Rachel Glaser - Paulina & Fran

“Fran, we need more questions about art careers. Jane wrote a few good ones, but we need at least ten for the standard,” Meryl said, leaning over the divider of Fran’s cube. “There’s a bunch of books that might help in the library, but this should help too.” She handed Fran an overstuffed folder of printouts and pamphlets.

Fran wouldn’t give Paulina the satisfaction. Instead she’d be in Julian’s arms somewhere near Lancaster on a romantic getaway , which must mean “sex in a new place.” In the cube across from her, Ray, who worked in the history department, was bragging to another man about a streak of “hits” he’d had. A hit was a test question that was conceived, written, and accepted for use in one pass.

“I had like twenty hits, my longest streak, in ’97,” Ray said. “Do you remember that?” The other man murmured. Ray whistled. “You know what? Crazy thing is that was right in the middle of my divorce.” The men were silent.

“Hits can be like that,” the other man said. “The brain works better in times of upheaval. Men are at their most creative.”

Fran rolled her eyes. Levrett-Mercer was filled with the most boring men alive. People who took too much pleasure in being right. “Let’s look it up!” they exclaimed at the first sign of disagreement.

Jane poked her head into Fran’s cube. “Aren’t the career questions weird?”

“How do you mean?” Fran asked. Now that Fran knew Jane liked girls, it seemed obvious. But why didn’t Jane like her ? Fran couldn’t help but envy her. Jane went home to her girlfriend every day. Jane went to her art studio . She no longer invited Fran to hang out after work, and now Fran wanted to. Fran wanted to see Jane and Deena, what kind of life they made together. Did they have a beautifully designed apartment, with modern furniture and dustless surfaces? Or did they live in a kind of lesbian squalor, with ratty tapestries on the floor, bras by the bed, and weed on the table?

“Just, like, how this is a career in the visual arts — writing questions at L-M. It’s sort of meta,” Jane said.

“Ha. Yeah. I guess I don’t think of this as a visual arts career,” Fran said. “It’s just a job with a visual arts theme .”

“Well, look through the pamphlet. Let me know if you find something better,” Jane said.

“I will!” Fran got excited. Levrett-Mercer was paying her to research a better job! She opened the folder. There were a series of flyers with grim statistics. She flipped through a few photocopied articles. One of them, titled “Before You Choose a Visual Arts Career,” was a cautionary tale written by a self-important watercolor artist.

It was someone’s birthday in the Math Department, and from across the hall Fran could hear a small crowd of voices going through the dragging birthday song. She found a packet called Careers in the Visual Arts . In the back was a list of all the possible art careers.

Advertising Editor

Animator

Architect

Art Auctioneer

Art Critic

Art Historian

Art Restorer

Art Teacher

Art Therapist

Bookbinder

Calligrapher

Candlemaker

Caricature Artist

Ceramist

Costume Designer

Enamelist

Fabric Draper

Florist

Gallery Owner

Gift Wrapper

Glassblower

Graphic Designer

Hair Stylist

House Painter

Illustrator

Industrial Designer

Interior Decorator

Jeweler

Letterer

Makeup Artist

Medical Illustrator

Muralist

Museum Curator

Paperhanger

Parade Float

Photographer

Printmaker

Sculptor

Set Designer

Silversmith

Stained Glass Restorer

Stone Mason

T-shirt Designer

Tattoo Artist

Textiles Designer

Theater Director

Weaver

Window Decorator

Woodworker

Parade Float? What the fuck. How was that an option? It seemed like an insult, a spectacle of failure and self-promotion. Decorating oneself lavishly like a fool, or getting fat and dropping out of society. Also— gift wrapper?! That was not an art. Where was painter?

“Look at this! It’s so fucked up,” Fran said, shaking the pamphlet at Jane.

Jane scanned it, amused. “I don’t get it. Glassblower, graphic designer. Looks okay to me.” Jane handed it back.

“No, here,” Fran emphatically circled Parade Float.

Jane cracked up. “That’s just a typo. They mean ‘parade float designer,’” Jane said. Fran sighed. “What? It’s a real thing.”

“It feels demoralizing. Everything is hopeless. I’m going to quit today,” Fran said. She stared at Jane and imagined she was Jane’s lover, lying with her under the covers, going grocery shopping. Whatever Jane and Deena did together — hosting game nights? watching awards shows? — Fran would be good at that. Or, better yet, she could be Deena’s lover. Lie in Deena’s arms. Brush Deena’s long straight hair away from her face.

“Are you sure? You’re probably just having a bad day. Tell Meryl you’re sick and go home early.”

“I’m a painter. Not a writer of test questions. I hate tests. I hate questions.” Fran ran her hand through her hair. “Ugh! This job has ruined my hair. It’s like straw, touch it.”

Jane touched it. “It’s not that bad, Fran.” Tears waited in Fran’s eyes. “You can’t quit,” Jane said, but Fran was already walking to Meryl’s desk. In no time at all, she had quit Levrett-Mercer, signed the forms, and handed in her key card.

Fran stood triumphantly outside Levrett-Mercer in a drizzly rain. She was like a bug who’d been trapped in a window for days, but had finally located the tear in the screen.

“Fran, wait,” Jane called, walking out the door without a jacket.

Fran, wait, I love you , Fran thought. I’m very attracted to you. Me and Deena both. We’ve been meaning to ask you. .

“What will you do for money?” Jane asked.

Fran looked at the bus stop a few yards away, where she’d spend the next thirty minutes waiting on a metal bench. “I’ll live with Julian. I’ll borrow money from Paulina.”

“Who’s Julian?” Jane asked.

“My boyfriend,” Fran said. “He’s taking me to Lancaster this weekend,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Wow! I had no idea you were seeing someone. Since when?”

“Junior year of college.”

“Oh my god, Fran! You’re practically married,” Jane said.

“What? No. It’s not like that.”

“We should go on a double date. Me and Deena will cook you dinner.”

Fran smiled at her. “I would love that. I really liked Deena.”

Fran hugged Jane. She liked how Jane smelled. She imagined a perfume called Lesbian Squalor. Maybe that’s how Deena smelled. Maybe she’d find out.

The hairdresser touched Fran’s hair and recoiled. “I know it’s really dry,” Fran said. “That’s why I came in. Can’t you give me a strong conditioner or something?” The salon had that plastic smell of vanity and fear. It was decorated with black-and-white photos of models. Silver blow dryers sat out on the counters like big flamboyant guns. Fran usually cut her own hair.

The hairdresser was a thin European. He furrowed his brow. His accent made Fran feel ordinary. He fluffed her hair with distaste. “Well, I can use these new products we just got in,” he said, pointing to a bottle labeled SUPERCURL. The logo was written in scribbly letters above a line drawing of a woman’s wild curls. Below her was a drawing of a man who looked exactly like Marvin. Fran examined his sweet, sweet face. They had captured it and now it was everyone’s.

Fran stared at the sleek, simple hair of the models in the photos on the wall.