Bisson, Terry - The Joe Show

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THE JOE SHOW

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THE JOE SHOW

By Terry Bisson

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

THE JOE SHOW

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

It had been a long day.

I sighed with pleasure as my door clicked shut behind me. I threw the bolt, fastened the

chain, propped the bar in place, then snapped the little lock on the bottom. This was New

York, after all; and I was a girl, living alone.

Thank god..

Leaving the lights down, I stepped out of my Candies and hung my Liz Claiborne fake

fur on its hook on the wall. I stepped through the only other door in my tiny studio

apartment and turned on the bathwater. The temperature and rate of flow were already

set. The bubble bath was already waiting in its little Alka-Seltzer-like pill at the bottom of

the tub.

Closing the bathroom door behind me (to cut the noise) I picked the remote out of the

clutter on the kitchenette table and clicked on the CD player. It, too, was already set--for

Miles Davis, just like in In The Line of Fire. Can I help it if Clint and I are soul buddies?

I hung up my Clifford and Wills blazer in my almost-walk-in closet, let my J. Crew wool

skirt and Tweeds silk blouse fall to the floor (both due at the cleaners), then peeled off

my pantyhose, wadded them into a ball and tossed them into the corner. Miles was just

beginning his un-muted solo as I unhooked my tangerine Victoria's Secret underwire

demi bra, shrugged it off, and stepped out of the matching tangerine high cut bikini, with

the cute little accent bows along the side. As you may have guessed, I buy everything by

mail. Everything but shoes.

I tossed the bra and panties into the dirty clothes pile with the pantyhose, stopped by the

mirror to admire my new $78 haircut, crossed to the kitchenette, filled a heavy-bottomed

glass with white wine from the coldest corner of the fridge, carried it into the bathroom

and set it on the edge of the tub, then turned off the bathwater, all without a single wasted

motion. This was New York, after all. Miles was just winding up. I sat on the john and lit

the joint that was waiting for me, tucked into its own book of matches. I took two nice

long hits while Coltrane strode into his solo, then nipped out the joint and high-stepped it

into the tub. My rubenesque (as my ex-boy friend, Reuben, loved to call it) bottom was

just descending into the suds when Coltrane fucked up.

Coltrane fucked up?

I stood up, dripping.

Was my Sony shelf system, only four months old, giving up the ghost already? Coltrane

bleated like a sheep, then quit. Somebody hit a bad note on a piano. The rhythym section

(Cobb, Chambers, Evans) stopped playing, raggedly, one at a time.

THE JOE SHOW

Get any book for free on: www.Abika.com

I grabbed a towel and stepped out of the bathroom, dripping water and suds onto the bare

wood floor. All Blues was starting over, at the beginning. It sounded fine now. Not

knowing what else to do, I picked up the remote and hit PAUSE.

The music stopped clean this time. "Sorry about that," said a voice.

I clutched the towel to me and looked around the studio.

"I thought music would be easy, like speech, but it's not," the voice said.

"Who's there?" I demanded.

"You want the short answer or the long answer?" the voice asked. It sure as hell wasn't

Miles or Coltrane. It was a guy, but not a black guy; he pronounced every syllable, like a

foreigner.

"Who the fuck is in my apartment?" I said. The odd thing was, I wasn't scared. Maybe if

I'd been in a house or a bigger apartment it would have been scary, but you can't have a

haunted studio; they're too small.

"I'm not in your apartment," the voice said.

I couldn't tell where it was coming from. I thought of those movies that go straight to

video--some demented dude peeping through a telescope while he keeps you talking on

the phone.

Except that the blinds were closed. And I wasn't on the phone.

As an experiment, with two fingers, as if it were hot, I picked up the phone and said,

"Hello?"

"Hello," said the same voice. Over my phone.

"What are you doing on my phone! Is this some kind of crank call? Are you some kind of

sex fiend?"

I pulled the towel around me more tightly, even though the blinds were closed. What

about infra-red? What about X-ray vision? That used to bother me about Superman, by

the way. If he was really a guy, how he could concentrate on fighting evil, if he could see

through girls' dresses all the time?

But I'm getting off the subject. "Who the fuck are you? What are you doing in my

apartment?"

"Calm down, Victoria. I'm not in your apartment, I'm on your phone. And you're the one

that picked up the phone."

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