“Not thish one, it’s a new person.” Jean wobbled on her chunky heels.
“You’ve done Michael Jackson before.”
“THIS ISN’T MICHAEL JACKSON,” Jean snapped, quickly flicking the paper behind her back again.
“Oh, it’s not? I’m so sorry, it’s dark. Let me see it properly.”
Jean slowly drew the gaudy artwork out again and this time presented it grandly in a shaft of streetlight. It was a generic smiling white man’s face with dark hair.
“It’s Prince,” she said proudly. “He and Michael are together in heaven.”
“I was just about to guess that it was Prince,” lied Nicola. “Of course it’s worth ten bucks.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out the money.
“Now don’t you go back to the Gold Coast and spend all this at once,” she said as she exchanged her bill for the portrait. “Maybe you should go get a sandwich or something.”
“What’s it fucking matter,” spat Jean, snatching the money and stuffing it into a pocket on her cardigan. “I’m sick of those fags and I’m sick of you telling me what to do.”
“Well, okay, then,” said Nicola. “You just take care of yourself and I’ll see you next time. Thanks for the beautiful painting.”
“It’s crayon,” said Jean, not moving.
“Yes, it is, sorry,” said Nicola, gingerly stepping around the old lady, who was immobile in the middle of the sidewalk, as if she had run out of batteries.
“Good night,” said Nicola, waving, as she began walking up the street. “Take care.”
She got about fifty yards farther along the street when she heard Jean yell at her, “Old people aren’t retarded, you bitch.”
“I was waiting for that,” she said into the night air, hurrying the rest of the distance to her building.
She paused at the mailboxes in front of a large, faded apricot stucco two-story apartment complex emblazoned with the words OCEAN PALMS in rusty metal script. The words probably looked jaunty in 1973, but these days they were just rusty and depressing.
The mailbox was empty, which meant Kara had at least been home at some time today.
A raccoon scampered down the pathway ahead of her. What else would this infernal day send her way, she wondered. Reaching the second-to-last first floor apartment, she slid her key into the lock, and heard scrambling noises from inside, and the sound of something glass clashing together. What fucking now?
“WAIT! Just a sec,” bellowed Kara.
Nicola’s shoulders dropped. She just wanted to get inside.
After thirty seconds, Kara told her it was okay to come in. As the door opened, Nicola saw a blanket on the awful champagne-colored carpet, along with some rubber straps and a laptop. Kara came striding out of her bedroom, wearing a bra and yanking up a pair of tight olive yoga pants.
“Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I thought you’d be out later than this.”
“Er, okay, but what the hell were you doing?”
“Oh, nothing,” Kara said, bending down and grabbing the rubber straps.
“Okaaaay.” Nicola pushed past her toward her bedroom.
“Fine, I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell anyone,” said Kara, sliding by her and blocking her way.
“Look, it’s late and I’m tired. I just want to go to bed,” said Nicola, frustration creeping into her voice.
“Oh my God, did you buy another one of those fucking paintings from that crazy old lady?” Kara pointed to the paper in Nicola’s hand.
“Obviously. Now can I please get to my room?”
“How many of those fucking things do you need?” laughed Kara. “Come on, you have like fifty of them. Are you working on her first gallery show?”
“Maybe,” sneered Nicola. “Maybe one day she’ll drink herself to death and they’ll be worth a fortune.”
“Okay, okay, sorry,” said Kara. “Go put your masterpiece away and come back out here and I’ll tell you about the incredibly sexy nude Pilates session I just had with Jimmy J.”
“The rapper?” Nicola was suddenly interested. She skipped into her room and pitched the Prince portrait on top of her wardrobe.
Her Pottery Barn bedspread, all bold oranges and yellows, failed to brighten her room’s generic LA apartment blandness. The ugly gray vertical slat blinds swayed in the breeze she had created. She plunked herself onto the bed and slipped off the Louboutins. Looking at the sole, she grimaced. It was worse than she thought. The tape had torn clear through in several spaces, and there were deep scratches in the bloodred soles.
“Fuck,” she hissed. It would take her two paychecks to pay for these, if she didn’t buy food or gasoline in those same weeks, and they let her buy them at cost.