People of Pleasure
by Marina J. Neary
|
Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 4 5 |
conclusion
I woke up at 8 a.m, to the sound of timid scratching at my door.
“Go away,” I growled lazily, thinking it was some drunk college kid looking for his cabin after a night of partying and puking.
“It’s Brenda,” a shaky voice on the other side replied. “Let me in, please.”
My colleagues have never seen me in my pyjamas. There are some lines that should never be crossed. So, I took a minute to pull on my jeans and a Hawaiian shirt and gargle some wintergreen mouthwash.
Brenda’s sallow face bore that hold-me expression.
“Ginny’s dead,” she whispered as she tumbled over the threshold in my arms.
“Whoa... Good morning to you, too.” I would need a few minutes to process the news. Brenda sat on the edge of my bed. I wrapped a towel around her shoulders and sat next to her. “Talk to me, if you feel like it.”
“Ginny didn’t show up for the morning rehearsal. We always do a run-through at 7 a.m. It was quarter after seven, and Ginny wasn’t there. I sent Camilla, one of the girls from the show, to check on her. She knocked, and nobody answered. We called housekeeping. They came with the master key, opened the door, and there Ginny was, in her bed, cold.”
“She died in her sleep?”
“Probably. She had so many health issues. It could’ve been stroke, heart attack, diabetic shock. Did you see all the sugar she had last night? She was on a whole bunch of meds. The top drawer of her nightstand was full of pills, creams, needles, capsules. There were some antidepressants, too, and some weird, unlabeled gummies. I guess, the autopsy will show what killed her. They are sending a boat to get her body.”
“They better do it discretely, without freaking out the passengers.”
Brenda glanced up at me. “Perry, I feel weird... Horrified and relieved. I know it sounds terrible. But I don’t have to work with Ginny anymore. She was not a nice person.”
“Who would’ve thought?”
“She talked a good talk. A typical narcissist. She bullied the girls in the chorus and dominated conversations. Nobody liked her.”
“What do you think will happen to the show?”
“Oh, it will go on. I’ve put too much work into it. Plus, it wouldn’t be fair to the girls. They’ve worked their butts off. Camilla will take the lead. Of course, she doesn’t have Ginny’s presence... or size. I don’t think the audience will notice. Now, there’s one final TikTok she posted last night, right before she went to sleep.”
“Ginny had a TikTok channel?”
Stupid question. Of course, she did. She was all over social media, posting reels and photos of the show.
Brenda unlocked her phone and clicked on the video timestamped 11:30 p.m. Ginny’s round face with smeared makeup filled the screen. Her speech was punctuated with sobs, sniffles and crunches of Pringles.
Tonight didn’t go as planned. It started on a positive note. I did a matinee show. The crowd was on fire, as usual. Then we were hanging out by the chocolate stand, having drinks, taking photos.
Then I ran into this painter, Rupert Irwin. He’s like a huge name in Philly. I told him how much I admired his work. Then I proposed a collab and he... he totally blew me off. I told him how honored I’d be to have him paint my portrait. He snickered and said he didn’t have enough paint for the project, or a big enough canvas.
I’ve been having such an amazing time with People of Pleasure, I guess, that I forgot how mean regular people can be. I let my guard down. And it’s something you just cannot do when you live with Prader-Willi. People who don’t know about your condition will assume things, they’ll make jokes. But you know what? I am not gonna hold any grudges about Rupert Irwin. He missed out on a great opportunity to level up his career.
I could have called him out for his ignorance, but I chose to walk away. It took me so long to get to this place where I can accept and celebrate my body. I don’t have great life expectancy, and I don’t want to waste whatever time I have on bitterness. I’d rather spend it loving, creating, performing. Good night, everyone. I love you all.
When the video ended, I squeezed Brenda’s wrist.
“Look at me. This is outrageous. You know I didn’t say all these mean things to her. You’ve known me for fifteen years.”
She took a few seconds to respond. “Of course, I know that. Ginny had a knack for twisting words. It’s a part of her diagnosis. Google it. People with Prader-Willi can be quite manipulative and controlling. It’s a survival tactic. When they don’t get what they want, they throw a tantrum. Believe me, I’ve been living with this for the past six weeks.”
“So, you don’t blame me? I just want to be clear about this.”
Brenda forced a smile and gently wiggled her hand free. “Of course, I don’t blame you, Perry. It doesn’t mean her followers won’t. Let’s see the comments.”
Oh, right, the comments... Ginny had over three hundred subscribers on TikTok alone. The public outpour ran the standard fare of bad grammar and emojis.
Girl your beautiful just the way you are, don’t let nobody tell you otherwise.
Who is this Irwin fellow anyway? Never heard of him. Sounds like a jerk to me.
Girl, you don’t need him. I can paint you any day.
Whoa, I just googled that Irwin guy, he’s one ugly sonofabitch.
OMG, that guy is actually teaching at Temple? Would you want your kids taught by a sexist, fat phobic, patriarchal, misogynist prick?
Cancel Irwin. Problem solved. Just cancel him.
A bigot like him doesn’t deserve to teach.
He doesn’t deserve to live.
And the cat wasn’t even fully out of the bag! The followers did not even know she was dead yet. What would happen once her death was publicized? They would pin it on me, of course. Not the doctor who prescribed her a million drugs. Not the bartender who mixed her a dozen margaritas in one night. They would pin it on some random art teacher who could not paint her portrait because he did not have the right supplies. What would they think of next? That I used Ginny for sex and then dumped her, breaking her heart?
“I should be going,” Brenda whispered, brushing the towel off her shoulders. “My dancers are waiting. I need to have a little powwow. Poor Camilla must be traumatized. She was the one who saw the body. I’ll give her some of my Xanax before the show.”
Brenda was slipping away, my only ally. But then, she had her own ass to worry about, being Ginny’s choreographer. No doubt, the authorities would have questions for her as well. The whole dance team would be scrutinized.
“I can count on you, right?” I asked Brenda. “If anyone questions my character... If it comes to that, you’ll be there for me, right? I need to know.”
“I really should be going. You’ll be all right. It’ll blow over.”
Yeah, eventually. It’ll blow over, sure. Like Kennedy’s assassination. People cannot stay focused on one scandal for too long. I just needed to... ride this one out. Hopefully my fellow passengers would not stone me for taking away their beloved plus-size star.
So, I spent the rest of my vacation inside my cabin. It seemed like a smart thing to do. Thank God for room service! I missed all the Nassau excursions, the day trip to the Atlantis hotel, snorkeling with dolphins, the night barbecue on a private island, all the fun things included in my package. I had no photos to show Keith. No doubt, he’d be bummed to hear that his gift to me was wasted.
I spent my days binge watching Game of Thrones. The actor Peter Dinklage looked a lot like one of Velasquez’ dwarves. If they ever made a series set in the court of Philip IV of Spain, they would totally cast Dinklage to play Sebastian de Morra. I thought of pitching the idea to the film students. They could collaborate with the History Department to create a plausible screenplay.
I made it a point not to check my work messages, at least not until we got closer to the shore. A few hours before disembarking, I logged into my Temple portal, scanning the inbox for the inevitable. The vaguely worded termination letter did not come as a surprise. The dean did not explicitly state the Carnival incident as the reason for not keeping me on for the next semester. They cited funding, staffing, enrollment and curriculum adjustment, the usual admin blah-blah.
Once again, I was unemployed, possibly blacklisted. Still a good five years from Social Security, still in need of blood pressure medication and dental cleaning. Until I landed my next gig, I would have to learn to live frugally, eating canned soup and shopping at secondhand outlets.
As I was passing by Tina’s Treasures, I had to pause and blink a few times. My two landscapes were in the window, priced at $5 each! I guess the law firm did not want any art with my name on it. Oh well, at least, the paintings did not end up in the trash. I had a ten-dollar bill in my pocket, just enough to rescue my estranged twins.
The purple-haired girl behind the counter barely looked at me. She took the bill and resumed scrolling through her Instagram feed.
“Come home with papa,” I muttered, dragging the canvases out of the store. “I guess you end up with me after all.”
It did not look like the paintings were terribly abused by the previous owner. I did not see any scratches, mold or water damage.
“You alright, Perry?” I heard a familiar voice. “Need a hand?”
Keith Librandi was standing in front of me, fruity clouds billowing out of his nostrils. I was beginning to think of him as some mystical psychopomp, who helped me shift between the dimensions.
“I see, you’ve added a few facial piercings,” I said. “A septum ring. A lip stud. Nice.”
“Let me carry your stuff. Your place? You’re still at the same address, right?”
“No, I haven’t lost my lease yet, if that’s what you’re worried about. And you really don’t have to help me, Keith.”
“Hey, listen, I kinda feel bad about how everything turned out.”
“Why do you feel bad? It’s not your fault.”
“Kinda is. It’s crazy what happened to Ginny... and how you got sucked in. I feel responsible for some of it. I didn’t know the gummies were so potent. I won’t offer them to anyone else.”
“You had good intentions.”
“Yeah, and they backfired.”
“I don’t regret anything. I thoroughly enjoyed my little trip to Madrid. And the one to the Bahamas. My life was dull. I wasn’t enjoying my job at Temple. The ugly campus was killing my soul. I’ll find something. Don’t worry about me. I’m not homeless or anything. Not yet.”
“My boss is opening another vape shop, on Lombard Street,” Keith said. “He needs a manager. He doesn’t want any Gen Z flakes. They steal merchandise. He likes me ’cuz I’m an old soul, but most kids my age can’t be trusted. Ideally, he wants someone fifty and over, who doesn’t have kids at home, who can work late shifts. He asked me if I knew someone who’d fit the description, and I said, maybe. $22 an hour plus overtime. I’m just saying...”
“Your boss doesn’t mind that I’m a sexist, fat phobic bigot?”
“Nah, Armend doesn’t care. He’s Albanian. He knows the best sexist jokes. That’s how he learned English.”
“That’s comforting to know. I think we’ll get along. Sure, put me in touch with him.”
Managing a vape shop sounded like a logical conclusion to my artistic career. My landscapes found a new home on the wall of Armend’s Vapes. My new boss gave me plenty of artistic freedom. With some input from Keith, we transformed an old warehouse into a psychedelic paradise that doubled as a gallery for local dilettantes.
One day I got a call from the headmistress of a private Christian school in Nashville. The Southern belle expressed her thorough disgust with how I had been treated, first by UArts and then by Temple. She begged me to take over the Visual Arts Department and swore I would be safe from all the woke nonsense. They would love, love, love to have me. $50K a year with full benefits plus housing and transportation allowance.
It sounded very tempting. But how could I leave Philly? How could I let down Keith and Armend? Not to mention all the local barbers, butchers and cops who brought in their acrylic doodles and handmade resin figurines. I could not abandon this newly created beacon of lame, earnest amateurism.
“Free artist” is an oxymoron. You are always curated, policed, cajoled, cancelled. You always have some gargantuan entity hovering over you, be it monarchy, academia or an outraged online community. You either have some deranged king telling you to paint naked children or art critics telling you that your work isn’t edgy enough, or livid parents telling you that you traumatized their little Picasso for life. To be truly free, you have to work for free.
And that’s just what I did. After locking up the vape shop for the night, I headed over to a block party on South Street. Some band was playing out of tune. Girls with naked torsos were juggling fireballs in front of a food truck. In my backpack, I had a sketchbook and a box of pastels. I grabbed an empty orange crate to sit on and put up a sign: 5-minute portraits FREE.
It did not take long for the first customers to arrive. A timid Hispanic woman with a child walked over to me. The chubby girl looked about six years old. She was wearing a red dress with yellow flowers and had her curly hair in pigtails secured with red ribbons. The child and the outfit certainly looked familiar.
“Excuse me, sir,” the woman said in her accented English. “Will you draw my daughter?”
Copyright © 2025 by Marina J. Neary
