Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

She entered. She saw herself repeated over and over. Everything is one, the New Cotton Rivers said, born of the perfection of a unique light, and multiple things are multiple only by virtue of the multiplication of light itself. The office ran four rows of mirrored walls. She checked her figure. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the finest of them all? She thanked God for her infinite perfection.

Porsha.

In the deep shade, at the farthest end of the studio, a figure ran backwards and forwards. Was it beast or human? She could not tell. The figure rolled through the reflected shadows. Broke into light. Owl’s bald head bulb-gleamed. His orange jumpsuit forced bright color into her eyes. He always wore an orange jumpsuit. Perhaps a carryover from the days when he had worked as the coroner’s photographer.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the jar lid that he used for an ashtray. (He knew she couldn’t stand the smoke.) He was a short man, the shortest she had ever seen. He might have made a successful paparazzo, slip his tiny camera through a guarded peephole, this man small enough to slide under a door, camera and all. He came forward with his hand extended, his eyes full of light and fire.

She took his warm hand into her own. He pulled her forward a step or two. Bowed slightly from the hips. She lined up her cheek with his lips. He kissed her.

How are you? Owl was so close that he almost put his eyes in her mouth.

No complaints. She eased back a step or two, trying not to be noticeable. Jus fine.

Sorry to keep you waiting. I had problems adjusting a lens.

Don’t be silly. You weren’t long.

Owl gave her a moment of concentrated attention. That’s what I like about you. His knowing expression shook her. Not only are you professional, but you’re kind, too.

Every word pulled the knot in her belly tighter. Thanks. How’s everything with you?

You know, chicken today. Feathers tomorrow.

She forced a laugh.

Have some breakfast? He motioned to a small card table behind him laden with toasted bagels and rolls, steaming coffee and tea, and colorful juices.

No, thank you. I already ate.

Some spirits?

No, thanks. Kinda early for me.

Each to his own. He fixed himself a drink.

Damn.

What’s wrong?

I forgot my briefcase. Deathrow had snared all her attention. Made her forget her leather briefcase that harbored the tools of her trade: dazzy dukes, biker shorts, a thong bikini, a miniskirt, a teddy, and assorted garter belts and stockings.

Don’t worry about it. I need you to model a new line. You’ll find the outfits in the dressing room. Start with whatever you like.

THE BLACK TRANSPARENCY AND GLOW OF HER SKIN caught the candlelight. The candlelight threw black shadows that repeated the profile of her face, her throat, her arms.

Okay, give me something soft.

She curled into the most delicate gesture, a root searching for moisture, circling out.

Okay. Now walk toward me.

She undulated rather than walked.

Butter. Pure butter.

She drifted in a well-tight place. Broke the surface. Trawled the wet floor. Spun. The concentric dartings of fish through clear spaces of water.

Ah huh. Ah huh. Yes. Owl spoke slowly and carefully as though every word was costing him money. I like that.

She shimmied. Small white shells rattled on her ankles.

LIGHT STUNNED AWAY COLOR. Two white tunnels trapped her vision. To overcome their length, she had to look straight ahead. Her eyes rolled in dry sockets. She crawled through the tunnels on all fours beneath bone-blackening heat.

That’s it.

Her spine curved around air. She stretched the elastic wealth of her body. Her hands and feet curled into wheels.

The eye watched. Large, like black velvet, with a flashing diamond in its center. The outside world disappeared whenever it blinked.

Good.

The shutter recognized. Ignored.

Okay, now, pick up the jacks.

She did. She rattled them in the well of her fist. Tossed them. A song spilled out of her.

A dollar to school.

A dollar to church.

What? Owl said.

Nothing. A song. Sweat raced down her body, a rivulet of snakes. She heard the steel eye snap, butter beans popping into a steel pan.

HER BODY ILLUMINATED in the steady, biting light of lamps, she released the full army of her skin.

The eye ran for cover.

Wonderful. I don’t know how you do it.

Easy. She had slipped behind the mirror inside her head. She was looking at herself through his eyes. Her whole body spoke of pleasure.

Yes. That’s it.

Sweat sheen gleamed on her. It moved when she moved. She knew what he liked. He didn’t spray his models with water. Preferred natural sweat. It caught the light truthfully. I see a shot, I can tell right away if it’s water or sweat.

More.

He spoke in a pecking way, picking up corn, feed.

She fluttered in fowl flight.

Yes.

Her body clarified. Bled light.

Pig meat. Real pig meat.

She threw her head back.

I like that. Keep it. More. Uh huh.

Her body caught the velocity of the camera’s desire. She pranced out of herself, blowing about. The clicking lens and clucking tongue invited her outside.

Good, Lord!

She galloped fully now. Pranced back to the center. Settled down to a trot.

That’s it.

She bowed her head. Her body drifted toward rest. She watered at the well. She steadied herself, like someone recovering from a fainting spell.

SOME SPIRITS?

Thanks. She checked her figure in the mirror. Smoothed her blouse. Pulled her skirt here or there.

What would you like?

Zinfandel, if you have it.

I do, but I don’t think it’s chilled.

That’s fine.

He found the bottle. Popped the cork. Waved it under his nose. His face spoke fire. He put the cork under her nose to smell.

Umm.

He filled a stemmed glass and she accepted it, water cool. He didn’t pour himself one. Sat the bottle on the card table in easy reach.

She sipped. Umm. It’s good.

Yes, I bet. The smell was delightful. Owl lit a cigarette — his hand shielding his eyes from the unbearable brilliance of the flame — and in its flare she saw that he was laughing silently. That was great. With rapid wrist motion, he waved the flame out. I always like working with you. He leaned forward and tossed the black match. It sounded against the metal jar lid. He sucked heavy. Lifting his chin, he blew the smoke high. Professional.

She waved the white words away from her face.

Oh, I’m sorry. How stupid of me. The smoke. He reached for the improvised ashtray.

Wait. Don’t put it out.

Are you sure?

Positive.

Smoke formed a white gown above their heads.

I thank you for allowing me one. He sucked. I’ve been tryin to quit. But I can’t seem to do without them.

They say that it’s not easy.

His eyes followed her words. No, it isn’t. It comes with the work. You know me. He dried his face and hair with a towel. Slave to the image. He folded the towel into a sharp square. Dropped it into a wicker basket. Sweat had formed two crescent moons under his arms.

Her body started to respond to the cool and quiet machine-generated air. Sweat froze on her skin. Her nails raked away frost.

But I like working with you. He sucked on his cigarette. You’re easy to work with. Our sessions always go so quick. Most of the models, you have to tell them everything. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the jar lid, a flattened top hat. They own no poses or gestures. Or they copy something they saw in a magazine. But you—

Porsha sipped her wine. She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t want to say anything. Wished he would stop talking. Just stop talking. Allow her to enjoy her wine and the habitual calm that followed a shoot.