asia recognized that smell, but she couldn't put her finger on exactly from where. All she knew was it was repulsive. She took a second step back, seeking clean air, but her nose still found the same stomach-churning scent.

  "I make you uncomfortable?" the lady growled, inching a little closer.

  "Well... yes... a little bit, I just have a thing about my, you know, personal space," Asia said, motioning a circle around her. She felt her face redden and imagined it matched the color of the skirt she was wearing. She knew she needed to make eye contact but couldn't bring herself to look away from the floor.

  "Good. You gotta know from day one that your Kappa Kappa sorority bullshit don't fly with me. You can wear all the cute lil' skirts you want and prance around here in your little heels, flirting with every cute dick that comes by. You can bang Collins or the mother-effing president of the country as far as I care. To me, you're still just another one of his bimbos until you prove different. Got it?"

  Asia eased back a little more, trying not to make it noticeable. "You're Nicky O'Brien? I--"

  Nicky laughed. "Let me guess, you're gonna run to your sugar daddy now and tell him that orange haired lesbian is being mean to you because you're pretty. He'll come down here to defend you, I'll point to those three Oscar noms the studio has because of my designs, and he'll back off. Or maybe he won't even bother because he's moved on to another Kappa Kappa sorority girl by now. Yeah, that's probably more like it. The boy gets around, ya know, Barbie?"

  "I... uh... I don't care if you're a lesbian or not. And George didn't give me this job because I'm pretty. I'm qualified. I'm a good designer!" Asia's legs trembled, and the butterflies she felt earlier were in full revolt. She wanted to look up, but the weight of a room full of eyes forced her head down. The room had gotten quieter; people were staring at her, and she knew it.

  Asia imagined the scene: some were laughing, others were probably thinking Nicky was right and assumed she only got a job because she was sleeping with the boss. But she wasn't, damn it! She earned this job! Top of her design class at USC.

  The edges of her vision turned white. She breathed in and out, ignoring the awful smell as best she could. For a brief second the smell changed, and fresh air found her nose. Then it changed again. This time to something malevolent, rotting. She felt herself gag but tried to hide it. Someone snickered; it was a quiet sound but reverberated in her ears like the echoes of a bass drum in an empty gymnasium. The white corona around her vision pushed toward the center. Her stomach clenched. Taking deep breaths didn't help calm her because she felt people's eyes and heard more laughter. And that smell. The sweet, pungent odor of death. The white crept closer. She knew she couldn't give in and 'white out.'

  Whiting out--as she called it--had only happened a few times but enough that she knew when it happened, so did bad things.

  Horrible things.

  The summer of her sixteenth birthday was the first time she remembered doing it. A boy she had a crush on came over to hang out. Her stepsister, Beth,--a bully by every sense of the word--came into the room, unbuttoned her shirt, and sat on the other side of the boy, running her hand up and down his thigh. Asia begged her to stop and go away. Beth wouldn't. Asia stood up and challenged her. Beth simply laughed and pushed her into the wall, before returning to the couch. Asia wanted to cry but couldn't, not in front of the boy. Her breathing got fast, and white rage closed in around her vision. She ran out of the room, returning a minute later with one of her dad's golf clubs. She swung it. It struck Beth right above her left eye shattering her orbital bone Blood gushed from her nose and ran through her fingers, streaming down her chest, and soaking into her bra. Beth clutched her wounded eye, smearing the blood across her forehead and into her hair. Asia cussed and slapped her. The blood slicked her hand. She looked at her bloody palm and fingertips. The red mixed and blurred with the white haze clouding her vision making her hand look like a half-eaten candy cane.

  Then Asia got sick; her embarrassment fueled her rage. She swung the club again, this time landing a blow to the ribs, breaking one and forcing the air from Beth's lungs. Beth writhed on the carpet, clutching her chest in a desperate attempt to get a breath, her face nothing more than a crimson blur. Asia stood above her and brought the club straight down into her stomach like a dragon slayer delivering a coup-de-grace.

  Beth survived but spent two weeks in the hospital. Asia got to spend a few months banished to inpatient therapy. Her subconscious tried to block the memory, but the doctors had coaxed the rest of it out of her through hypnosis. Even now, she wasn't sure if she really remembered or if she just thought she remembered. Something about it didn't feel right. Something eluded her. The only part she knew for sure that she remembered was her blood covered hand. The rest of it still felt surreal.

  "Okay, whatever you say, Barbie," Nicky said, jolting Asia back to the present. "I need you to--"

  After an extended pause, Asia raised her ey
es to meet Nicky's. "Don't call me Barbie."

  "I'll call you whatever the hell I want to call you until you prove yourself."

  "You'll treat me with respect. Period. End of story."

  "Oh, l-o-l," Nicky hissed, stepping forward and pulling the pins from her mouth. She held them inches from Asia's eye. "You're lucky we are here and not in some bar, or I'd--"

  Asia pushed her head forward, almost daring Nicky to poke her with the pins. She held her face there. Each time she blinked, her eyelashes brushed across them and compounded her anger. White fury blended with orange hair to nearly obscure her sight. "As I was saying, I was expecting someone more professional from the way George had described you."

  Nicky pulled the pins back and stood up straight. At five-foot-eight, she was at least four inches taller than Asia. Peering down at her challenger, a smirk snaked across her face. "Oh, so you're some kind of bad ass now? In your Lil Bo Peep party dress? You think you're tough? Let's see how big your balls really are. That whole rack of costumes over there needs to go down to the Burrows. You can take it down there. Alone." Her voice lingered on the last word as it if were some kind of threat.

  Murmurs rolled through the room like a building thunderclap, quiet at first then nearly deafening. Asia took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, forcing herself to not react.

  "Fine. Where's the Burrows?"

  Nicky ignored her and went back to working on the dress hem. The room spun back into motion, and the noise level returned to its pre-showdown level. Asia stood in the middle of it, but people kept their heads down and avoided making eye contact with her.

  "Am I supposed to wander aimlessly until I find it?" she asked Nicky.

  "Maybe your little boyfriend can tell you where it is," Nicky said, without turning her head.

  Asia sighed, grabbed the rack of clothes, and pulled it toward the door. It was heavier than she expected. That was good, she needed to burn off nervous energy and anger. During her inpatient therapy, she started running whenever she felt angry. The exercise kept the white-outs away. They scared her. She hated losing minutes and sometimes hours of her life that she had no idea about. And the violent things she did during the white-outs weren't things that she would consciously do.

  As she walked, she thought about how close she had come to having another episode on her first day in the costume department. She felt her face flush again. By the time she reached the door she was winded and leaned on the rack to catch her breath.

  "Well, you managed to make her hate you on the first day. Well done," said a man leaning against the door frame. He wore skinny jeans and a black leather vest over a silk shirt. His hair parted on the side and was golden blond, all one shade, like a cheap bathroom sink bottle job. Despite his hip looking clothes, his deeply creased and overly tan face aged him. Asia guessed he was around forty, but still saw a young man of twenty-something in the mirror.

  "Sweetheart, you're everything that woman hates. Blonde hair, blue eyes, thin, but curvy in the right spots, cute sense of fashion. But, those pumps are so 2014. Go with wedges, they'll suit you better. Ya, honey, you everything she ain't. Oh ya, and you're ballin' the guy she lusts after."

  "Balling? What's that? Well, I guess I can figure it out, but I've never heard it called that before," Asia replied.

  "Uggghhh, you millennials, I swear to Cher, you have so much to learn. Balling...you know... doing the deed... bumping uglies...whatever else you breeders call it." He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm Gitch by the way. Beauregard Gitchel, but most people call me Gitch...'cuz it rhymes with bitch is my guess. And Beau is way too... testosterone filled or something." He laughed, and for the first time since walking through the door, Asia smiled too.

  "I'm Asia Ross," she said, extending her hand. He took it and lifted it to his lips, kissing it gently. She blushed. "I thought I was going to be a junior costume designer, but I'm thinking that isn't likely at this point."

  "You're bait. If she tortures you enough, she thinks Collins will come down here and set her straight. Girl, you ain't seen comedy until you see that big ol' broad throwing herself at that rich playboy. Funny shit," he exaggerated a knee slap. "He tolerates her because she's a hell of a costume designer--"

  "I thought she was a lesbian?" Asia interrupted.

  Gitch laughed, a real laugh this time. "Oh honey, I swear to Cher that woman's been with more men than I have. And that's saying something. She ain't no lesbian. She says that when she thinks she's in trouble, you know legal protections and such." He waved his hand dismissively and pursed his lips. "She's feeling the heat now because that whole rack of costumes she's got you hauling down to the Burrows she designed for the new Pearl Comics movie where they travel to Victorian England. I haven't seen the whole script, but John Reynolds rejected all the Victorian costumes Nicky designed. Said they were too classic, he wanted something with a more modern twist to it. Something sexier. Poof. A few million dollars gone. Studio ain't happy with her for producing them without clearing with Reynolds first. She knows her reputation may not save her this time, so time to start claiming to be a protected class. She plays that game well."

  "So these are all garbage? She's making me a janitor?" Asia felt her face flush again and her stomach burned. She breathed through her mouth to try to calm herself.

  "Oh honey, you're so sweet and innocent," he laughed and twirled her hair around his finger. "She's going beyond making you a janitor. She's trying to sacrifice you to the ghost!"

  Asia rolled her eyes. Every studio, and most of the hotels, in LA had their own ghost stories. It was pretty standard tourist fodder, the locals usually didn't take them too seriously. Ghosts didn't worry her as much as the thought of Nicky never giving her the chance to show off her talent. Ghosts weren't real, but getting black-balled in Hollywood certainly was.

  "So can you tell me where to take these? I guess I gotta prove my worth, so she'll let me do something close to what I was hired to do."

  Gitch held the door open and motioned her forward. "Go down the hall, turn right. Take the service elevator to level B. It's supposed to mean 'basement,' but everyone says 'B for Burrows.' Far side of the basement is another elevator, it'll take you the rest of the way down." He glanced at his watch. "The rats--that's what we call the folks that work in the Burrows--won't be in until later this afternoon. Leave the cart in the main warehouse room. They'll want to inventory it and pack it away with that special care they use." He sarcastically dramatized the last few words and threw his head back, rolling his eyes. "Be safe. Don't talk to malevolent spirits. Hope to see you again." He winked and waved his pinky, letting the door float closed between them.

  As she started her trek across the studio, people nodded at her or said good morning. As she got closer to the second elevator, people started avoiding eye contact. She said hello to one man who raised a hand in acknowledgment but wouldn't look at her. As she passed another man, she lifted the side of her skirt to expose the top of her thigh highs to him. He kept looking down and walking forward as if she wasn't there.

  "They're afraid of you, and rightfully so," a man's voice said. It was deep and smooth like the chaplain at her treatment facility. Asia loved his voice. She would seek him out and talk for hours just to hear his decadent voice. It filled her with confidence and insulated her from her anger. This voice sounded the same but didn't have the soothing effect. It chilled her. A shiver started at the base of her spine and sailed upward. She spun around to see where the voice had come from. No one was within thirty feet of her.

  "It's time you learned the truth. Come to me."

  "Gitch, is that you? Quit fucking with me," she said. She tried to spot anyone else that might be around, but not only was there no one close by, there wasn't anyone anywhere that she could see. Not another soul in sight. Her stomach flipped like a fish out of water. Cold sweat popped out along her forehead, and the skin on her arm rippled with goosebumps

  She ignored it and pressed the down button for the eleva
tor.

  After about thirty seconds, she pressed the button three more times, swearing under her breath. Finally, it dinged, and the elevator doors opened vertically like a huge mouth. The grinding metal sounded like a banshee scream. She pushed the cart inside. When they slammed shut, she felt like she'd been swallowed up.

  Once inside, the elevator felt confining, like the walls had moved three feet closer on each side. She breathed in and out several times. She'd had a college roommate that got panicky in elevators and said the breathing trick worked for her, but it wasn't working for Asia. Though she knew it wasn't more than a few seconds, the descent seemed slow and grueling. The more she breathed, the more panic teased her.

  When the doors squealed open, a sense of relief washed over her, but it didn't last long. The hall in front of her was long and narrow, ending in a double doorframe. A few fluorescent bulbs lit its entire length leaving long stretches of shadows between them. The door at the far end was either painted black, or it was pitch black in the area beyond. Either way, she wanted to get out of there as quick as she could.

  A mouse scampered through one of the lighted areas and into the darkness at the end. She watched it, half expecting some skeletal hands to reach out of the floor, grab it, and tear it into two bloody halves.

  "Quit being so dramatic," she thought as she tugged the rack out of the elevator. She cringed, deafened by the crash of the big iron doors biting closed behind her.

  You're an artist. Dramatic is what you do best.

  Asia froze. It was that voice again. She quickly pulled the dresses apart to see if there was a speaker. Nothing. This had to be some sort of initiation. This was Hollywood, they had all kinds of tricks to make the impossible happen. Even ways to make her think she was hearing voices when it was only her and a rack of rejected costumes. Nicky seemed malevolent enough to try to torture her like that.

  I'm in your head. You're not actually hearing me.