Page 26 of Dirty Diana
Alicia and I met in an Intro to Screenwriting course our first year of college. She used to sleep through class with a bundled-up Patagonia fleece under her cheek while the rest of us tried to give constructive feedback about one another’s writing without hurting anyone’s feelings. One day a classmate named Ross, who had annoyed most of us by always talking like he already knew everything, started in on my scene. “I don’t buy it.” He waved a dismissive hand. “A woman wouldneversay that.” I sat up a little straighter in my chair and tried not to blush.
Alicia chimed in without lifting her head. “We should be careful not to get warped by our own jealousy when critiquing,” she warned.
“Sorry?” Ross snipped. “Did I wake you?”
Alicia propped her chin on her hand and stared at him. “Diana’s pages are easily the best we’ve read so far. And whether or not a woman wouldeversay that…” She sighed. “Of course a woman would say that. Maybe you just haven’t been listening to many women. Not to be petty.”
After that, and for the rest of the semester, no one listened when Ross said anything.
“Seriously?” Alicia straightens up now and peers across the parking lot. On the other side of the lot, Barry slides the door of his catering van shut. Alicia and I warned him recently that his white van looked a lot like a kidnapper’s vehicle, and today we see he has painted it purple withBarry’s Eatsstenciled across the side in friendly bubble letters. Alicia whistles. “Hotdamn,Barry. Now you’re just a stone-cold fox.”
Barry laughs. He is one of the nicest humans we know, and by far the best boss we’ll ever have. He knows how broke we are, and he tries to hire us every time he books a job, and to save the more lucrative weekend shifts for us. He didn’t even make us buy new clothes when he hired us—one day he just pretended to find new uniforms in our sizes. He lied and told us they had been returned by former employees.
He does have one teeny management flaw, which is that he often falls in love with his employees. He has never acted on a single crush, but if you know him, you spot it instantly. He flushes, his eyes go puppy-wide, and his voice gets high when he tries to give instructions. He has fallen for Megan who only works on Thursday nights, Alexander from Taos, Alicia for sure, and most recently, Rod, who almost never says a word. “He told me he’s studyingbotany,” Barry told me once about Rod, like it was the most surprisingly sexy thing he’d ever heard.
Now he speed-walks toward us in white platform sneakers and long shorts, his curly brown hair backlit by the dramatic Santa Fe sky. He’s only a few years our senior, but his stress levels make him seemmuch older. He folds his arms across his chest. “Is it too much to ask that you abstain for one shift?”
“Oh fuck, Barry.” Alicia widens her eyes. “Did you forget?”
Barry goes still.
“Baaaaaarrrrrryyyyyy.” She shakes her head. “It’s Diana’s birthday! You forgot?”
He looks at me so sweetly, so full of regret, as Alicia piles it on. “Diana isworkingon her twenty-fifth birthday! Is that even legal?”
“Happy birthday, Diana.” Barry hugs me, and I want to take a little nap on his shoulder. He’s an inch or two shorter than me and my head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck.
“If wedidn’tget stoned,” Alicia insists, “I’d be the worst friend in the world and you’d be the worst boss. Like, really cruel.”
“Your friend is hilarious.” He squeezes my arm affectionately and hands me a duffel bag of aprons and Sterno cans. To Alicia he says, “Drink some coffee. Andpleasetuck in your shirt.”
Alicia nods and does as she’s told, unzipping her khakis and pulling them down far enough to reveal the lacy top of her pink underwear. Barry looks immediately at his feet.
He notices my bumper on the ground and picks it up, leaning it against the trunk. “There’s duct tape in my van.”
“Don’t worry, Barry,” I say. “We’re on it.” It’s my voice, but it sounds like I’m in a tunnel. The weed is hitting me hard.
Alicia holds up Barry’s hand and high-fives it. “We are so pumped, Bare.”
“It’s a big night,” Barry says, and I want to hug him again. He says this at the beginning of every shift because he’s legitimately worried he’s going to fuck up, no matter how many parties he’s catered.
He slings a big bag of linens over his shoulder and heads for the gallery’s back door. “Just don’t eat all the cocktail weenies. This crowd loves them. They’re ironic hot dog eater–types!”
“You know I don’t eat weenies that small, Barry!” Alicia calls after him.
He pretends not to hear. My head is officially a cloud of pink cotton-candy dreams.
—
In the gallery’s back kitchen, I count and recount the serving trays, covering each one with a white doily, while Alicia sets up the coatracks in an office off the gallery’s main floor. Barry hurries back and forth to his van, unloading supplies and grumbling about how dirty the kitchen is. Silent Rod is here, too, tall and lanky, with a well-groomed, rust-colored beard and arms so long it looks like he’s wearing a child-size flannel shirt. He carries milk crates of alcohol into the main room and sets up the bar in a corner. I check the miniquiches in the oven, then head out to help Rod slice lime wedges. I like to imagine that the faraway look in his eye means he’s lost somewhere inside the pages of his botany textbook.
Sylvia Cross, the gallery’s formidable owner, is moving methodically through the main room, asking her assistants again and again for an opinion of where each photograph has been hung. They make several laps, then land in front of us at the bar. They decide thatwe’rewhat’s out of place. “This is all wrong here.” Sylvia waves her hands at Rod, who nods politely, unfazed, and gets to work breaking down the bar and moving it to the other side of the room.
Tonight’s show is for Jasper Green, a local photographer I’ve heard talked about more for his good looks than his work. Sylvia has left copies of Jasper’s profile inAperturemagazine—“Santa Fe’s Next Art-Throb”—all over the gallery. In the photo spread, he’s sitting in the bed of an old blue-and-white Ford 250, looking exactly like a person practicing the art of appearing laid-back: oatmeal fisherman sweater, faded Levi’s, worn-in work boots. He has a wide smile and dimples in both cheeks. His legs dangle off the back of the truck and his hands rest on his thighs. I would assume someone so good-looking takes photos of other attractive people, like naked supermodels posing in the desert, but looking around I see his photographs are mostlylandscapes. Their mood is eerie and a little cold. Two images face each other in the center of the gallery: one shows a giant arched mesa dotted with snow, and the other shows a frozen lake surrounded by the desert sand, which is textured like a wind-swept toupee. The prints are massive, taller than human-size, so standing in front of them you feel overwhelmed, like you might fall into their desolation.
My buzz is giving way to sleepiness. I search the kitchen, find a jar of Nescafé, and make a coffee to share with Alicia. When Barry isn’t looking, I wrap some cocktail weenies in a napkin and shove them in my apron pocket.
The office door is closed. I rap on it. “Alicia?”
