#corpose

The Death of Sappho

Artist: Pierre Antoine Augustin Vafflard (French, 1777–1837)

Date: 1819

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven, CT, United States

Sappho

The shimmer of a red cocktail dress is what catches her eye, at first. Across the bar, between the stiff suits of accounting and other offices she doesn't give a single fuck about.

The tequila cocktail in hand goes down easy, makes the room feel warm and hazy. But from the corner of the bar, cybernetic lenses watch as the woman sits on the opposite side, entertaining conversation with some higher up that looks just as painfully polite as much of the schmoozing is around here. So, she waves the barkeep over, indicates to add whatever drink the woman orders to her tab, and waits for a while until finally the suit leaves, and she turns her attention to the barkeep, and then, eyes meet across the bar.

And keep meeting.

So, Vitoria smiles, titanium teeth reflecting the light. Her black suit - a woman's cut worn exclusively for the office - keeps her figure trim. Hair parted to the side, tech-laced fingertips run over the shaved sides, fiddling with the edge of her collar. Normally, too many around here don't let themselves find pleasure in these parties, preferring to keep their noses up the bosses' asses, trying to get a leg up in the corporate rat-race when skills and success are what matter. So, she ignores the suits, grabbing her drink to move around the bar to the now open stool next to red dress, gracing her with a smile and that cocksure confidence of someone with enough rank and experience under her belt that she needn't partake in anything else.

"Judgin' by the look of things, you don't need to suck up like the rest of'em, either."

There's a pause, a drink. Names are exchanged, pleasantries aside. Drinks are had. Another round. Two. A third would be too much, so Vitoria clears her throat, digs out the gold cigarette case, silver old-school lighter engraved with the symbol of the Valentino gang -- a gift, from an old family friend -- and puts it on the bar top. Her tab is paid with a look, transferring the eddies to the bartender.

"Goin' out for a smoke... hope you come with me."

As she stands, a hand falls to Vi's bare knee, trailing fingertips along the skin just briefly with a glance cast over her shoulder. She doesn't look back but hears the steps behind her. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, and soon, the pair of them are stood outside, around the corner. The night air is refreshing, and her thumb easily pulls the trigger of the lighter, flame snapping to life for both cigarettes in a single go, standing closer than not.

For a time and a few drags, small talk comes and goes, but when the butt is tossed to the ground, stamped out by a high heel (an inch or two, high as she'll wear), hands come forward and slip along the silky red fabric of Vi's dress at her hips, her sides, drawing them in together, lips meeting in a slow, casual manner; the taste of the same brand of cigs blends together with cocktails. Back hits the wall, and nails rake along Vitoria's scalp, followed by a moan muffled between their mouths.

@corpose | for Claire.

Soaked to the skin despite the relatively short walk into Afterlife's lot signifies the end of a long night. It's not the first time she's done this nor will it be the last; but with Vi, this is more 'friend helping friend' than a bartender leading the blind drunk home.

Through squinted eyes and hair plastered to her head, she makes her way to the sleek Porsche with Vi in tow on her other arm. Claire's seen wasted many a time, and tonight's no different; her other hand fumbles with the wet keys to get them into the door lock, but it's Vi's shift in position - hand on her shoulder, pulling her into a kiss as the rain continues to come down. The suddenness and shock has her frozen in place; in a weird way, it almost feels foreign - not because it's Vi, but for how long it's been since Dean.

nerves struck like lightning, composure collapses into outrage — a harsh, self-righteous fury consumes light and warmth, renders the entire room dark and cold. nostrils flare, blue eyes narrow. the once eccentric professor becomes a thing of rage. a stark contrast to his multicolor coat billowing dramatically behind him as he paces to and fro, back and forth. the time lord can merely glower. clearly disappointed, clearly unimpressed.

great. she'd thought she was far enough away, past all that shit, but a record sticks - - - especially when you aren't tech savvy enough to know how to wipe it. some people are able to be real ghosts, no footprint ; eleine isn't one of them. there's a litany of hospital visits and minor charges from age twelve to her major charge and then release a little over half a year ago. her whole life story, laid out and bare to whoever feels like looking up her name.

Cheever lets his freak flag fly and gets a little libertarian at least as far as local politics are concerned.

So here's that Mad Men inspired by John Cheever story. The main character is in advertising and just drops the fact that he quit drinking and smoking on his doctor's advice so he was already in a bad mood. So he went into his advertising office and his wife's cousin dies on the couch.

So Moses, the protagonist gets stuck at the office, trying to write ad copy. Because the other ad man had to go home because of another excuse and the boss with a satanic smile tells him to write the damn ad. He writes:

"Are you falling out of love with your image in the looking glass? Does your face in the morning seem rucked and seamed with alcoholic and sexual excesses and does the rest of you appear to be a grayish-pink lump, covered all over with brindle hair? Walking in the autumn woods do you feel that a subtle distance has come between you and the smell of wood smoke? Have you drafted your obituary? Are you easily winded? Do you wear a girdle? Is your sense of smell fading, is your interest in gardening waning, is your fear of heights increasing, and are your sexual drives as ravening and intense as ever and does your wife look more and more to you like a stranger with sunken cheeks who has wandered into your bedroom by mistake? If this or any of this is true you need Elixircol, the true juice of youth. The small economy size (business with the bottle) costs seventy-five dollars and the giant family bottle comes at two hundred and fifty. It's a lot of scratch, God knows, but these are inflationary times and who can put a price on youth? If you don't have the cash borrow it from your neighborhood loan shark or hold up a local bank. The odds are three to one that with a ten-cent water pistol and a slip of paper you can shake ten thousand out of any fainthearted teller. Everybody's doing it. (Music up and out.) I sent this in to MacPherson via Ralphie, the messenger boy, and took the 4:16 home, traveling through a landscape of utter desolation."

So the rest of this story is Moses arguing with the local politicians because zoning laws mean that no one can operate a funeral home near him, or even pick up a body and if he really wants anything done, he's going to have to put the body in a car and drive it over a municipality.

The story doesn't so much ramp up as get sillier. His ad writing becomes even more smartass and his fights with the municipality become even more frustrating. But then it just ends. He manages to convince the mayor to write an exception at the threat of just burying Justina in his backyard.

And his final ad copy is The Lord is my Shepherd.

So what are we talking about here? The story is supremely silly with a dead body, a smartass ad man (totally appreciated as someone who used to write ad copy when I was trying ot be a web designer) and John Cheever imagining a character who actually quits drinking. It's one of his lighter ones but it is also one where he is getting weird. Granted, Cheever is always much weirder than your average 20th century white dude writer talking about infidelity. But 1950s Cheever was weird in characters getting extreme at weird moments, like an elevator operator guilting all of the residents into giving him food for Xmas or a dude assuming that his old friend is a black widow who is out to kill him just because she has really bad taste in men.

So here we are with Cheever using a dead body for comedy.