budget press review #7
johnnie b. baker editor/publisher
featuring jaga n.a. argentum katie brown juliet escoria julian gallo joanna gorman lester milton
spring 2013
budget press 3620 keating st. san diego, ca usa 92110
budgetpress.net
The Budget Press Review is my expressive arts therapist's attempt to manage my manic schizophrenia and anxiety disorder. She believes I need a connection to same larger “community” in some form or I will “dissolve” into a lonely hermit without the ability to even care for a cat and whose only connections to the world are the naïve students he seeks to intimidate with his increasingly loud and bitter harangues. I don’t have the attention span to write a book of my own, so in this age when we so often use other people’s cultural output to communicate with others and define ourselves, I collect writers and artists and use them to express my existential angst and deteriorating mental and emotional state. In this way I should be able, she says, to create this “community” of people with whom I “relate”. Enjoy!
Content and layout
johnnie b. baker
© 2013 Budget Press Artists retain all rights to their work
Cover by jaga n.a. argentum
For the love of peaches. Katie Brown Out of the window I can see the trees. You know how the old green turns to spring moss creeping over everything? The daffodils haven’t made it through yet. Snow keeps turning up unannounced and messing with the running order. Like the party keeps getting scuppered by putting on the slow dances too soon. Let’s just say it’s all a bit John Martyn out there. I am in bed. Not my bed, my bed does not look like this. And I am wearing one of the gowns they give you. You can’t see it but my ass is peeking through, “like a new moon at midnight” one of the orderlies said. I’m a little past the embarrassment stage so I appreciated the allusion. You’ve got to take poetry where you can find it. Besides, my ass can shine down on all, I figured. That seems fair. I am hooked up to various machines. Some of them bleep. The bleep is the kind of monotony I’m used to. A lot of noise that seems to matter to everyone else but just makes me weary. Last year I started growing peaches. I mean that literally. Peaches started falling from me. Round, fuzzy, ripe and sweet. Happened in class the first time. One girl, she got her period and didn’t know till the big red stain appeared like a map of Gibraltar looking like a riot and a massacre, which it really was, certainly for her. Me? I just deposited a peach fully formed on the desk of the boy I’d had a dirty little fumble with in my dreams the night before. A week later I saw Ethel Berger from two doors down, who’s three years older and has the reddest lips anyone’s ever seen. Out pops a peach. Simon Mathers, my brothers friend. Out pops a peach. Late film when everyone’s gone to bed, out pops a peach. That one I decided to eat. It was fucking good. Really fucking good.
I started to eat them after that. Stone and all. I’d have swallowed them whole if I could. And the more I ate, the more they grew. Sexy blue eyes of my dad’s friend? A peach. Baywatch on the Gold channel? A peach. Half an hour on the internet? Shit, more peaches than Georgia. It was then my folks started to notice. I guess at first everyone just assumed I was on a health kick. Like it was a phase, like I was bringing those peaches with me. I don’t think anyone wanted to deal with it at first, which suited me, because I loved those goddamn peaches, and I didn’t really care what it all meant. Someone was hot, I made a peach and I felt good. I wasn’t smoking crack for crissakes. Looking out the window I wonder if I can go out for a cigarette without anyone noticing. It’s not that I’m not allowed to, and it’s not that I even want to. I just feel like doing something because I can. There’s something about machines that makes me want to believe I’m immortal. That’s what smoking was invented for right? There are only a few of us on this ward. I sneak past them because I don’t want to talk. None of us want to talk. We know why we’re here. Everyone’s looking for The Cure, even if the complaints aren’t the same. Outside the air feels brittle against my lips. I think about Jessica, her long, long legs and the way her hair is pure red gold in the sun (peach). I think about how her back is broader at the top and how her waist and hips snake (peach). I think about her smile and the green blue of flash in her eyes when she looks at me (peach, peach, peach). I eat all the peaches, letting the juice run down me. I taste her when I eat. I taste everything when I eat my peaches. Later they’ll point out the sticky marks I’ve made and find a way to try to make me feel like I did something bad. Nicely. Kindly. I smoke a cigarette and then another. They’ll like that, looks destructive. I shiver because of the cold and because I’m scared. Lately I’ve been developing roots. I look down at my feet, the way they seek out the soil. Even now, even in the frost they long for it. I take off the plastic bags they give me to put on, like shoes for a felon, and I
wander through the grounds like that. I look out past the road and I think about how it can’t go on like this. Before dawn I go back and sit in that metal bed and wait. I like the Consultant. I know I’m not meant too. He’s pretty smart, I know he likes me. I think he’s having some kind of psychic break down or maybe a spiritual awakening. I know he likes my peaches, even though he’s trying to figure out how to stop them growing. “We can love the mystery, let’s just keep it personal.” What he means is, stop making peaches but don’t stop loving what makes the peaches. But he can’t say that can he? Not in the Sacred Holy Heart Hospital at least, anyway. Last week, we had a breakthrough. I thought about Jessica again, but I didn’t make a peach. Not one. They near wet their pants with excitement. But the next time I made a peach again. Their faces dropped. Then I didn’t make a peach. Facial yoyo’s I called it. And whilst we played it, I made a plan. “Hey there, how’s my favourite patient?” I rolled my eyes, he says this to everyone. We’re going out today. We’re going to find some sunshine and we’re going to set it all free. All of this, the thing that’s haunting me and making me be something that is different. That’s what we’re doing. We’re driving through the country roads and I start to unwind. I notice how I’m growing. I’m a full 3 inches bigger than yesterday. There is a small tendril that has grown around my left breast. I can hear what the birds are saying when they call. When we get there we start walking and he starts telling me about his wife and how he can’t keep being so unhappy. He tells me about his kid and he tells me about how sometimes the walls close in on him and how everything tastes like shit. I think about my peaches and how it seems to me that what hurts people most is that I have them, and they don’t. He tells me he wants to understand, that he knows it’s more than just a psychopathological disorder and that I must know more than I’m letting on and if I’d only just learn to stop being so brazen about my difference. But I’ve stopped listening. I can sense the rain that’s coming, fine, the kind he’d never even notice. I can smell the forest floor, the creatures alive, the buzz of insects, the mulch and mildew. I can hear things that
make the sounds that pour out of him quite clear. They jar with his nature. They sound like screams. I want to take an axe and cut him down, burn him up. Make him useful. I know that I have found my roots. I know that I am a hybrid, I know that I can hide what I am. I know the fruits make people uncomfortable. I plant myself in the ground and sit strong. I’m not going back. And I can wait for more lifetimes than him. I watch as he curls up on the forest floor and cries. I shelter him as I watch the small furry animal of himself struggle with what it is. Eventually, long after night fall he get’s up and makes his way back to that institution he has given more of himself to than he can take back. I put a peach in his pocket and listen to the wind’s love soughing through my branches. I am home.
The Unintended Consequences of Dogget Mann: Prologue Lester Milton The Office of the President of the United States CLASSIFIED TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDING – DATE: 9/30/77 TIME: 8:30pm Present:
President Larry Spanks Vice-President Pete Hedgeman Secretary of Defense Philip Philips National Security Advisor Buster Koos Director, Dept. of Abnormal Affairs Col. Stanley Fetch General Manager, St. Louis Cardinals Skip Hooligan Unidentified Individual #1 Unidentified Individual #2
Koos:
Mr. President, thank you for meeting with me on such short notice.
Spanks:
Well, Buster, I’m not gonna pretend it’s no skin off my apple. It’s playoff season, y’know.
Koos:
Yes, sir.
Spanks:
So, the sooner we can wrap up this little pajama party, the happier this commander-in-chief’s gonna be.
Philips:
Mr. President, I was under the impression that this was a classified meeting.
Spanks:
Is it? Must be important.
Koos:
It is, Mr. Secretary.
Philips:
I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure?
Hooligan:
Hey there, I’m Skip.
Spanks:
Oh, sorry about that Skipper. Everyone, this my buddy, Skip Hooligan.
Hedgeman:
Cardinals manager, right?
Hooligan:
Yes, sir.
Hedgeman:
Tough season, huh?
Hooligan:
Could’ve been better.
Spanks:
(laughing) You can say that again!
Koos:
Mr. President, we’re dealing with highly sensitive materials here, so I’m concerned…
Spanks:
Oh, now, you can trust the Skipper. We go way back. You can keep your mouth shut, can’t you Skip?
Hooligan:
(laughing) Hey, my lips are sealed!
Spanks:
There you go. Any objections?
Fetch:
Well, actually…
Spanks:
And who are you, anyway? Everyone here knows Skip, but I don’t who you are. And I’m the President.
Fetch:
Stanley Fetch, Mr. President. I was just appointed Director of Abnormal Affairs.
Spanks:
Ab-whoda what?
Koos:
It’s the Department of Abnormal Affairs, sir. They investigate unexplained phenomena as it relates to national security. It’s strictly need-to-know.
Spanks:
Uh-huh. Well, you boys know the less I need to know, the happier I am.
Koos:
Yes, sir.
Hedgeman:
Yes.
Philips:
That’s right, sir.
Spanks:
So why do I suddenly need to know about this abnormal department here?
Koos:
That’s why I called the meeting, sir. Fetch, would you like to explain?
Spanks:
You’re gonna start talking a lot now?
Fetch:
I’m afraid I have to, Mr. President.
Spanks:
Okay, then, let’s get it over with.
Fetch:
But…well…you’re sure about your friend here?
Spanks:
Oh, for crying out loud! Come ‘ere, Skip. Stick out your pinky. That’s right, hook ‘em up. You promise to keep your mouth shut about anything you hear in this room?
Hooligan:
I sure do.
Spanks:
Great, now go sit down. There, the man did a pinky swear in front of everybody and that’s good enough for me. Now start talking or we can adjourn this thing right now and Skip and I can go catch the last half of the MetsPhillies game.
Fetch:
Alright then… I’ve given you all photos of the pertinent items. Uh, except for, uh, Mr. Hooligan…
Hooligan:
Not a problem, I’ll just peek over at the Vice-President’s.
Fetch:
That’s, uh, that’s fine. Um, five years ago a capsule, the one pictured on page one, was found on the moon. Inside --
Spanks:
No kiddin.
Fetch:
Uh, no, sir. Inside the capsule --
Spanks:
How come we don’t go to the moon anymore?
Fetch:
Um…
Hedgeman:
Budgetary constraints, sir.
Spanks:
Ah. That’s too bad. I loved those volleyball games.
Fetch:
Uh, anyway…
Spanks:
Sorry, Stretch.
Fetch:
Fetch, sir.
Spanks:
Right. You said we found this capsule? Was it Russian?
Fetch:
Uh, no sir.
Spanks:
Was it ours?
Fetch:
No, sir.
Spanks:
Well, whose was it?
Fetch:
We don’t know, sir. All the materials involved are unknown to us. The person claiming to have placed the capsule there is allegedly pictured on page two.
Spanks:
Huh. Cute kid. Why’s his hair white?
Fetch:
We don’t know, sir.
Spanks:
Well, is he some kind of, what is it, al-beeno or something?
Fetch:
Albino, sir.
Spanks:
That’s what I said.
Fetch:
Yes, sir. We don’t think he’s an albino, based on the color of his skin and eyes.
Spanks:
Well, he’s a weird lookin’ fella.
Fetch:
Yes, sir… There were star charts and documents which read like an autobiography, supposedly of the white-haired individual pictured.
That’s some mind-blowin’ stuff, right there. Fetch:
Um, yes, sir.
Spanks:
So, it’s like a big, crazy hoax or somethin’?
Fetch:
We’ve no reason to believe that it’s a hoax. With the star charts, the untraceable materials, its location on the moon. It seems authentic to our investigators.
Spanks:
You’re saying it’s real?
Hedgeman:
My god…
Fetch:
No, sir. Just that we can’t prove it’s not.
Spanks:
Well. That’s somethin’. What do you think of that, Skipper?
Hooligan:
It’s pretty wild, Larry. You mind if I fix myself a drink?
Spanks:
Help yourself. You know where it is. So, Stretch…
Fetch:
Fetch, sir.
Spanks:
Right. When did we find this thing again?
Fetch:
About five years ago, sir.
Spanks:
And why do I need to know?
Fetch:
Well, sir, when President Spitt was debriefed, we had only one document in our possession. But we’ve discovered more.
Spanks:
What, on the moon?
Fetch:
No, sir. It would seem the capsule contained as many as a dozen separate documents, but when they were separated for decontamination, there was some kind of mix-up and all but the first were sent to separate top-secret storage facilities around the world.
Spanks:
So, you’re saying…
Fetch:
Yes, sir?
Spanks:
That we have top-secret warehouses outside the U.S.?
Fetch:
Uh…
Spanks:
Are we paying rent to foreign governments?
Hedgeman:
They were purchased outright, sir. It’s a means of guaranteeing the backup and safety of many valuable items and documents.
Spanks:
I’ll take your word for it. So, Stretch, you found more of these things, then?
Fetch:
One, sir.
Spanks:
Okay, and how many are there supposed to be?
Fetch:
We think twelve. Around twelve.
Spanks:
Huh. You know, maybe I’m not the brightest bulb in the bellfry, but I still can’t figure why this required a special meeting during the playoffs.
Koos:
If I may, Fetch.
Fetch:
Oh, yes. God, please.
Koos:
The situation has become serious because we believe some of the documents ended up in Soviet hands. And we believe those documents to be technical schematics for devices that are well beyond our current capabilities.
Fetch:
And prototypes of those devices have been reported as having been created and tested in a secret lab in Siberia. Where, as of nineteen hundred hours, eastern standard time, every living creature has disappeared.
Spanks:
Siberia?
Fetch:
Yes, sir.
Spanks:
Today?
Fetch:
Less than two hours ago.
Hedgeman:
Good lord…
Spanks:
Okay, well, now, see, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it? Why didn’t you tell me that to start with?
Koos:
We thought some background would be appropriate, sir.
Spanks:
Hell, Buster, you know I don’t care about background. Come on, man. Jeez…Well…not a lot folks in Siberia, are there?
Koos:
Uh, fortunately, not a… relatively large number… of human beings, no.
Philips:
But we’re not just talking about humans, sir. Every animal has disappeared.
Hooligan:
Hey, uh, excuse me, but, uh, what about the uh, the plants? The trees?
Fetch:
They appear unaffected.
Hooligan:
How ‘bout that…
Spanks:
Well, I…guess that’s some kinda silver linin’, right?
Hedgeman:
My God. How do we spin something like this?
Spanks:
We gotta spin it, now?
Hedgeman:
Sir, there will be a panic. Financial. Physical. Emotional, you name it. People are going to panic over this.
Philips:
I’m afraid he’s right, sir. You’ll have to go on the air.
Spanks:
Well, goddamn it all! Seriously?
Fetch:
It’s probably a good idea.
Spanks:
And what the hell am I gonna say? Huh?
Koos:
Just let them know that it’s a localized event and Americans are in no danger.
Spanks:
They don’t need me to do that. Hell, Pete, you poll better on these things anyway. You do it.
Hedgeman:
Uh, sure. No problemo.
Philips:
Sir, I –
Spanks:
Hey, you know what? Conversation over. Little albeeno space boy leaves some papers, the Russians messed around with it and got burned. I got it. Nothin’ else to do but watch some baseball. Skipper, you ready?
Hooligan:
Uh…yeah, yeah…lemme just finish this boilermaker.
Fetch:
Are you serious, Mr. President?
Spanks:
Listen, Stretch –
Fetch:
It’s Fetch, sir.
Spanks:
I love to joke around, okay? I am frequently not serious. But one time I am never kidding is when I say a meeting is over.
Fetch:
So, in the future --
Spanks:
Meeting’s over, Stretch. C’mon, Skipper. It’s probably just the sixth inning by now.
Philips:
Goodnight, Mr. –- Oh, well. So, is that it?
Hedgeman:
Who’s writing my speech? When are we going on the air?
Fetch:
Koos:
You know, I’ve been chased by a tribe of sasquatch and…I have held a sentient clone of Calvin Coolidge’s brain in my bare hands. I’ve seen living nightmares from beyond all known dimensions. None of those experiences have been weirder than this. Welcome to Washington, Mr. Fetch.
- END OF RECORDING - END OF TRANSCRIPT -
The Propriety of Being Improper Joanna Gorman I read somewhere that the Japanese have a tacit agreement that when they are collectively inconvenienced by, say, being forced to invade someone’s space due to close quarters on a train, they don’t apologize. Everyone’s sorry. Therefore, no need to apologize. It was the winter of 1995, and I found myself on one of these trains in Tokyo. Pushed forward with the rest of humanity, I was almost immobilized by the bodies around me. The doors slid closed with a chime and the train began to move. I was sandwiched between a little old lady clutching a shopping bag and a schoolgirl wearing headphones nodding her head to the beat. I watched the scenery flash by. I couldn’t see who was directly behind me, but I did notice that I was the only non-Japanese in the train car. A good ten minutes passed by before I felt it. IT. IT clearly was a penis and whoever was the owner of said penis kept rubbing it against me every time the train swayed. I was being dry humped on a train in Japan. I felt a pair of hands. One reached for my right breast, the other lifted my skirt. At that point, I reached for the hand reaching for my breast and bent it backwards until I heard a gasp. Still bending the offending hand backwards, I turned to greet my molester. “Hi!” There stood a man in a grey business suit. He was shorter than me and his eyes were tearing up as I pushed his hand further. He stopped groping me and started clawing at his hand, which I refused to let go of. “My name’s Joanna. What’s yours?” I stomped on his foot with my spiked heel and he squealed. “I’m sorry. I can’t hear you.” “You American.” “Yes, indeed, I am. Whatcha doing back there?”
“Keep your hands to yourself. If you don’t, I’ll find you and break all your appendages off.” The train glided to a stop and a bell chimed, signaling that the doors were about to open. I let him go. “Lose your boner? I hope so!” He backed away from me, his good hand holding the wrist of the injured one. “Bitch.” “What? Oh, I was gonna let you go.” I pulled his suit jacket up over his head and kicked him hard in the chest. The door slid open and he fell backward into the crowd that was exiting the train. People stepped around him, over him and most entertainingly for me, on him. New passengers pushed their way aboard. The doors closed with a chime. I felt a tug on my sleeve. It was the schoolgirl. “Public shaming. Very embarrassing.” She smiled at me and offered me a piece of gum.
Katie Brown
Excerpt from “Europa” Julian Gallo She wanted to have the same view as the man on the bridge, looking to his left, as if waiting for someone; a comrade perhaps. Or perhaps he is looking out towards the domes and spires of this majestic city, steeped in history, sorrow, blood and revolution. In autumn it was a much nicer view than it was in these winter months. The trees had not yet shed all their leaves, the leaves brown and ochre, some still retaining the last vestiges of green. Now everything was bare, covered in snow, water dripping from the branches onto the little square in which this tiny curved bridge sits, reaching over the small reflecting pool beneath it like an arm reaching for its lover. Jaelle loved coming here, no matter what time of year. It was where she could commune with her thoughts, perhaps scribble in her journal, or just while away the time thinking about her life. Most of the time she arrived alone, only sharing this space with the few strangers and tourists who would drop by to look at this monument built to one of her heroes. He wasn’t always a hero, of course, but time had a way of turning things upside down and history always had a strange way of being rewritten. The tourists had no idea who the statue standing guard on the bridge depicted but for many others, including Jaelle, he was nothing short of a martyr, looking dapper in his overcoat and hat, bespectacled and mustachioed, he could have been a man just like her father, that is, if her father had bothered to stick around after Jaelle had turned five. In a way, this man, Imre Nagy, was a substitute father in a lot of ways. Her entire life and her worldview was based upon everything he once stood for. She brought a fingerless gloved hand to her lips and took a deep drag off her cigarette, her eyes fixed on the man on the bridge. Her other hand held Bianka’s, their fingers intertwined. Bianka kept alternating her gaze between their hands and her friend’s pensive expression, the way Jaelle’s full lips blew plumes of smoke from the cigarette, which mixed with the vapor from her breath. Jaelle’s long eyelashes, studded with light snow, gazed at the man on the bridge as if he were someone she actually knew and terribly missed. Her long black hair flowed from her water beaded beret, the occasional vein of water trickling down her smooth, mocha colored cheek.
Bianka squeezed Jaelle’s hand and their fingers played upon one another’s, readjusting to a more comfortable position. Jaelle then squeezed hers back, holding it for a moment, an affectionate gesture that brought a lump to Bianka’s throat. She gazed at their hands again, affectionately clasped, and felt a surge of warmth. She used her free hand to loosen her scarf and open the top button of her coat. Jaelle never took her eyes off the man on the bridge. Twilight. The sky awash with pink and reds, the domes and spires reaching up for it as the city hummed with pedestrians on their way home. Two youths performed tricks on their skateboards. An old man slowly walked by with a newspaper tucked under his arm. A young mother walked hand in hand with her child. Yet Jaelle didn’t notice any of this, meditating on the man who stood their day after day, night after night, looking out over the city and country that he loved, the same country that hung him and tossed him in a potter’s field. Bianka watched Jaelle lost in thought, her free hand occasionally bringing the cigarette to her lipstick coated mouth. She didn’t know what it was that drew her closer but it was something she couldn’t control. She reached out with her free hand and turned Jaelle’s face towards her, then pressed her lips on Jaelle’s. Jaelle didn’t pull away at first, returning the soft kiss with one of her own. Bianka tasted her lipstick, felt the fullness of Jaelle’s lips and raised her hand to touch her cheek, ready to slip her tongue inside, when Jaelle suddenly pulled away. “Please...don’t,” she said, looking away from her. Bianka sat back, her face flush, at a loss for words at first. She felt foolish, nervous, and unable to explain what compelled her to do that. Yet their hands still firmly held one another’s. “I’m...I’m a little confused,” Bianka said. Jaelle took a long drag off her cigarette, still unable to look at her friend. “I’m sorry,” Bianka said, “it’s just that...” Jaelle turned and pressed her fingers to Bianka’s lips. “Shh,” she said. “It’s all right.”
They gazed into one another’s eyes. Bianka reached up and took Jaelle’s free hand and held it, kissing her fingers softly. “It was nice,” Jaelle said. “Really. It’s just that I got too much going on right now.” Bianka nodded and looked away, feeling like a foolish little schoolgirl. “Come,” Jaelle said, stepping on her cigarette with her boot. “There’s something I want to show you.” They stood up, their hands still locked together, and began walking. They didn’t say a word to one another. Jaelle squeezed Bianka’s hand and drew herself closer, resting her head on Bianka’s shoulder as the snow began to pick up.
Katie Brown
Foot Slut Juliet Escoria I was sitting in a nightclub in the Financial District. A gigantic man with a shaved head and a Mike Tyson-esque tattoo on his face was studying my bare feet with the light of his iPhone. “Nice arch,” he said. “But you won’t get a lot of money wearing a dress like that. Most of the girls don’t dress so… fashionably,” he said, clearly thinking of a socially acceptable way to say ‘non-sluttily.’ “You can go home if you want.” I would not go home. I’d gone all out, flat-ironing my hair, putting on a ton of makeup and a flimsy little slipdress -- in short, dressing like I was going on a first date, during which I intended to put out. I’d walked down the gravely streets of lower Manhattan in strappy stilettos, which ate the heels down to pointy stubs in a few short blocks, and I’d borne the leers from the construction workers along the way. Furthermore, I’d managed to find the balls to make my way down here, past the fake wood paneling of the foyer, which had promptly destroyed any hopes I’d held that this club would be high end, which is what I’d been told. Then down the stairs: I was not scared off by the greasy smudges that had somehow found themselves blemishing the mirrored ceilings and walls, or the fact that the floor was so sticky that my steps made smacks as I walked. I told myself the stickiness was due to spilled soda, not semen. I was going to stay, and I was going to make money, even if most of the other girls around me were wearing the kinds of bras and panties whose sole function is to be promptly removed. I didn’t care what he said. I am bad at basic life skills like budgeting, and I was living off financial aid checks that came twice a year, so now I was completely and totally broke. Not because I needed to be, but because, every semester, those thousands of dollars rolled into my checking account and I found it necessary to boost our economy by buying books, make-up, dinners out, and clothing from little boutiques in SoHo. Like a broke-ass grad student even has the right to so much as enter a little boutique in SoHo. Yeah, so, I’m an idiot. I was currently living off oatmeal and dollar frozen burritos. Plus I had to figure out how to pay next month’s rent, and I had to do it fast. So I did what any resourceful young woman would do: I got on the gigs section of Craigslist. This particular section of Craigslist is a very special place, where everything is not quite what it seems and nothing is as good as it sounds.
A headline that says “Independent female looking for a partner” actually translates to “Prostitute without pimp looking for same, to team up for safety reasons.” “Attractive Female Assistant” offers to pay $65 hourly for “body massage.” One says, in all caps, HUMILIATE YOURSELF. This gig is actually totally nonsexual, and looking to attract people to sell comedy tickets in Times Square. There was a time that I thought I wanted to be a dominatrix, until I asked a friend in the business, and she explained that the job entailed inserting enemas, pissing on people, giving hand jobs, and putting clothespins on old man balls. My friend insisted I was much too ‘sensitive’ to do such a job, and, at first, I was insulted. But then she explained: “Juliet. Get real for a second. You got fired from that bottle service job because you couldn’t stop body checking the drunk guys who tried to grope you,” she said. “Pissing on someone? I can see you doing that. Touching an old man’s balls? I’m pretty sure you’d rather clothespin your eyelids. Trust me. You wouldn’t be able to put up with this shit.” Sadly, she was right. I kind of also wanted to be an erotic nude model, a sugar baby, a stripper, to clean apartments naked, and do basically everything else listed on Craigslist gigs that involves being seedy, naked, and female, and isn’t straight-up prostitution. These jobs seemed like easy cash, as well as an interesting experience – and I’ve always been into interesting experiences. So much so that my life has been filled with and punctuated by a whole stream of events that most people call ‘bad decisions.’ Things like: dating someone who was fresh out of prison; smoking meth; driving down the freeway at 120 miles per hour, while drunk, at six AM; and moving to New York City when I had 30 days sober and the only two people I knew there were junkies. Yes, I am impulsive. Yes, I’ve always had an intense and deeprooted self-destructive streak. But these bad decisions had more to them than that. I’m an emotional extremist, an experience adventurer. I want to live as much and as intensely as I possibly can. As Iggy Pop says, I’ve a lust for life. And, as Iggy explains, a lust for life can be dangerous. But I also wasn’t stupid. Self-destructive, yes; suicidal, not anymore – and the aforementioned situations were potentially quite dangerous, the stuff of newspaper headlines and Dateline specials. And, yes, while I do enjoy being sexualized and looked at as an object, I am also a gigantic control freak, and I want to be able to manage who is doing this, as well as what they think of me. I mean, sometimes I really enjoy being called a slut. But I only enjoy being called this by a very
specific kind of man. And in these Craigslist scenarios, there were no guarantees on any of the things that I cared about. There were simply too many variables. But. I’d gotten clean almost exactly a year before. And now: I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d broken a law. I felt like a good girl; I felt boring. I had no idea who I was anymore. I wanted to go back to making bad decisions. I wanted to go back to having extreme experiences. There’s only so much healthy living that can be done before healthy living turns painfully predictable. So when I saw an ad to work at a ‘high end’ foot fetish club that paid $400 a night AND didn’t involve touching above the knee, I jumped right on it. This was the kind of sexual objectification, of strange experiences, that I could get into. I emailed “Jeanette”, who was listed as the contact at the bottom of the ad, and sent her my photo and phone number, as requested. I also told her that my feet were size six-and-a-half, and I had a freakishly high arch. She answered back immediately. And now I was here. By the time I’d filled out the paperwork –a release form, and an agreement to not give out my phone number or meet any of the clients outside of the club – my nervousness had lessened considerably. By the time the man inspected my feet, I was calm, and I was in it. I was ready to have another weird experience. A group of Indian businessmen walked in. They looked scared, but I could feel their eyes, sizing me up. It was an uncomfortable feeling, because I knew I was being evaluated but I had no idea if I measured up, or even if I wanted to. As a group, they moved to the end of the bar, not yet talking to any of the women. The room filled up. As the men walked in, they looked us up and down in a way that made me feel like potential property. I would have preferred they just shine their phones at my feet. None of the men looked like people who I’d be okay with sexualizing me. Then a black guy with dreadlocks walked in, sat down next to me and ordered a Heineken. After a little small talk, we went and sat together in a dark corner. The deal was this: You were supposed to collect $20 for every fifteen minutes. The men were supposed to tip you on top of that. It was up to you to keep track of the time. At the end of the night, you tipped the club out a flat fee of $80. You got to keep whatever was left. The man handed me a twenty and wasted no time in taking off my shoes. He rubbed my feet against his face and moaned. “I love it when they’re a little moist,” he said. I didn’t know my feet were still
sweaty. I didn’t know that having sweaty feet could be attractive. I loved finding out that people can be so fucking weird. The human experience. It’s vast and it’s strange. He shoved my foot into his mouth, as much of it that would fit, and I was surprised by the wetness and also by how much of my foot he could fit in there. His mouth was very big and soft and stretchy, and it seemed like he was trying to eat me. I’d never had my foot that far in anyone’s mouth before. He did some more weird shit, like rubbing my foot against his face, making me squash his nose with my toes. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be like, moaning in pleasure or something. “Mmm,” I said, to try it out. Soon enough, the fifteen minutes were up. The guy stood and acted like nothing had happened. “Have a good night,” he said. He didn’t leave a tip. I toweled off the dreadlocked man’s spit with disinfectant wipes, as instructed, and put my shoes back on. I expected to feel dirty, or soiled in some way, but aside from feeling creepy about acting turned on, mostly I just felt curious. I had no idea that men wanted to treat my feet this way. While I had no desire to imagine all the boner popping going on, this whole thing wasn’t half bad. The objectification seemed to be mostly confined to my feet, and it was also weird as hell. Unsure of what to do next, I stood beside a pole in the center of the dance floor, wishing I still drank so I had something to do with my hands. I knew time was money. Men kept looking at me, their eyes traveling from my face, down my body, and landing, yes, at my feet. But whenever I’d look at them, hoping to make eye contact, hoping to make some sort of connection, their eyes would quickly flit away, as if they’d never been trained on me at all. Clearly, I was going to have to be aggressive. I spotted this bald guy in a suit who kind of reminded me of Charlotte’s husband in Sex in the City, the one who isn’t Kyle McLaughlin. He looked okay, not too slimy, so I walked over to him. “Hi,” I said. I gave him the smile I make in pictures. I led him to a booth that was well-lit and out in the open. His name was Bruce. When he asked mine, I told him the fake one I had prepared, which was Sylvia, as in Plath. He said he liked my smile. He asked if I did this often, and when I said no, he acted surprised. “I thought you must have, coming up to me like that,” he said. This made me proud of myself; I was acting like a hustler. Working with this guy was a lot easier. He asked me questions,
which were easy to answer because I love talking about myself. While he did this, he held my feet, sometimes massaging them. Every once in a while, he would brush one of them against his cheek, but he never did anything truly surprising, like attempt to shove all of one in his mouth. Actually, the whole thing was rather pleasant. Bruce also told me about himself. He lived in Chicago, but came here on business often to sell medical supplies. He liked my dress, and my long black hair. “I could tell you were artsy,” he said. He said “artsy” in the same way most men might say “multiorgasmic.” Every fifteen minutes, I asked for another twenty dollars. Each time he handed me a bill, I crumpled it into my purse. I felt rude, constantly checking the time and always asking for money, but that was why I was there, so that is what I did. As we talked, I looked around at the rest of the nightclub. The lights were dim and red, and I felt like I was in a scene from Twin Peaks. All of the girls were with clients now. Sometimes they’d go behind the double doors in the back of the nightclub, in pairs or alone, with single or sometimes groups of men, which gave me the sneaking suspicion that this club wasn’t entirely “below the knee only.” Almost all of the girls were blond, and tarty, leaving a girl who looked like myself, who was there almost solely for voyeuristic reasons, to stick out like a sore thumb. The clients themselves, though, were varied: a couple of Hassidic Jews, the Indian businessmen, lots of men of all ethnicities and ages, most wearing suits. In the booth across from us, a very pretty girl was having her hair brushed very slowly by a very old man in a wheelchair. She was smiling and giggling. After he was done brushing her hair, he took her feet in his lap and tickled them. She kicked her legs and shrieked. She looked like she was having a lot of fun. There was no money in this world that could get me to act anything like that. I was a little bit jealous. Toward the end of the night, Bruce said to me, “Let me buy you some shoes. Whatever ones you want.” “Okay,” I said. I was envisioning red-soled Loubotins, maybe a pair of Jimmy Choos. At that point, I really didn’t care about the nophone-number exchange rule. A two-thousand dollar pair of shoes could easily be stretched into two month’s rent. “I know this really good store,” he whispered in a voice he probably thought was sexy. “It’s called DSW.” I gave him a fake phone number, but I was not surprised by his shitty little offer. This was a job I had found on Craigslist, after all, and nothing on Craigslist is as good as it seems.
I made two-fifty that night, after tip out. A girl in the bathroom dressed like a naughty schoolgirl was complaining that it was so slow that night, she’d only made $50. I asked her how much she normally made. “Two hundred,” she said. Four hundred bucks, my ass. Still, I was happy when I got a call back for the next week. This could be my thing. I could totally make money doing this. I could be a foot slut! I got dressed that night, just like I had the previous week: first my make-up, then my hair. The theme this time was bikinis, so it was easier to decide what to wear. As I dug through my clothes, looking for my bikini, all I could think about was standing there, but wearing almost nothing this time, in the middle of that dance floor, as men looked me over but couldn’t bring themselves to meet my gaze with theirs.
Credits Jaga N.A. Argentum is a visual and sound artist, graphic designer, and storyteller, focusing on those often considered the underdogs of society. He coaches and trains others in finding their own voice and tools for storytelling with an aim towards social change. Jaga works both on- and offline in various worlds, and is currently based in Manchester, UK. perpetualfuss.com Katie Brown is a writer and artist in Leeds, UK. Her work has appeared in the US and Europe, including the Lawrence World Journal in Kansas and OneinFour mag in the UK, and has had articles written about her in The Guardian and in the Next Women Business Review. She's got two cats, a motorbike and messy hair. elementaldifference.tumbler.com Juliet Escoria is a writer living in Southern California. She has an MFA from Brooklyn College and is a contributing editor for Electric Literature's blog, The Outlet. You can find her work in Everyday Genius, Hobart, BlackBook, and other places on the internet and in print. juliet-escoria.tumblr.com Julian Gallo lives and works in New York City. He is the author of 9 poetry books and 4 novels, including Standing On Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion, The Terror of Your Cunt is The Beauty of Your Face, Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes, Window Shopping For A New Crown of Thorns, Divertimiento, Be Still and Know That I Am, and Mediterraneo. juliangallo66.blogspot.com Joanna Gorman is a historian and teacher in San Diego who ruins historical movies for friends and loved ones. She has been published by the California Council for the Promotion of History among others. In 2008, she was involved in a lengthy conversation about grain elevators. joannagorman.com Lester Milton is a writer and performer in the San Francisco Bay Area. He was a founding member of White Noise Radio Theatre and the author of the comically tragic/tragically comic science fiction adventure for the whole damned family, The Accidental Adventures of Dogget Mann, now available on Amazon. Back cover art by Katie Brown Budget Press would like to thank these people for their generous donations to the cause: Pete Bridgeman, Barbara Ganley, Shannon Hughes, Richard Keeling, Matt Lewis, Gina Nielsen, Kathy Reeves, John Spurlock, Kristin Stadum, and Jennifer Stoever-Ackerman.