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EDITOR'S NOTE: This piece was rejected by McSweeney's. As is our policy, we have published it without even reading it. Please enjoy.
"Oh right. Track nine. Good song, eh?"
"Oh it's alright. I've gotta jet."
Sammy left his apartment at three seventeen. He struck up a conversation with Mona around four. It took him quite a while to tramp through the rain and bum enough change to catch a bus to her house. Forty-five minutes total. It reminded him of certain minutes he'd experienced in the past, life being repetitive. Walking nearly rigid in rain, light on his boot soles, bobbing head, and clutching records; he grasped the rhythm and moved dreamy-eyed.
Stepping off the bus at 515 Brick Street, Sammy entered a house rotten floor to ceiling and cold, nearly damper than outdoors. Brown stains carved a scribbling map on the dingy lino while paint chipped from the stale walls.
Beds to floor to ceiling to bathroom he scanned the enclosure. Here and there with glittering bottle caps on slews of crumbling castles in the air were his comrades, equals in the bohemian jet set. Smirking individuals, some smiling, and some scowling. Complete with ringing cell phones, cluttered bags, and frisky maids of the showered abandon.
He overstepped and nearly knocked a keyboard into the ho-hum atmosphere. Surprised, he snatched and read Casio on the label, saving it from a poorly produced analog demo.
A girl with half of her head shaved laid a drink on Sammy who was now reading the catalog of Something or Other Press and contemplating life as the resident writer at Rockwood - Mona's house, toast of the town of the queen of the stars, of Donna, Judy, Jeremy, and Suzy, all the kids. A party, a gallery, a venue, an idea; he was there in the midst smacking his lips with pen behind ear and spirals of paper comforting the back pocket of his blue jeans, tight as they were.
He took the PBR from Suzy's hand. She lie back upon the sofa next to him nursing her own beer and going on and on about this group, Girls On Uppers, as well as the amphetamines she had just taken herself. Sammy just watched.
"Here is Judy," he says.
"Where are you going Judy?" Suzy questioned.
"See I've got this..."
"Well just save it. Tell me when you get back."
Suzy turned back to Sammy just as Mona was traipsing in from the hallway. The symphonies began and Sammy rolled to oblivion as the moment revealed itself in glorious primary colors. He nearly toppled into a poem before fixing on the glamour of the drama before him and the potential for clever role-playing and heady exchange.
Ah, Mona. She's wearing her favorite pants, red Dickies, stopping just before the sixth eyehole on her leather boots. Adorned with golden brown hair cropped short and neatly parted down the middle she pursed her lips and pouted the eyes providing the fantasy and succumbing to her own delusions of grandeur as the supertrash model of seedy chic.
Sammy was in love. He speaks, "Hi Mona. Um... uh..."
Suzy on the couch rolls her eyes.
"What do you want Sammy?" She spoke wistfully and seductive, the infinite beauty of the underground spilling from her vocal cords and drenching her guests like pops of cork of celebration with a debauchery and successful subversion of drab.
"I want to paint your picture. I completely adore you and need such exquisite an example of life as my subject. Would you be willing?"
"Oh, of course Sammy, but will this one be any different from the rest? All the guests in my house have painted my portrait. Naturally, you being the new guy I assumed you would be next. But Sammy dear, this constant catering to the aesthetic needs of you two-bit artist - by catering I mean this sitting while one paints, or draws, or photographs, or whatever one wishes - it has grown so utterly tedious. Please tell me it won't take so long."
"No no Mona. I just want to snap a few Polaroids. I'll work from there."
"Well would you prefer I change clothes?"
"No no, you look fabulous. I especially like that Moschino shirt."
Sammy put a record on the turntable and began shooting. Mona sat in her room on the bed smoking cigarettes and reading magazines. Well, really just looking at the pictures. The only thing Mona read was her horoscope.
In ten minutes Sammy was finished. He labeled the Polaroids with the date and carefully slid them into an envelope. He knew intuitively that this would be the achievement of a lifetime and that the profundities unveiled henceforth would send him a wealth of contentment and joy. Mona was a goddess and all knew as much.
Shortly thereafter the whole house went out for ice cream. Sammy slept well atop his mattress on the floor mixed with the rest of the entourage.
Jon Leon won't be rejected here!