In the eye of the storm

TW: voyeurism, suggestion of sexual harrassment

“Are you coming tonight?” Laura tapped on the bathroom door. Her friend Sally did not respond. She tapped again. The rap echoed through the hall.

               She opened the unlocked door. There was Sally, naked to her toes, toweling her hair.

               “What are you doing?” She covered herself with the towel. Laura scrutinized her, lost in thoughts, edging toward embarrassment, but sidetracking it.

               “We need to get going.” She stepped closer, took Sally’s arm, and nudged her off the closed stool.

               “Where are we going? And why was I invited?” She threw the towel at Laura. It slapped against her chest, dropped to the floor in a heap of wetness. Sally gathered her clothes, then stepped around her school friend. Laura playfully slapped her friend’s buttocks. A red handprint blossomed. “Ow. Brilliant.” She tapped Laura on the arm.

               Laura addressed the retreating Sally. “What planet did you leave your brain on? Planet of Little Brains?” Sally moved quickly to Laura’s bedroom.

               “Planet Get Off My Ass rotating the sun Prick One near the Black Hole Laura.” She stalled as she twisted her head to grin at Laura. “Oh, did I say ‘Hole?’. My mistake.” Sally ducked into the bedroom they shared for the sleepover, then snatched shorts off the bed. She jumped into them, then pulled a string top over her head, fastening it with a Bunny Rabbit knot on the front. It left her back exposed, an illusion of nudity. Just that, an illusion. Sally was much this way, and had been since she was fifteen, two years ago.

               “Where’s the rest of your outfit? Need a Band-Aid? I have some Flintstone. Big enough.”

               “Eat your heart out, jealous twitch. What is this place?”

               Laura sighed in exasperation. “The Storm King Art Center. I have tickets. I asked you a week ago. Art class paper? Anything coming to mind? You sit next to me in class.”

               “In class?” She fiddled with the string strap on the shoulder.

               “You are as dense as a lead toad. Quit messing with the string. You could go topless. No one would notice.”

               “As compared to your triple A cup? What are you in training for? Fifth grade?”

               Laura’s eyes dropped to Sally’s waist. “That’s a low jab. Thanks, friend.”

               Sally turned to inspect herself in a door mirror. Satisfied after a few tugs, she slipped into her sandals. “Not your fault. Where is this place?”

               Laura left the bedroom. She spoke to the path before her. “Hamlet of Mountainville in the Town of Cornwall.”

               “Cornwall? Farms. Why don’t we go to the Metropolitan? Not that much difference, distance-wise. Culturally? I don’t know, but some hamlet with more cows than people? I’ll take New York any Tuesday.”

               “Think I’m your Uber ride? I don’t like driving in New York. Too many crazies, too many cabs, too much stink, too expensive. You want to go? Put on some fresh Band-Aids, maybe Sponge Bob. Go for it.”

               “Maybe I will Triple A.” Sally laughed, as did Laura.

               “You play the hand you‘re dealt.”

               Sally shrugged. “Or in your case, pinky fingernail.”

***

               The eleventh-grade girls listened to Z100. Laura’s parents gave her a 2010 light yellow Elantra for her seventh birthday. Sally joked her parents gave her a bus pass. She thought, Another good reason to keep Laura in the friend column. Not that many listed in the tally, anyway. Best friends enough. The posturing easily erupted into laughter. The Band-Aid taunts owned familiarity since the girls first met in seventh grade when the stab settled literally for both. Sally glanced over at Laura, tapping her fingers on the leather-bound steering wheel.

               Laura pointed through the window. “There it is.” Sally sang along with Brandon Flowers’ “Can’t Deny My Love.” She car-danced, as if the vehicle could not trap her exuberance. Her bronze-blond hair swished with the beat.

               Laura parked. Both girls went into the visitor center. Laura handed over the tickets in exchange for a guide brochure.

               A pleasant local woman in her sixties, at the youngest, smiled brightly. She said, “We rarely have young people here.”

               Sally smiled. “Not enough term papers, I suppose. Can we take pictures?”

               “Of course. If you want more information, we have literature in the gift shop.”

               Laura glanced toward the gift shop. “I guess the exit is through that shop?”

               The woman either ignored or missed the slight. “Yes, through the shop. Information on the exhibits. Post cards.”

               Sally grimaced. “Band-Aids?”

               A perplexed volunteer stared blankly. “Band-Aids? I don’t think so. Do you need a Band-Aid?”

               Laura took Sally by the arm to lead her onto the grounds. “Ignore her. She has these lapses. Harmless.” The girls went through the door onto the verdant grounds, a landscape touching mountain views, rolling terrain, grass freshly cut. People mingled. Some with children, some alone, some elderly. Mostly elderly. How many drive for this? All the hamlet taking an outing?

               Sally took photos with her smart phone. Laura posed with some. An eclectic assortment, but nothing in the classical vogue. Abstracts that left up to the viewer to make some sense of. One caught Sally’s attention. It was large enough to walk under. Feet on both ends, a head sunk into the ground. A bench of sorts. The head reminded her of Easter Island statuary hewn from limestone drug miles and carved. Guardians of an ancient people without guns, she thought.

               Laura noted Sally’s interest. Maybe the trip was worthwhile. Sally turned to dance. Laura joined her in the frolic. Then she noticed a man, overweight, burdened with a camera bag, taking photos of them. “Look.” she tapped Sally on the back. “That man is taking pictures of us.” She turned in the man’s direction, following Laura’s pointing finger. The man stopped, turned away. Discovered.

               “What’s he doing?”

               Laura whispered, although without reason. “Taking pictures of us. I’m asking.”

               Sally raised her eyebrows, as if to challenge the obvious. “Should we? He could be off, you know. Old guys get creepy.”

               Laura ignored her to stride over to the man, now lumbering toward the visitors’ center. Sally traipsed a pace behind. “Hey!” she shouted. The man stalled his pace. The girls caught up with him.

               He appeared to be in his fifties, disheveled. A strapped camera swung from his neck, lapping against green work shirt tucked into similar green, baggy pants. He turned to Laura, taking off a cotton fedora style hat. He folded it into his hand.

               “Yes, miss?”

               Laura approached, stayed at three feet. The man gave off an unwashed smell, old perspiration. The armpits were stained. “Why are you taking pictures of us?”

               “Ah, well, I like photography. I often take pictures of the people who visit.” His voice faltered.

               “Without asking?” Sally crooked Laura’s arm.

               “I didn’t think. Candid. Asking pushes me into the picture. Changes it. People become aware of me. Changes it.” Nervous. He repeated himself.

               Laura was not convinced. “What do you do with them?”

               “Do?” He interpreted. “Do?” Again. “I print them. I mean, I have them printed. Maybe a brochure.” He stammered. “For the center. Just a project. I ask if we use them.”

               Laura’s head wagged. “Tsk. And how would you find us? Lost and found? A high school yearbook? Door-to-door?”

               Sweat dripped from his forehead. The stains at the armpits awoke. “I’m sorry. Just a hobby, nothing more. I’ll leave. I’ve upset you. I’m sorry.”

               Sally reached toward him. “Delete the images of us. We’re minors. You can’t take our pictures.” This was not true. They were in a public place. No, but Sally suspected a motive that made her uncomfortable. Naked.

               He walked away.

               Laura threw an arm over Sally’s shoulder, around her neck. She pulled her friend toward her. “You know what I think?”

               Sally pocketed the phone. “Yes.”

               “OK, Know it all. What am I thinking?”

               Sally put her hand to Laura’s waist. “He’s a Triple A salesman. Doing a catalogue for their fall line. Don’t be surprised when you see your dance routine on television.” She gesticulated broadly.

               “Let’s go. My Band-Aids are killing me and peeling.”