[doomey grabs the pilot's chair and pulls it from the slightly marred wardrobe. he scoots it toward the cherrywood, and he stands, palms on his waist, glaring at the wardrobe]
just as an aside, people of TQR, if you haven't examined Jim Harrison, you're missing out on something better than the best meld with nature and beer and sex you will ever stumble across. but that's beside the point.
[doomey steps up to the wardrobe, and he opens the doors. he gazes upon the fluttering-eyelidded girl. he kneels before the wardrobe, extends his hand, pats the girl's shoulder, and then he places his palm on her neck]
what did i fucking tell you.
[the girl smiles]
i told you we would pull ourselves from the sludge of that homeless camp/drug den, sneak away from those sick, pimpled, blister-dicked sorry-sons-a-bitches, didn't i? that was then, but now we're in another place, child. and you are free from rape. you are free from mistreatment, girl. we're going to get you a size 6 dress. Jesus said. you do not have to do all that shit you did prior. we're going to clean you up. you don't have to stay dirty, slimed. i can see you're crying.
[the girl had sat up, and she shook her head and hair violently]
you're going to be okay. you're on the Floor now.
[the girl, with doomey's helping hand, pulls herself from the wardrobe, pretty much naked, the clothes she wears being tattered and torn. she lowers her head. her legs tremble. doomey stands and moves to the tiles]
we need a dress, size six! we need a bottle of fucking water! and we need snacks, people. fucking christ!
[he grabs up the Bose remote, thumbs in tops by the Stones. he starts shaking his hips, thrusting his hands outward]
[doomey unbuttons his shirt. he sheds his suit coat, and he takes his pants off. he makes the girl step into the pant legs, and he directs her arms into the shirt sleeves, and then the coat sleeves. she resists, but not much. doomey has her dressed up just like he'd been minutes prior. he grabs a pack of pall malls from the bottom drawer of the cherrywood, and he taps out a smoke. he places the cigarette between the girl's lips, and swan vestas the tip, making some sweet smoke. the girl inhales. she steps up to and sinks her ass into the pilot's chair, and she sucks some sweet smoke from her cigarette. doomey, pretty much naked (but yeah not quite, thank the Gods), leans against the wardrobe and smiles]
[The door opens violently and Jesus rushes through. He shoves the door shut with some effort. He has bags in his arms. His hair and beard are all windblown and twisted]
[He walks over to the cherrywood, sets the bags down atop the desktop. From one bag he pulls out some t-shirts and jeans and panties and socks]
Maxi's was closed due to the wind and frogs. So I couldn't pick up the dress.
[He upends the other bags. Foodstuffs tumble to the desktop]
I got some canned fish, some trout there, looks good. Got some meat sticks, some candy bars.
[The girl seated at Boligard's cherrywood grabs up a tin of trout, rips the lid off the can and devours the fish]
Wow, okay. So I got some soup there, but we should find a microwave. I got some dried peaches, some protein shakes, some jarred beets and some thai-spiced cashews in that bag there. I got some fruit leathers, a few cans of black olives, a bag of oranges, a raspberry kringle, and some garlic beagles. I got a stick of salami, a hunk of cheddar and some Ritz crackers. There's a can of marinated artichokes and a carton of almond milk. There's other stuff here.
[Jesus grabs up the empty bags. He backs away from the cherrywood, gazing at the girl as she finishes the can of trout. He crushes the paper bags, wads them into a big ball]
[He glances at Boligard]
Cousin, you must get your clothes back on.
[Jesus turns and opens the cleaning closet door. He disappears within, shuts the door]
[Bearing a thick sheeve/sheaf/sharif? of papers of which comprises the latest sub from Mr. R late of Mercury Records, the Rorschalk materializes from the gloom and comes to a rather disjointed, almost fatally faltering, full stop. Before him stands the tighty whited knight errant of scrawn and pisscontent, unduly difficult to recognize out of his customary filthy suit coat and skinny brown tie, and facing him behind the cherrywood a dour-faced pre-pubescent gril swimming in the bagginess of the aforementioned customary clothes! The oddness precipitates a tripe-tych, nay!, a quad and quintuple take from the clownwise CEO, and even then he is not able to habituate himself to what he is seeing, and no whispered words of wisdom rise to the level of his saying. Instead, he raises the papers before him as a shield against the malevolent scene anon, for surely only malevolence will follow him all the days of his life should he accept this picture of pregnant prurient debauchery and heinous crime, though the possibility of a landmark misunderstanding is still not out of the question nor out of his head as something that with the skill of a barrister at arms may still be allowed and able to be explained away. Still and all, it seems a done deal. Nodding to the figure of Jesus in his stained robes on the edge of his periphery... he drops the papers on the corner of the desk, turns and strides back from whence he came, reciting a line he remembers only hearing from one of his first film going experiences that ended with him groveling on the sticky slimy theater floor with filthy pants]
The power of Christ compels you! ... The power of Christ compels you! ... The power of Christ ...
[And with the locomotive force of foot and limb he drags himself far enough into space and time to fade out of sound and vision.]
[DeP slowly unfolds herself from her position against the wall near the filthified window. Too long, probably, this latest headstand of hers. She is dizzy now, her vision is blurred. Her mind, though, all clear from debris previously built up from too many ruminations of thoughts and ideas having little or no relevance to anything in the present. Such stuff can clog your arteries, lead to untimely paralysis or a deluge of expensive prescriptions. She is not one of those. She palms her eyes a moment or two to clear the fog. What's this vision now? Doomey looks like a small girl! He's shrunk, been feminized...what is what what here? Briefly, she's shocked and bewildered, but her recently acquired calm upside-down state of mind balances her and she stands steady within a pale circle of light, her equilibrium unfazed. And of course, she smells oranges.]
Bonjour, small girl Doomey. Are those your oranges? I am near famished, fresh from prolonged mantra. You won't mind...
[She sees now the one seated behind the cherrywood in Doomey's clothes is not Doomey after all, but the waif rescued by Doomey the Rescuer. Doomey, it seems, wears colourful underwear.]
Well. Alright then. DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor
Don't imagine I wasn't working...oui, I can read upside down with eyes half open. How else could I keep my job in this place? Do not answer. I don't know what Doomey's playing on the Bose. I don't yet know the name of the young waif who wears Doomey's clothes. I know only that there are oranges.
I know too that VC Joseph Cusomano dropped a package with words worth reading. You Belong With Me circled close round the Monkey's tail but couldn't quite get it to flap out a steady rhythm.
Hush hush, dear VC. Almost every creation sometime must become kindling for the perpetual fire. DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor
[There are orange peels atop her desk. She sits comfortably behind it, bare feet resting on a few pages of rainbow paper. Reading, fingers of her right hand twiddling a recycled pencil between them. She hums an unrecognizable tune. Probably Radiohead. Her interpretation by hum would render any Thom song unrecognizable. She has asked but not yet received an answer as to the name of their young one, the child girl who's joined them here on The Floor. Maybe she already knows and can't remember. ...is it Sherry? Is it Sheila? Carol? Like Chuck Berry's lemme steal your heart away muse? Carol. Little Carol is quiet. She looks better than when Doomey carried her in. Better but still wan. DeP looks over at her perched there in Doomey's pilot chair. She looks small. But at least no longer small and starving.]
It smells of fish and oranges. And MayDay. The MayDay is in bloom.
[No one says anything in response. It's early. They are in deep.] DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor
[doomey thrusts his hip, gets himself off the wardrobe and onto the tiles, stumbling a few barefoot steps.he reaches into the backside of his underwear, and he tugs, tugs, tugs and comes out with the current cap. he stares at the pages, dumbfounded and awed]
this capital, Kyla Chapek's Welcome Home, just arrived. i'll need time, bastards.
[doomey looks over the cap where he stands. time passes, the mirrorball turns, doomey flips one page and then another. trump meets the Pope. doomey crumples up the current capital, crumples and crumples, and then he tosses it into the rafters, where we all know magic happens]
the capital has risen.
[doomey winks at the camera hanging in the air above his head that only he can see. doomey grabs up the Bose remote and thumbs in Prince's DMSR. the tiles light up to the beat as doomey stomps out some barefoot steps]
[DeP watches Doomey's moves for a few beats, then slips off her own slippers. Who can resist this kind of call to the dance floor tiles? Doomey, barefooted and in his underpants; the pulse of Prince...anything will do; and the flashing tiles under the luminous if old and decrepit mirrorball? No one, that's who. They shake shimmy rattle and roll. The Floor is alive. With Capital, yes. But also with Cool.] DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor
[Dancing days are suspended temporarily. Everyone is working. The waif, Carol, watches Doomey's every move. He has saved her from the evil putrid gutter world, so why not? DeP snacks on dried pears. She wears a loose thing handsewn by one of the VCs whose work has never advanced past The Floor but does not give up. That VC might not be a great cap crafter but this flowy flouncy thing of soft fabric is just what DeP needs on a warm day in May and she is therefore grateful for the kindness of people she's never met. She is grateful for the Post Office, for horses, for green grass, and lemons.]
I am looking I am looking for something something unusual with clarity and rhythm and spark and 21st Century smart. Talk. Talk to me VCs in the ether. I know you're there...
[She holds a baby rattle up to the light, turning it to the left then to the right.]
What's this little peach, hmmm? Ed Raso, I think I'll take a chance and advance this weird tale of yours. Antagony, LLC, take flight. Terminali working for their meat soup tonight, haha.
[She leans back in her chair and lights a yellow candle. Its light illuminates the tiny stars embroidered into her gift garment and her wry smile.] DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor