Needle had lost the bid to reinvent several jazz recordings into “Live at Fiona’s” by adding crowd noise and a master of ceremonies, but after much negotiation he had the right to reinvent interviews as taking place at Fiona’s in order to bolster what the Fiona’s people called “mutual authenticity.” The first interview would form the centerpiece of the Belly Jefferson story. Phil Needle hung up the phone and almost skipped out of his office, past Levine’s glowing computer. He moved to put it to sleep when he noticed a folder on the screen marked “Personal.”
We never speak a word but I can feel your eyes searing into me whenever I walk into the room. Your hands look passionate and your mouth always seems hungry in a way that touches me deep inside. One night we’re alone, late, taking a break from a deadline and we talk about how the world feels so wild at this time of night, reckless and free of all rules and inhibitions. You say we could do anything on a night like this, anything we wanted. I ask what you want to do. You unzip your pants. You ask me what I want to do. I close my eyes before I answer.
The story ended there, on the second page, and of course Phil Needle was not so foolhardy as to think it was about him. But, he thought afterwards, neither should he automatically assume it was about somebody else. The document had disappeared from the folder, and Phil Needle had not had the opportunity to see if Levine had hidden it elsewhere so he could read the answer she gave, if any. It was like an interrupted broadcast, still crackling in the air someplace. “I want you to go with me,” he said now. “I could use an assistant at a conference like this.”
“You want me to go to Los Angeles?” she asked.
“I know it’s last-minute,” Phil Needle said, “but we’re going to be pitching the America show. It’s big and I need someone there. Can you go?”
“Okay,” Levine said.
“Okay?”
“So, sir, why did you choose the name Incredible Cleaners?”
The crew laughed again and again. Levine was looking at him the way she looked at everyone in the office. In his hand were the tickets he had been given, and Levine was looking right through his contact lenses into his eyes. You ask me what I want to do. “Yes,” she said.
“ Why the hell do you think ? ”
Phil Needle tried to imagine the answer.
Chapter 3
Dear San Francisco Chronicle,
I am writing to you as a former sailor of the United States Navy. I have seen war and been a prisoner many times both in Malta and Devil’s Island but never have I been treated so badly as in J.Bonnet which according to my research is a government-run facility both national and international. Help.
Not a word of this letter was true. Gwen listened to it, her eyes blinking and shivering, and wanted, ravenously, to steal something again. This was her punishment, not just having to be here but to be here and not want to be. It was not fair is what it was. She wanted to write it on her hand, NOT FAIR, but the only pen she could see was in someone else’s hand.
“That’s worth a comment,” said the woman named Peggy. The office was very wide, and the wastebasket was full of the discarded tissues of someone who had been crying very hard. It was in the center of the building, like an internal organ, reached from hallways full of women pushing their own empty wheelchairs, and women in wheelchairs pushing themselves.
“It sounds like he doesn’t like it here,” said Gwen, who didn’t blame him.
“That’s what I mean,” Peggy said, with a click of her pen. By the way, she was as big as a house. “We don’t have the resources for full-time companionship. This is where we rely heavily on our volunteers.”
She beamed at Gwen, just beamed at her, and Gwen could tell for sure that she was supposed to say something. “What?”
“You’ll be his companion.”
Gwen looked at her for a second.
“Of course, you must know something about
We never speak a word but I can feel your eyes searing into me whenever I walk into the room. Your hands look passionate and your mouth always seems hungry in a way that touches me deep inside. One night we’re alone, late, taking a break from a deadline and we talk about how the world feels so wild at this time of night, reckless and free of all rules and inhibitions. You say we could do anything on a night like this, anything we wanted. I ask what you want to do. You unzip your pants. You ask me what I want to do. I close my eyes before I answer.
The story ended there, on the second page, and of course Phil Needle was not so foolhardy as to think it was about him. But, he thought afterwards, neither should he automatically assume it was about somebody else. The document had disappeared from the folder, and Phil Needle had not had the opportunity to see if Levine had hidden it elsewhere so he could read the answer she gave, if any. It was like an interrupted broadcast, still crackling in the air someplace. “I want you to go with me,” he said now. “I could use an assistant at a conference like this.”
“You want me to go to Los Angeles?” she asked.
“I know it’s last-minute,” Phil Needle said, “but we’re going to be pitching the America show. It’s big and I need someone there. Can you go?”
“Okay,” Levine said.
“Okay?”
“So, sir, why did you choose the name Incredible Cleaners?”
The crew laughed again and again. Levine was looking at him the way she looked at everyone in the office. In his hand were the tickets he had been given, and Levine was looking right through his contact lenses into his eyes. You ask me what I want to do. “Yes,” she said.
“ Why the hell do you think ? ”
Phil Needle tried to imagine the answer.
Chapter 3
Dear San Francisco Chronicle,
I am writing to you as a former sailor of the United States Navy. I have seen war and been a prisoner many times both in Malta and Devil’s Island but never have I been treated so badly as in J.Bonnet which according to my research is a government-run facility both national and international. Help.
Not a word of this letter was true. Gwen listened to it, her eyes blinking and shivering, and wanted, ravenously, to steal something again. This was her punishment, not just having to be here but to be here and not want to be. It was not fair is what it was. She wanted to write it on her hand, NOT FAIR, but the only pen she could see was in someone else’s hand.
“That’s worth a comment,” said the woman named Peggy. The office was very wide, and the wastebasket was full of the discarded tissues of someone who had been crying very hard. It was in the center of the building, like an internal organ, reached from hallways full of women pushing their own empty wheelchairs, and women in wheelchairs pushing themselves.
“It sounds like he doesn’t like it here,” said Gwen, who didn’t blame him.
“That’s what I mean,” Peggy said, with a click of her pen. By the way, she was as big as a house. “We don’t have the resources for full-time companionship. This is where we rely heavily on our volunteers.”
She beamed at Gwen, just beamed at her, and Gwen could tell for sure that she was supposed to say something. “What?”
“You’ll be his companion.”
Gwen looked at her for a second.
“Of course, you must know something about
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