Quicksilver

A thunderbolt of inspiration thwacked me.

"Hey, I have an idea! I know a bit of photography; I can process film and paper. My uncle gave me an old German 9x12 cm camera with adapters for 4-inch roll film. That makes big contact prints, no enlarger needed. I'll shoot the 'intimate poses' and paint from those prints, probably the next day. I can sell her prints for a fat price, too, and the negatives for a small fortune."

"I have an idea for any nudes or 'intimate' scenes you paint, m'lady. Only sign them 'L.B.; That makes them more mysterious and less attributable."

"As for me, I'm thinking it's time to go."

"It's past time," gallery girl Delia said, looking up from the accounts journal. "I already called your cab." A horn honked outside. "There it is now. We all need sleep. Call me for your limo over to Alamo in the afternoon. Scamper away now."

We made it home, showered, puffed the hash pipe, crawled into bed, and snored in each other's face. I was comfortable. I can withstand a lot of snoring when I'm in love.

===== Saturday-Sunday, week 9 =====

We made drowsy love around noon Saturday; I made coffee and brunch a little later; we made plans until it was time for a limo. I could almost get used to being driven distances while making out in the back seat. The Alamo showing promised to run late again so we dropped our bag at the luxury hilltop lodge overlooking that wealthy village..

This was another AmEx cardholder event and I suspect more than a few patrons were coked-up; the energy level was crazily elevated. Famous faces bought my paintings. I sketched prominent buyers, and many talked to Argo about commissioning portraits. He distributed printed applications and stamped, addressed envelopes. Make it easy for them to give us money, sure.

Nate and I were worn ragged by the time we were taxied to our terribly comfortable bed and complimentary champagne. We needed both.

=====

Sunday saw us once more rise around noon, gain nutrition from a fabulous delivered brunch, and make fuzzy decisions on the ride home.

"That's it. No more 'star artist' showings, or pretty soon they'll be 'dead artist' events. My agency contract lets me opt-out of these. I'll paint more cars for a good price, and I'll go for on-site commissions with you there, but I really don't want to burn out."

"How about out-of-area events?" Nate asked. "Like at ritzy galleries in Beverly Hills, Grosse Pointe, or Manhattan. Flown by executive jet, pampered in over-the-top luxury. You're known beyond the Bay Area, too. You'll be in magazines soon. What if you get calls from London, Rome, Abu Dhabi, or Tokyo, to sign fresh works and paint zillionaires? We could take paid vacations on some Riviera, or the Alps, the Amalfi coast, New Zealand. You'd have so much more to paint."

"You want to know what's in my heart?" I said. "Besides you and Figgy? I'm really centered in the Bay Area and the West. I could stand occasional gigs in global hot-spots and yes, there are museums I'd love to see. But I don't really need distant locales to paint. I could work from projected slides... but that's not me." My mind cleared a little.

"I really like the idea of us taking bicycle tours around the West and stopping to paint or stay anywhere that looks good. I've had great fun on my plein air group journeys, and just us and those cargo bikes along the waterfront." I loved the good times. "But biking is pretty weather-dependent. Nate, lover, can I entice you to go touring in my Citroën? We can hop from inn to inn, stop anywhere enticing, duck out of bad weather or come home."

"Lydia m'lady, that's an offer I can't refuse. But lodging can be pretty sparse in much of the Golden West. For distance, a camper van makes more sense. Think an Econoline dealer will give you a free van if you paint one for publicity? Have Argo sniff around when Kingsley's exclusive expires."

We cooked up more plots en-route and had the limo drop us at the gym. Our bodies needed it. At home, after submitting to Figgy's demands, we prepped a tidy dinner together, followed by wine and another round of strip chess. We both won. Did anyone cheat?

===== Monday-Thursday, week 10 =====

I started training sandy-haired Teresa Lindström as my replacement Monday and she was obviously competent. I had only to clue her in on the Salman & Johannes company culture, which was pretty relaxed when not frantic. I knew she could take over nicely at the end of the week.

Nate had taken on extra coursework to prepare for a higher-level FCC licence. That kept him busy during the day and in class after dinner. I kept him busy in bed after that.

He took possession of the garage slash studio on Tuesday and cleaned it to neat perfection. I called Pacific Bell to arrange for a phone line; they promised to be there late next Monday morning. I re-measured the space that evening and made a list of necessities like heaters and fans, lighting gear, backdrops and supports, shelving and cabinets for props and such, et fucking cetera.

Hanging sheets would form little changing areas. We would install a tiny darkroom to develop film and make contact prints, with a handy stabilization processor for quick-review prints in thirty seconds; a total ten-minute turnaround time. Stabilized prints self-destruct within six months. I would make permanent contact prints at home. We would not leave anything sensitive here.

Nate organized studio supplies Wednesday. Mr Salman sent me off a little early so I had extra time at the gym with Nate before I fed him and drove him to class. I started arranging items in the rental studio. Home from class, I just about fucked him to death. He did not gripe.

I worked late Thursday, writing an evaluation of Teresa, and missed my gym time. Nate had assembled rental studio hardware during the day. We enjoyed postcards from Lori and Larry announcing tomorrow's graduation from third grade. I fed and drove Nate, then sketched the twins' faces from memory. Home again, we thought up cute messages of congratulations.

===== Friday, week 10 =====

My last day! My name plate could be retired along with my Business BItch disguise, that garb to be resumed if I needed to dominate dickheads. Nate and I dressed respectably and calmly bused downtown. I should not have been surprised by the Glory Days! cake and the spiked fruit punch.

Quicksilver couriers arrived and hugged me. Clients wished me well and mostly kept their hands safely distant. Tracy had ordered a catered lunch for staff and posted the CLOSED sign. Yes, we did feel like family, and only slightly dysfunctional.

Nate said he had to bus home to study. I spent the afternoon finishing my last paperwork and handing my reins of office to Teresa. SHE could suffer frenzies, paralegals, and solicitors now!

Mr Salman handed me a legal envelope. "Do not open until you are sitting at home." He shook my hand. "Remember, you always have a place here." I almost cried.

Nate called, telling me to stop at the gym. We exercised and soaked. Julia and Romero joined the gym rats present in wishing me a new life.

"Hey, I'm not leaving. We'll move but stay close and constant. You ain't rid of me yet, folks!"

Nate used the gym's office phone before we left. We got home just as a delivery car arrived with Thai take-out. We both changed into jeans and tees. I got him to class on time. Only two more weeks of this! I fondled Mr Salman's parting envelope but decided to share it with Nate.

I thought to drive us for nightcaps after class but he ordered me homeward. "Yassuh," I said.

He set his mystery joints tin on the coffee table, lit two candles and turned down the electric lights. He walked to the record player and held up a seven-inch 45 RPM disk.

"I wrote a song that's not as bad as my usual. I went to GuitarWorld on Mission Street; they have facilities for recording and cutting 45s. This is early for a Valentine, but here goes."

He dropped the needle and sat beside me. He held my hand, a simple gesture. I heard his bare fingers brushing steel strings. Then his voice.

  ♫   ♫   For all the praise you give   ♫   For all the heart you give   ♫   For all the thanks you give   ♫   For all the love you give   ♫   Every day's a holiday with you   ♫   ♫

A guitar break, very ragtime-y. Another verse.

  ♫   ♫   For all your natural energy   ♫   For what happens with you and me   ♫   Happiness now, never feeling blue   ♫   All our gifts, old and new   ♫   Every day's a holiday with you   ♫   ♫

A different, longer guitar break. He sang again.

  ♫   Every day's a holiday with you   ♫   Every day's a holiday with you   ♫   Every day's a holiday with you   ♫

I cried and fell on him. He held me gently.

"That started as ANTY LIDEE'S SONG, dedicated to Lori & Larry, and I have a couple of silly verses for them. I think I'll cut that version later and send it to them for Christmas. But this one's for you. I can say it now. I love you, m'lady."

I was happy beyond endurance. I nearly strangled the fucker, or drowned him, or both.

We finally pulled me together. He looked in my eyes.

"I know I'm about half a year early or late, but heck. M'lady, will you be my Valentine?"

I broke down again. Recovery took longer. I could only whimper, "Yes yes yes..." and kiss him.

After I released his tonsils, he poured glasses of a decent Russian River Zinfandel and lit a joint at a candle. He inhaled deeply, filled my lungs, and sipped his wine. I held my breath as long as possible, sipped from my glass, toked hard, and gave my smoke to him. Our lips stayed together. Damn, he tasted good!

We finished the joint and the bottle. He started to rise. I pushed him back into the sofa.

"Wait just a moment. Mr Salman had a goodbye item for me."

I fetched the envelope and handed it to Nate to open. He unsealed it and gave me the contents. I spread them on the table. A letter of highest praise. An income statement for tax purposes. And two checks. One, my final salary. The other, a bonus... fat enough to buy a Mercedes, were I so inclined. And desperate.

A wax-sealed tinfoil-wrapped object was in the papers. I opened it and found a joint. What a boss I had!

"I think we have another WOW! moment," Nate whispered.

"I guess I'm worth something after all," I whispered back.

Nate patted my not-bad butt and said, "This must have SOME value to someone.

Nate squatted in front of me, lifted me, and threw me over his shoulder in a fireman's carry! I whooped. He toted me to the bedroom.

"We'll just have to see if you're worth keeping," he growled, and ripped my damn clothes off me! The tee and bra were easy; the jeans and panties took a little more work.

'Fair is fair,' I figured, so I ripped what I could off him. He cheated by allowing me to pull his jeans and briefs down.

I'm not sure who was the greater beast that night! Who bit and scratched more? Who strained and groaned more? I know I howled louder. Figgy was nowhere in sight.

===== Saturday-Sunday, week 10 =====

We woke fairly early, even without the alarm. I had a plan in mind and I would accept no denial. But first we made love again without physical scarring. Figgy cautiously watched from a chair.

Nate cuddled me but I was on a mission.

"Okay buster, up and out of bed! Join me in the shower. Then I'll fix a good breakfast and we'll finally dress. Then you WILL pack clothes for a night in Mendocino, but no more water rescues. I have to return a blanket to the innkeeper there, and driving it up in the Citroën will be more fun than packaging it for Parcel Post. Now get off your lazy ass! Well, it's a nice ass. The rest of you, too."

I pinched his butt, grabbed his goopy cock, and induced him to rise. We showered, ate, and dressed. I called Pat, the B&B owner, to warn of our visit. I promised no more drama.

I felt like speeding some so I kept not much more than 10 MPH over the speed limit up the Redwood Highway, that's US-101, to Willits, then risked the narrow, twisty 'highway' across the Coast Range, following the Skunk Train route. Wow, the Citroën could really handle! Yes, I kept my eyes peeled for cops.

That road intersects with the Pacific Coast Highway right at the Noyo Harbor bridge, the scene of that too-recent rescue. We did not stop there but drove south to a state park filling a river gulch. My plan just kept rolling along!

"I've been past here but not into the park," Nate said. "You know of something?"

"I've biked up the gulch before but I'm stronger now. Ready for some bicycling?"

We rented cheap old Raleigh three-speeds from a shop at the beachfront parking area and rode together up the fairly easy paved grade a few miles through the thick redwood forest. I turned my bike around, passed Nate a water bottle I had carefully stashed — foresight is handy — and yodeled. See, there is much you and Nate don't know about me! But I digress.

I glided down that comfortable slope. Nate glided (or is it glid?) alongside me. It was like flying through an endless cathedral with redwood pillars. I yodeled again. Nate did, too. My braless boobs jiggled with each bump. He could not match that.

Our return called for fruit smoothies from the parking area's snack stand. And a few kisses. We drove to Mendocino and I returned Pat's blanket. Our room was ready already but I was not. We walked the village, peering into shops and listening to crashing waves until the sun faded behind an offshore fogbank.

I drove us north across the Noyo Harbor bridge, on into Ft Bragg, to a good Mexican restaurant I knew. One mug of beer each with our burritos was quite enough for my plan.

I next took us to an abandoned high school, now a community center. A locally-filmed movie was playing: The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming!. The lounge room held only one 16mm projector. Each reel was played, and then rewound while the audience left their stuffed chairs and couches, munched on packaged snacks, and discussed the action and location.

We snuggled together on a couch munching fresh popcorn. This was about the best cinema night I had ever enjoyed! Another local film was Stephen King's 'Salem's Lot. I could have handled that too, but Russians was funnier.

I drove us along the coast road but no Russian submarines were visible in the moonlit Pacific.

We took to our B&B room with a bottle of Amontillado — a cask was not necessary — and lit a joint, with smoke taken out the window by the cross breeze. Our lovemaking hopefully did not frighten gulls, seals, livestock, or even neighbors.

=====

Fog settled in overnight; we lacked incentive to linger on the coast after breakfast, which followed more lovemaking. But I was in no rush to speed along the Redwood Highway this murky Sunday, so down the coast we went, more slowly. We stopped in shops and galleries along the way to waste time. Two lambs pranced in a crafter's back meadow; the proprietor said the male's name was Ram-bunctious. Hah!

No matter how I slogged, we were back home all too soon, and too early for dinner. The light on my phone answering machine blinked; I played the message cassette. A contralto voice spoke.

"Hello, is a Nate Kramer there? I'm Signe Sperlin, and Geoff at GuitarWorld gave me this number. If this is the right place, please ask Kramer to call me at 555-6789 anytime."

I looked at Nate. "Do you know this woman?"

"Not that I recall, and I'm sure I'd remember running into the lead singer of Maxwell's Demon. They're a hot band. I doubt I've ever consorted with any of that group. This must be connected with the song I cut for you but I have no idea what's up. Guess I'll call and find out."

He dialed a number. I switched on my cheap Radio Shack speakerphone to hear both ends of the conversation.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Click. "Hey there, I'm demonic, and what are you?" a low voice grunted.

"Nate Kramer, returning a call from Signe."

"Lemme see, lemme see... yeah, your name's on the list. Whaddya want?"

"Whatever it is Signe wants, I guess. I have no idea. She called first, said she heard of me from Geoff at GuitarWorld."

"Geoff, huh? That pencil-necked geek! Well, the Demons are Winterland's closing set tonight, and ain't nobody gonna be conscious much before noon, so I'll leave a note. She has your number, right? You gonna be there mid-afternoon? Don't expect nothing before then."

"I learned to expect nothing, Mr Demonic, but yeah, I'll be around till five."

"Groovy. Demonic out." Click.

I looked at him.."No idea, huh?"

He shrugged. "I doubt she wants a mountain dulcimer player to jam with. So we'll see."

More wine. Another joint. Figgy, perched across our bare thighs, inhaling. To bed, with quiet sex.

===== Monday, week 11 =====

Some habits are hard to break but I easily broke my get-up-early-for-work habit. Nate's head between my thighs, his tongue slipping along my slit, meant office days were in my past. Damn, my lover knows how to excite me! I figured payback was only fair, so after yelling a few times, I rolled him over and slid to suck that throbbing cock. Then I figured this was no time to stop so I mounted him like Dale Fucking Evans on Buttermilk, yippie-ki-yay! We triggered each other well. Damn, I love feeling him cum inside me! Damn, I love him!

I drove us in the Beetle to my favorite art supply store and bought more of what I needed for the rental studio. Nate and I both wore reflective shades but I was recognized anyway.

"Hey, it's our new superstar and her stalwart companion! You can afford to buy the good stuff now, right? Don't have to dig through the 'expired' bin any more!"

I disliked this guy. "One tube of Burnt Sienna should make you look almost normal, Neil. I'll buy."

"Well, you're still driving that ratty VeeDub so I guess you're not rich yet. And it's a work day. Did you get fired? I have a crate of mixed temperas that are only a little dried out. For you, they're half price."

"Will a Mexican twenty-peso note be overpaying?" I waved the colorful bill worth maybe two USA bucks, left over from a vacation in San Blas with someone I would rather forget.

"Outline the eagle with this red crayon, sign it, and we have a deal."

I must be careful what I sign from now on. My signature will be worth something.

"I'll think about it. But now I want other supplies. Don't you have a bathroom break coming up?"

Any more of his snide banter and I would take my business elsewhere. Like Berkeley. But he left me alone now.

I knew what easel, brushes, and other artistic impedimenta I wanted. I paid cash and no, I signed nothing.

Nate read my mood. "Noxious little dung-beetle, isn't he?"

"Those who can, create," I murmured. "Those who can't, create nausea."

We loaded my purchases in the Beetle. Nate took my arm. I leaned into him.

"I switched-off my Gatekeeper mode," I said. "Maybe I need to raise the deflector shields again. Some jerks just piss me off."

"Better pissed off than pissed on. Let's go build a studio."

Last week I had phoned an order to the lighting equipment shop. Now I called them to truck it to the rental studio before noon, absolutely. A Pacific Bell crew was there when we arrived, fiddling with the phone wires. I foresaw a stop at Radio Shack for another answering machine and speakerphone for the studio and a fax machine for the upcoming office in our upcoming home..

We were back in our current home by one for lunch and to be ready if Signe called early. She did, just past two. I turned the speakerphone on.