[DeP's fiddling with a new portable turntable. Well, not new new...do you think these occupiers of The Floor in an organization like TQR buy any merchandise new? New is a word to be used sparingly. Happy New Year, for example. Or...oh never mind. She has a new turntable. New as in it has not been here before and is therefore a new acquisition for DeP adding new potential to The Floor. Or distraction, we'll see.]
Jesus, you don't mind a little musical interlude d'ya? Doomey won't mind. He's always playing something over there. Probably listening in his slumber.
[She drops the needle on the vinyl. Crackle crackle, then Tame Impala's Elephant fills the room. DeP spins into dancing mode. It's been a long week. Somewhere anyway.]
Oh yes. I...am...reading.
No apologies, VC Tillman. Slash has joined the sluice. It was almost sundae delight but got too heavy booted with talk....[she closes her eyes to fall into the muffled lead break of the song] Oh yes...heavy on talk when you know a good cap must always capitalize on the walk.
We underestimate the effective of the unfolding, je pense. Maybe too the down under... DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor
[Jesus is bent over the cherrywood opposite Boligard. He has a capital spread out on the desk. He's shifting his ass left to right to the music. He continues examining the capital. He seems unable to pull his attention from the craftings of Nelson Stanley, a cap entitled Brief Lives. As the song from DePlancher's record player begins to fade, Jesus stands straight, stretches, his arms over his head, and he twists. He turns DePlancherward just as Tame Impala fades out, grabbing up the Bose remote from the desktop. Boligard, face-planted on the desktop sleep-grabs for the remote, and then he subsides back into dreamland. To the side, the wardrobe remains quiet]
Okay, girl. Here's one. Try not and dance.
[Jesus thumbs in C2C Down The Road]
And seeing as how capital is flowing in fast, I feel I have to move on the goodstuff, as Boligard would want us to.
[Jesus looks over at Boligard. He shakes his product-heavy head, and he digs his fingertips into his chinhair to give his chin a good scratch. He turns back to DePLancher]
Nelson Stanley's Brief Lives has gone mutherlovin' freaky Terminaled, folks. It's really good. And -
[Jesus goes to middle of the glass tiles, the colors raying upwards as he steps here and there. The C2C jam really kicks in now]
[Jesus ruins the hold the product had on his longish hair as he bends and thrusts and shakes and palm pumps and shakes his rump and shakes his head. He lifts his head to the mirrorball and smiles]
[Jesus whirls around on the tiles, high knees, jazz hands, and he proceeds to attempt a horrible moonwalk, gives that up, shakes his ass to the beat, and he starts to sweat. As the song begins to fade he jumps at the cherrywood and grabs up the Bose remote]
Let me have one more, Ms. DePlancher. I beg.
[And then, as if she's given her okay, he thumbs in Delbert McClinton's Livin' It Down. The song starts up and Jesus grabs his belt loops and sets firm his jeans]
Okay. This one really ruins the current mood, but it's some solid country jelly. I love this guy. He's name's Delbert, which is just funny. But, what we have here is...
[Jesus closes his eyes and meets the music headon, stomping his feet, heeding the square dance calls he hears in his head, twirling and stomping, jigging and twisting]
[DeP's crawling out from under her desk. Seemed important to her to retrieve her Frye's for this one. Who...I said who knew...Jesus was a rockabilly country lineman twirl and square dance Delbert-lovin dancer? She pulls on her boots and jumps to her feet. If you weren't watching close, you'd say she hardly missed a beat. Livin it up, tryin to live it down, thumbs in pockets kick one two anna twirl clap turn again around...]
Wow, Jesus. Delbert McClinton? I s'pose next you're gonna cue up some Joe Ely or maybe Mink DeVille? Hey...[She's talking between twirls, stomps, and air piano...a bit jerkily. DeP's rhythmic but country honk step stomp attempts and those big boots mess up her balance.] it's alright with me.
[She sings under her breath...sounds like 'standin on shaky ground' and some other lyrics we can't quite catch for the flashing tiles and heavy footedness of this whole scene.]
DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor
[doomey's been awake but quiet, the current capital spread out before him on the cherrywood's desktop. he's leaned forward over the desktop, his ass cradled in the pilot's chair. he has a lit pall mall hanging from his lips, and sweet smoke travels from the cigarette, into his lungs, and then out again. he sits up, taps a yellowed fingertip on the spread cap]
the dude -
[doomey grabs the cigarette from his lips and he coughs like a cancer patient. his whole body jumps and quakes, and his eyes water mightily]
[he reaches down and grabs up a bottle of amber from the bottom drawer of the cherrywood. he grabs up a dirty tumbler, and he fills it to the rim with amber. he lifts the glass to his lips and he tilts it back, swallowing the entire contents. he closes his eyes, keeps them closed. he tilts his head and spreads his lips, and he grunts. he tosses the empty tumbler over his shoulder. he opens his eyes]
okay. the dude that crafted sangalia has skill. his name is carl alves. he will probably be published in many ezines and magazines and he will most likely become famous. but that's not what we do here at TQR. okay? i'm sorry. it's just not what we do.
[doomey plugs the pall mall in the hole between his lips, and he sucks. he exhales]
what we do do is publish passion. sangalia is less passion than formula. what we want is the capital that twists into casual observers heads like a ninja screw, we want stuff that people think about the next day, and they smile or they gag. but they remember.
[doomey looks around the desktop]
misplaced my fucking tumbler. but anywhat, carl alves sangalia has gone the way of davy jones.
[doomey tosses the pall mall on the pile of capital laid out before him on the cherrywood's desktop. the desktop flames up, but then it calmes, the capital pages curling and blackening, curls of white ash rising up to the slowly rotating mirrorball, a few red hot embers whirling and spinning and landing on the colored tile. doomey stuggles out of the pilot's chair, he stands wobbly, and he steps shakily to the wardrobe. he kneels before it, and he places his ear to the wood. he listens]
[DeP's soaking her feet in a big basin of cool water and sliced cucumbers. Where did the cucumbers come from? They come from a garden out there over the fence in back and past the field where the grey mare grazes sometimes when Rick, her rider, stops long enough to check again if he can remember where he buried that stash back in 1989. Anyway, cucumbers are good, especially in cool water. They are a rejuvenator for feet and other things. Today, DeP needs foot rejuvenation because dancing for seven hours on glass tiles with Jesus takes its toll. Yes it does. You know it does.]
Doomey, drop a little amber in that go cup with the lid on it, won't you please? Toss it over to me. Don't worry, I can catch. I fear I'm becoming the Rejector Queen. Not that I feel I can do anything about it...oh non. What would Rorschalk say if we lowered the limbo stick? I don't want to know. His language is so difficult to comprehend.
You know I get the subjects. Like reading the caps. I do. But sometimes I wonder if VCs listen to the way real people dialogue. Yeah yeah yeah or Yes yes yes. Hello, Mrs. Brown. Would you like to make love tonight, Mrs. Brown? or Hey, you hot mama...wanna get naked and make it right here under the stars? D'ya?
[She splashes some cucumber water at Rimbaud as he strolls past her on his way to his cushion for another nap. He speeds up, stops for a quick lick of his dampened fur and then disappears. On the tiles next to the basin lay several sheets of the cap she's just read. They are soaked with remnant of cucumber. She reaches down and adds a few dry sheets and watches as the paper absorbs the liquid.]
VC Hohmann's Skin Deep flirts with virtue but sinks when it hits the great big sea.
Where's your rescue girl, Doomey? Still asleep on Jesus's old coats, oblivious to all the shifting of the tides. DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor