39: Onward to Absurdity
Daria slid across the kitchen tiles to the counter, where their tortoiseshell cat Jezebel was nibbling the deep red roses Daria had picked up to celebrate Jane's final shift at Make My Clay. She scooped up the lovable imp and looked into her defiant golden eyes, then sighed and nuzzled her neck before lowering her gently to the floor, where she abruptly trotted off.
Daria eyed the clock, which hung at the peak of their new apartment's high-ceilinged kitchen. The main perks of the new place were that it had a bit more space, a lot more light, and zero street-corner doomsday preachers. June was turning out to be a very busy month. They moved into the new place, Jane gleefully put in her two weeks' notice, and in a few days they would be checking out Quinn's classy new Back Bay abode. She sincerely hoped whatever weird sex cult for the uber-rich Spencer undoubtedly belonged to would take the day off. She didn't want to walk into the bathroom and hear a raspy voice from the linen closet ask her what she thought the most sensual type of cheese was (burrata, by the way).
She heard Jane's key in the lock, and a few moments later, her wife was nudging the door open with her hip as she juggled a large box full of brightly colored pottery trying its best to escape. Daria swiftly grabbed the door and stabilized a precarious glazed bowl. As she took it from the pile and gave Jane a little grin, she noticed a blue blob of—something—in her hair. Seeing the puzzled look on her face, Jane simply uttered, "Taffy," and set the box on the floor.
"Oh, god. Was it the glucose-addicted little demon? The one who got banned from that store where you build bug-eyed woodland creatures?"
"Yup, that one." Jane glanced at the clock. "Shit! It's almost seven. That guest artist who teaches 'painting your rage' and making planters from found materials reminded me about her art opening tonight."
"I completely forgot. I was planning to surprise you with dinner from your favorite Thai place, but I'm sure they'll have . . . art snacks?"
Jane gave Daria a wry smile and kissed her. "Mmm, hard salami that's been sitting out for hours and those weird crackers with all the seeds." Her gaze drifted over her wife's shoulder to the kitchen, where she spotted the veritable bush of roses on the counter. "Oh, babe!" She kissed Daria with a good deal more spiciness than before and murmured, "Thank you so much."
"Congratulations on your last day in the ninth circle." She gave Jane a tight squeeze. So, wanna tell me all about America's Next Top Felon and how she got this taffy in your hair while we try to get it out?"
"Yeah. I'd like the other creative types to look at me like I'm fantastically, artistically weird—not weird weird."
As they walked to the bathroom, Daria ran a quick search on how to remove taffy from hair. It turned out it was mostly sugar and should dissolve in hot water. Once Jane was seated on the toilet lid with her mistreated strands in a plastic cup, she told the Tale of the Tiny Terror. "So this little a-hole brings some kind of prank spray that smells like farts. And she's spraying it on the other kids' clay animals and saying stuff like 'now you've got a fart-o-potamus.' " Daria stifled a laugh. "I know, it's pretty good word play for a seven year-old. So I'm telling her to stop, and one of the other kids starts crying. And while I'm trying to comfort him, teeny Mussolini pulls a huge wad of taffy out of her mouth and sticks it in my hair"—she pointed at the cup—"like so."
Daria gave a sudden, decisive nod. "I did that story on the black market last year. I'll find us some Novichok."
Jane snorted laughter. "Don't worry, I told her chewing taffy causes cancer."
"A perfectly fair response."
Jane lowered the cup and squeezed her dripping strands over it. "Okay, I think this will have to do. No time to wash it and re-do the whole"—she gestured vaguely at her scarlet lips and kohl-black lashes—"face thing."
Daria, who never did the "face thing" except on very special occasions, nodded in understanding. "So, does this venue cater to the Cruella DeVille type of art partron? Or is it more the Shaggy-from-Scooby-Doo set?"
"It leans more Scooby Doo, and not just because the building used to be a dog food factory." Jane got up and poured the sugar water down the sink.
"Got it, I'll see if I have an ethically sourced gunnysack in my closet."
An hour later, they were standing in a cavernous whitewashed space holding small plates of "buffalo cauliflower," a wing substitute Daria had called a hate crime against dude-bros. They weren't bad with ranch dressing, but Daria knew she'd be paying the gastrointestinal price later. Tonight's featured artist was standing inside a half-dome perhaps 15 feet wide and 20 feet tall—somewhat like the inside of a hollow egg. Inside, the small audience saw a tableau with cotton-candy colored walls and what appeared to be a child's kitchen set. On one side of the egg was a ten-foot tall gumball machine filled with hardcover books in hues of lemon, tangerine, and an assortment of berries. Beside it stood the diminutive artist in a drab jumpsuit, and she was methodically chewing a page she'd just torn from one of the books. Then, she walked purposefully to the small plastic oven and deposited the masticated ball atop a growing mound of similar blobs on a cake stand.
Daria inhaled. She exhaled. She had no idea what the fuck this was supposed to be about. She slowly turned her head to look at Jane, who gave a barely-perceptible shrug and leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Performance art isn't really my thing. But I do see a theme of dismantling the patriarchy." Daria took her hand and squeezed it.
They watched in silence for several minutes as the pattern repeated. Suddenly, the artist stopped midway between the gumball machine and the spit-logged "cake" and raised a palm at the audience. She continued to chew. And then, she swallowed.
Jane murmured, "Did she . . . ?"
Daria nodded gravely. "This is why I write."