He stops to take a sip of tequila.
“Donnie,” says Gerry. “You seriously have the perfect job.”
Donnie flashes a toothy smile. “Don’t I? Not many people get to…” The sentence dies mid-flight; his eyes shift to a spot across the room. “My God in heaven, there’s that woman again. And that dress. I was a measure late on my first solo because o’ that damn dress.”
Gerry stops to think. “So this touring must be hard on you and your wife.”
Donnie chuckles. “It’s a little easier since we got the divorce. It’s sad, but it’s pretty common. This is not a marriage-friendly occupation. On the other hand, it’s nice to be unattached while I live out this dream.”
“Good way to look at it.”
“Ha! Do I have a choice?”
“Hey, Donnie, I’ll be right back.”
“Sure.”
Gerry picks his way across the room and finds the flame in a corner, where Dr. Al and Dwight’s manager are trading jokes. Gerry goes in for a hug and keeps going, like a linebacker driving back a tackling sled. Karen squeals the whole way, until they’re at a safe distance from their friends.
“Gerry! You nut.”
He keeps his hold on her as he low-talks in her ear.
“You remember our deal? Our wingman arrangement?”
“Yes.”
“I have found a Kentucky gent who is already half in love with you, and who needs to be in Great Falls, Montana by Sunday. Want to meet him?”
She looks at him blankly, computing the possibilities, then nods. Gerry pulls her across the room. Donnie’s eyes grow brighter as he stands.
“Donnie, this is Karen.”
Donnie takes Karen’s hand and is struck dumb. Finally he smiles.
“I think Gerry is an undercover genie, and he just granted my first wish.”
Karen feels a little dizzy. “Gerry’s always looking out for… my…”
She looks around and finds that Gerry is gone.
“Here,” says Donnie. “Have a seat. I want to talk to you about the damage you have done to my guitar playing.”
“I’m a witch, you know. It was fully intentional.”
Gerry wakes before sunrise to catch Venus rising in the eastern sky, a lead scout for the sun. He sets up a tripod to trap her. When his phone powers up, he gets the bright C-major chord that signals a text. It’s Karen.
I am far above you, my dear one, in Donnie’s VIP suite. I have absconded to his bathroom just so I might say thank you thank you, I love you. I’m going to Great Falls but no further. See you on Monday. XXX
Gerry scans the higher windows of Cactus Pete’s and returns to his planetary hunting.
Twenty Seven
A full-monty shot, from the back, in a place that appears to be public but (for the sake of your criminal record) is not.
This one would appear to be difficult, but Gerry knows just the place. Just south of town, there’s a gravel turnout on Highway 93. Not far away, a bend in the road is lined with a concrete barrier, apparently to keep drunks and sleepy travelers from driving off the asphalt. Because it’s close to town, some city planner thought it a good idea to plant a row of junipers along the barrier.
Gerry parks in the turnout and hikes up the roadside, slipping between two junipers to find a perfect three-foot gap between trees and concrete. He sets his smartphone on the barrier’s level top, takes a careful survey of all sight lines, and simply strips. The barrier is tall enough to hide the naughty bits, and to anybody driving past he’ll look like a gardener taking a break.
The trickiest part is the timing. On his first try, using a five-second count, he hits the release too early, and the car isn’t even in the frame. On the second, a pickup truck has already rounded the bend. On the third, he hits the (if you’ll excuse the expression) jackpot. A busload of gambling seniors rolls past. Gerry aims his derriere at the smartphone, leans against the barrier and waves at the tourists. Click. Perfect. He’s sending the shot to Kerry when a compact rolls past and he hears the hoots of female adolescents. Which makes him feel awfully nice.
He gets the return text as he crosses the lot at Cactus Pete’s. My goodness, boyfriend, you’ve got a shapely ass! Very impressive. Give me a while to think up my next evil plan.
He arrives at Dr. Al’s with a little more swagger than usual. He’s a rebel, a lawbreaker. A bad boy. Oscar Peterson is sending flocks of piano chords into the room. Al turns from his computer.
“What’s up, Ger?”
“Hey, I know I’m not an employee, but could I use your gym?”
“Sure!” He digs into a low drawer and flips him a plastic card. “Works just like a room key. You know where it’s at?”
“Ironically, right next to the buffet.”
“Ha! Yeah.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Go get ‘em, studmuffin.”
Gerry heads down the long hallway. All this thinking about nakedness has forced him to acknowledge his paunch. He’s determined to let Kerry see as little of it as possible. And then maybe he’ll go to the Desert Room for a salad.
Twenty Eight
If it weren’t for Karen’s skill with her GPS, they would be lost, because Twin Falls is a little baffling. After crossing the heights south of town, they follow a sign toward the city center, then another one toward the falls. They roll downhill into Snake River Canyon, the walls covered in prehistoric moviehouse rocks, and pull into a vista point framed by a gift shop and a wide lawn.
For Gerry, the view of the falls has not lost its buzz. Over mud-brown shelves of rhyolite – much harder than the surrounding basalt – a ripe spring melt pounds its way over three outlets. The first two, a pair of classic white ribbons, are the twins of the city’s name. The third is a Niagara-like curtain called Shoshone Falls. The three of them work to send a cloud of vapor into the pale blue sky.
Gerry longs to stand Karen on the wide shelf between Shoshone and the twins. It would be like the best opera set in the world, but that area seems to be off-limits. Instead he scans the lawn and finds a spot where vines have overtaken the chain link fence. He’ll have to work his zoom in order to pull subject and background together.
Karen marches from the restroom in her flaming dress, causing people to point and whisper as if she were Lady Gaga. Despite complete foreknowledge, Gerry finds himself with a catch in his breath.
She holds her hands mid-flame. “Am I milking this thing?”
“Ahecch! Um. No. You’re not famous, Karen. Maybe three people will see the calendar and remember you from the concert. We need to preserve this dress for posterity. Plus, the fire-and-water thing is perfect.”
She kisses him on the cheek. “You’re so thoughtful. Well, let’s make a spectacle of myself.”
This time, most of the work belongs to the photographer. He hates the limitations, but rather relishes the challenge. The falls need to be identifiable, but Karen and the dress demand equal billing. He starts by walking a hundred feet away and maxing out his zoom, which makes it look as if Karen is floating in the vapors. He sends a few hand signals, but they’re not really necessary. Karen shifts her pose every few seconds as if she has been modeling all her life.
Next he shoots from along the fence, which serves to wipe out the border between model and natural phenomenon. Later, they find a second vista point, with a tree growing near the fence. He climbs into the lower branches and is able to shoot down at Karen and the falls, which gives her this lovely uplookng appeal, as if she’s seeing her husband off at the docks.
After he’s tried every angle and alchemy he can think of, he calls the shoot. Karen returns to normal clothing and they head uphill into town.
“Thanks for driving, he says. “You sure you’ll be okay?”
“Honey. You know how I feel about coffee. And you know how I feel about coffee in Jackpot.”
“Bleah?”
“Bleah. An hour in Starbucks will be absolute paradise. But this shopping center seems a litt
le dull. Why all the fuss?”
“I need a Goodwill and a nice big grocery store. This particular block has both.”
Karen’s eyes turn shifty and sly. “This is a Kerry thing, isn’t it?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“Oh, that’s okay. My imagination is more than capable of running wild.”
The trip is pretty short. They turn onto Falls Avenue, Karen points out the Goodwill, turns left onto Highway 93 and immediately turns right into a Fred Meyer’s parking lot.
“You can just walk to the Goodwill, Mr. Nasty. I’ll be working my way through the world’s biggest macchiato.”
“Awesome. Hour and a half, max.”
She kisses him on the cheek. “Have fun, ya perv.”
Having always been a clean-living man, Gerry finds it surprisingly easy to pretend he isn’t doing anything nefarious. Just a shopper adding two rather phallic vegetables – Japanese eggplant and butternut squash – to his basket, and then realizing that he really needs to go to the bathroom.
He hits the (if you’ll excuse the expression) jackpot with the bathroom, a single-occupant model with a solid lock. He takes off his shirt, drops trou and leans his smartphone against the back of the sink. After some careful positioning, he succeeds in giving himself some rather intriguing genitalia. (He’s especially impressed by the eggplant, which is pornstar long and deep purple.) He sends the photos off to Kerry, washes the vegetables and returns them to the produce section. He purchases a few items that he actually needs, and is surprised at his bravado. Rather than feeling cowed by his misdemeanor, he finds himself engaging in flirty small talk with the cashier, a naughty librarian type with frosted blonde hair and a nice rack. You know, he imagines saying, when it comes to penis substitutes, you can’t beat a Japanese eggplant.
He walks to Goodwill, enjoying a flock of cottonball clouds and the crisp air of spring. He gets a reply from Kerry. What visuals! Are you sure you haven’t done this kind of thing before?
At the Goodwill, he’s even more brash than before, checking his grocery bag at the front counter. Yes, he thinks. I’m going to befoul your store and you’re going to help me do it. Mwahahahaha!
The assignment here is even more outlandish. He is to pick out a few highly inappropriate items and pose with them in the dressing room. At first, he’s thinking accessories: loud orange sunglasses, a baby blue handbag, a candy red lady’s jacket. But then, in the corner of the women’s section, he spots an entire wedding gown.
There’s no doubt – this is the least appropriate item of clothing in all of Twin Falls. He stuffs it in his basket and hopes no one notices as he strolls into the men’s dressing room.
The stall is a welcome safety zone, open at the top, with a low shelf for holding potential purchases. He fools around with the other items, using the handbag as a strategic “cock blocker,” but the wedding gown’s the thing. Good for Gerry, this was a large bride. It fits perfectly around his waist. It’s a little snug at the shoulder straps, but then, entirely wearing the thing isn’t really the point. He places his smartphone on the shelf, using the easel back to shoot upwards. He tries a few shots from the front, hoping to capture the contrast of the white satin with his (he hopes) manly chest. Shooting from the unlit stall toward the bright ceiling of the store creates a backlit halo, making the image angelic and obscuring his face. The best shot comes when he turns away. The contrast of the tutu bustle with Gerry’s broad shoulders is oddly beautiful. He might even call it artistic. He sends it away, leaves his ill-used booty on the shelf and heads out. He decides that the glasses are too obnoxious not to be purchased, and chats amiably with the clerk in order to extend his buzz.
My God, Gerry! I had no idea. When are the nuptials?
Never, he replies. Not if my dressmaker doesn’t get these freakin’ straps right!
Karen drives them back to their familiar desert. She seems caffeinated and content, and doesn’t say a word for the first twenty miles.
“‘And death I think is no parenthesis.’”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, nothing. A line from a poem. So what’s with the traffic cone sunglasses?”
He answers in drama queen fashion. “I’m a model now. Whatever I wear becomes stylish.”
“Oy! I hope to see these photos someday.”
He lowers the glasses for effect. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Karen laughs. “Oh God. I’ve created a monster.”
“As have I,” quoths Gerry. “You act like a woman who’s been thoroughly drilled.”
Karen pushes back into her seat. “Guitarists are very good at… manipulating things. Naturally, Donnie’s in love with me, and wants to extend things. But it’s only a perfect gift if it’s wrapped up. KnowhatImean?”
“Yes.”
She holds his hand over the shift. “Thank you, Ger. No one else really knows what I need.”
He smiles. “I am your strange and wonderful friend. ‘I swear by all flowers.’”
“Nice!”
Twenty Nine
It’s all very silly, but it’s having an effect on him that borders on profound. Do the Burt Reynolds shot. Hide the junk. He cheats a little, plundering his boudoir supply for a derby and a fedora. He places the derby over his genitalia. He tips the fedora like he’s performing “One” from A Chorus Line. The Burt Reynolds pose is iconic, lying on his side, leaning on an elbow. A streak of sunlight invades the bottom of the frame like stagelight.
And the smile. He has never produced a smile like this. It’s a razzle-dazzle smile, a cheesy smile, a killer smile. He’s also impressed by the stomach, which, after only two weeks of work, seems a little more in control. Apparently, it just needed a little attention. He puts on his shorts and goes out to greet Sophie, indignant after being locked out of his bedroom for the five minutes of his shoot.
Okay, she writes. It’s time to reveal the junk. But not as the star attraction, just show me your whole body. Make it a natural setting.
He knows the exact spot, an oft-deserted shore on the far side of Salmon Falls Creek Reservoir. The barren earth gives the place an alien feel. He wants to include the water, but it’s a bit arduous. He has to frame the shot, hit the timer, get into the water without destroying its pond-like smoothness and still have time to turn toward the camera. It takes several attempts, but he finally gets it. A naked man emerges from the reservoir, the surface offering a muddled reflection as he greets his fiancée, waiting on the shore. He thinks he has answered Kerry’s wishes, the penis as an accessory, but let’s face it, the penis never fits in. This is why the female body is so much more aesthetically pleasing.
He also finds it interesting that he has begun to objectify himself, to see himself as simply a figure in the frame. And he appreciates the totality of himself, the way that he was constructed.
That is exactly what I imagined, writes Kerry. You are a beautiful man, Ger, and I love this shot. I’m trying to make this all a little sleazy, but you keep turning it into art.
Sure, he responds. That’s why I’m a photographer. It’s not so much the technical know-how as that innate vision we call The Eye.
He is beginning to see the artistic possibilities in this, and thinks about pursuing self-portraiture at a higher level. For one thing, he wouldn’t have to spend time explaining his vision to a model. It would also provide extra incentive for continuing his workouts.
I want to follow this track a little further, writes Kerry. Why don’t you reproduce one of the photos you did with Karen?
He can’t get to Shoshone Falls (doesn’t have a flaming dress) and he can’t perform an arabesque. It seems that he will be a wood nymph on the eighth fairway. The problem is, spring has arrived, along with actual golfers. But he’s in luck. The following day, a rainstorm arrives to chase them all away.
He knows he is risking pneumonia, but he can’t resist a challenge. Freezing nakedness is only the first of his obstacles. He has to posi
tion his phone, hit the timer and, ten seconds later, be wrapped around a tree limb, dangling a pink Titleist. The first time, he’s not even in position. The second time, he’s in position but his face is behind the branch, and he drops the Titleist. He stops to study his path and settles on an accelerant. If he’s more aggressive, he can skip the first notch in the trunk and leap directly to a low branch, which should buy him the single second that he needs.
Gerry hits the release and dashes. The beeps count down as he jumps to the low branch. But the change throws off his movements. As he nears his dangling spot he flails at a limb and misses. His body spins beneath the branch and tumbles. The shutter goes off.
Gerry lands on a bed of leaves, but his left leg strikes something hard (an old log hidden by undergrowth). He lies there for a few seconds, listening to the patter of raindrops on the canopy. Most of his parts feel okay, but something’s going on with his left calf, a sharp pain followed by numbness. When he tries to get up, the leg won’t support his weight. He feels his way down and can see the point of impact, a scratch in the skin, a spot of blood, a bit of swelling. It is, perhaps, time to seek alternatives. He drags himself to his phone, still in camera mode.
“What’s up?”
“Ya busy?”
“Nope. Having lunch at Pete’s.”
“I’m at the golf course, the tree where we took your shot. I fell and hurt my leg, and I don’t think I should walk on it.”
“Oh shit, Ger. Okay. On my way.”
“Could you bring me a long coat or something? I’m naked, and I can’t put my pants back on.”
He hears the slap of her shoes across the parking lot and the wheezy breathing of stifled laughter.
“Are you laughing?”
“I’m… mmph! I’m sorry. Hang in there, on my way.”
The rain picks up. He’s lucky to be under the trees. He manages to put on his shirt and jacket, which hides his privates, but only to the level of a mini-skirt. The leaves have little spines on them, and he’s getting itchy. He’s surprised to see a golf cart approaching. It’s Karen. And Kerry.
The Girl in the Flaming Dress Page 7