[Jesus watches as his iPhone's screen fades to black with disuse. He grabs it up. Looks over at DePlancher, and he grabs up the Bose remote]
I think that's The Alarm. But hey, I've got a need to hear this one, mind?
[Jesus thumbs in Hollywood Vampires's Whole Lotta Love, and he thumbs up the volume]
Don't mean to be rude, I just have the need.
[Jesus moves over to the glass tiles and he starts to make some serious moves. Some twists and twirls and whiteman two-steps, and some arm thrusts, and a few praise jesuses, palms going up, and the whole while the glass tiles blink to life in their reds and greens and purples and whites. He grabs his fingers behind his head and humps the air for a beat or two, and then he lets his arms go loose, all wiggly, and he sumo-tiptoes across the tiles, This goes on for a few phrases. And then he straightens his legs, shakes his head, his hair going all rogue, and he starts to pogo across the tiles, shaking his head with the beat, a sweat coming on. And the iPhone, still held firm in his grip, vibrates and hums, but Jesus dances on, deaf to it. He begins a Townsend that nearly throws him to the tiles. He staggers around the tiles doing his best Troll. He belly-flops to the tiles, and he wiggles around like a frying piece of bacon. The song fades out, and Jesus sits up. He thumbs the Bose dead]
Okay. Wow. That was fun.
[He raises his phone, he sees he missed a call]
What the heck.
[He shoves himself to his feet, wanders back to the cherrywood, plops his ass into the pilot's chair. He breathes heavy]
[DeP's dancing to music only she can hear through her big cumbersome yellow headphones. She closes her eyes and swoops and swirls and lunges and runs on her tiptoes and rolls on her back against the blinking tiles and leaps and waves her arms like a desperado on a rainy New York street corner at night with walking deads approaching from every direction while taxis speed past her but not one stops. Her hair swings wild. The mirrorball licks at its flying strands. A broken strobe light pulses rainbows from a corner in the ceiling. It goes on and on...we're out of breath watching her frenzy. Then she stops, falls to the tiles, chest heaving.]
Wow. Supertramp was the mix in its time. Fool's Overture two days and two and a half decades later still rocks...don't worry. I'm alright.
[She smiles, rises. Step slides behind the change screen. Damp clothes fly in every direction...]
I think everybody misses some calls, Jesus. DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor
Supertramp. You just now danced crazy to Supertramp, Ms. DePlancher? That's awesome.
[Jesus shuffles the pages cluttered on the cherrywood's desktop, rights the edges, grabs them up and taps them true on the desktop]
Happy to report that Joseph Cusumano's A Walk in the Park, is rising upward.
[He lifts the capital with his left hand, balances it like a busboy balances a trayfull of dirty dishes. From above, beyond the rafters, beyond the shadows above the mirrorball, a giant demon paw reaches down and grabs up the capital and takes it to the Talls. The demon pulls back into the darkness, gone. Jesus lowers his left hand, rubs palm sweat off on his jeaned thighs]
I will never get used to that.
[Jesus leans back in the pilot's chair. He thumbs in Earth, Wind and Fire's Jupiter]
DeP looks over in the Jesus direction. She's crouched on the tiles surrounded by past edition pages of The Purple Onion. She is busy repotting her...plant.]
Hmmm, are you throwing down that orange polka dot scarf of yours, dear Jesus? Are you...challenging me to...a dance off? [She shakes clumps of dirt from the roots of her plant which shivers a little...it's afraid of motion and heights.]
I will consider this. Je m'excuse while I dust my broom. DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor
[Jesus is sitting foward in the pilot's chair, his elbows anchored on the cherrytop's desktop, the current capital - Joshua Storrs's The Ones Who Come To Watch - splayed out in front of him like a naked girl laid out on her bare backside on a sweat-drenched stage after a really long, strenuous set in a smoky, whiskey-stank stripper club on a humid rainy night in Chicago. He grabs up the remote and thumbs in ZZ Top's Dust My Broom, and he turns up the Bose real loud. He goes back to examining the current cap. He hums to the music, and he licks his forefingertip and smooths his left eyebrow, bobbing his head a bit. He taps at the cap]
This is starting off pretty strong. Strange, making me feel lost, in a good way. Just how I like my capital. I've been thrown in the deep end.
[Jesus leans back, pulls the top left desk drawer open. He grabs a Java from the drawer, and then he slaps the drawer shut]
Must get myself a humidor one of these days. Now all I have is a desk drawer. Not good for the cigars. But, well -
[He grabs up a box of Swan Vestas that sits on the desk, plucks one out and strikes it against the side of the box, making fire, and puffs the tip of the Java to life. Puff puff puff. He shakes the match dead and tosses it into the gigantic triangular ashtray that sits leftish on the cherrywood. He pulls in some sweet smoke, lets it leak out slow. He relaxes. And then he jumps as his phone Sonars in his front pant pocket]
[He pulls out his phone, slaps it down on the desktop. He pokes at the screen. He investigates. He taps the playback button, and the he leans back, pops the Java back into his maw]
i've got her at the Alibi Room at Pike Place. we're just chilling out, holmes. and i do not understand why in the fuck you can't fucking asnswer your godamn phone, sister. why do you have a phone? did you buy it because it makes you look cool? do you like those stupid games you play on your phone, is that why you bought it? did you get your phone so amazon can profile you? or maybe you got it so you can keep track of your fantasy baseball team when you're out and about? jesus, come on, stacey. okay. so, anyway, we're here, chilling at the Alibi, corner table, got us a couple indie pies, a nice pitcher of Manny's, and we are just chill. the news on my phone tells me the fire we lit ruined those homeless mafia bastards' day, and their night, and their next day, and the next. we laid their camp low, the tents are liquid, nancy. and hopefully the mafia dicks burned, but probs not, probs just moved on to the next camp to sell their drugs and rape their teenage girls. anywhat. we're at Alibi. i got a copy of Dr. Strange, going to a motel to watch it and calm this girl out. a warm bed solo will do her right. i'll sleep in the car outside. she needs her privacy. we will get back to you in a few days. and christ's sake pick up your damn phone next time.