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The arts section of the Sunnydale Herald is more of a single opinion column from an old white guy that reads like archaic mud-slinging at New Age aesthetics rather than a full section. She uses the obvious bias of the local newspaper as further proof that she was the wrong person to come to this one-Starbucks town. She called her father and told him that there are twelve cemeteries and one art gallery and she wants to come home or at least go back to her old job.
He hung up on her – just as he had the previous five times in the previous week that she called to laugh about this terrible town she now found herself in.
So she got dressed in something she hoped was less I teach High School and more talk to me about drinks and went to the local gallery opening (with a strawberry-flavored condom and a hot pink dental dam in her purse because … what the hell? Stranger things have happened in her life and a random hook-up at an art gallery actually seems par for the course.)
Joyce tried to pretend that the opinion piece in the Sunnydale Herald by the professor of Medieval Art at UC Sunnydale was nothing to worry about, that her gallery opening was going to go off without a hitch and Sunnydale would be all the better for it (and she wouldn’t have to spend the evening drinking a bottle of wine by herself and crying over the photo album of her wedding).
Except that the gallery opening began at six and at seven-thirty there were still no visitors. She doesn’t entirely count the teenage couple who snuck in and started making out near the bathroom. She handed them a condom and kicked them out (and really hoped they didn’t know her daughter because there was no way in hell she’d be as lenient with her own daughter.
At seven thirty she was close to calling it quits and closing up shop and beginning again … maybe she could still find a job as a secretary somewhere? It would kill her to go back to a desk answering phone calls all day, but an income was an income and with two other mouths to feed, she was more willing to do things on her own terms than beg for money from her ex.
At seven thirty-four on a Saturday evening Jenny walked into a completely empty art gallery and gaped at the rather despondent looking woman with blonde curling hair and an absolutely flawless posture and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“Holy shit did I miss the whole thing?”
The woman shook her head, “This is the whole damn thing.”
Jenny bit her bottom lip and tried to look at the room rather than the art – if she looked at the art she’d be lost, an entire gallery all to herself was the kind of boon she didn’t often get back in Cluj-Napoca. It was bizarrely empty, even by Sunnydale standards. The woman was fiddling with her fingers like she expected Jenny to run out screaming.
“You think it was that fucking idiot in the newspaper, don’t you?”
The other woman shrugged.
“Okay, look. Lock the doors for twenty minutes and meet me back here with a couple bags of coffee and a variety pack of tea and those ridiculous paper cups and whatever baked goods they still have at the supermarket around the corner. I have an idea.”
The woman stuck out her hand, “I’m Joyce and you are an angel.”
Jenny smiled, “I’m Jenny. And I surely hope not. Angels never have any fun.”
And then she winked and by gods the woman blushed like a sixteen year old girl, which was probably the most inspiring thing she’d seen in the whole damn State, let alone town.
It was halfway through making copies of her handmade flyer that simply read “Gallery Opening - FREE COFFEE” at the high school that Jenny considered that maybe she shouldn’t be taking advantage of her position as a teacher to utilize the supply cabinet like this. While loading the PTA’s three restaurant-sized hand-pump coffee dispensers in her car the guilt dissipated by about ten percent. It’s not like anyone was using them anyway.
She dropped off the flyers at every bar, coffee shop, bookstore, church, and indie clothing store between the school and the gallery and hoped that would be enough. Joyce was waiting with a smorgasbord of cupcakes and danishes and cookies laid out on a table near the entrance. They made short work of the coffee pitchers and filled one with plain water for the tea and then waited.
“If this doesn’t work, I owe you a bottle of really great wine,” Joyce whispered.
“If this does work, you owe me a kiss to go with that bottle.”
Joyce laughed and there was something pained in it that threatened to worm it’s way into Jenny’s heart, “Ah hell, if this works I owe you dinner and a dozen roses.”
“Mmm… this better work then. I prefer to be pampered.”
Keen but cautious eyes scanned the length of her, “Yes. You would.”
It took a while – about twenty minutes of waiting on-edge by the door and then another twenty wandering the gallery with coffee at their lips and murmured conversations of half-sentences about the truly inspiring art – and then a pair of couples came wandering in. Jenny had to hold Joyce back to stop her from pouncing.
“Easy tiger, it’s a gallery. Let them wander.”
The group helped themselves to coffee – they looked to be in their early twenties, probably art students at the local university, or just stray kids not ready to make their way into the awkward stage of the date where lines about the sharing of beds are drawn – and then giggled their way through the gallery, stopping at a few of the more modern pieces and whispering. By the time they were halfway through, there were at least three more groups of people with coffee in their hands and curious eyes.
“Okay, you schmooze the crowd and I got the coffee. No pouncing.”
She took in a deep breath, “I got this.”
“Would it help if I smacked your ass like a rugby player?”
“Probably not.”
Jenny tapped her on the shoulder as she turned to leave and then raised herself up on her toes ever so slightly before kissing Joyce softly on the lips. Twice.
“I like this better.”
Joyce shook her head, her curls bouncing, and smiled, “I’d love to see rugby teams take up your style of teammanship.”
Jenny shrugged her shoulders, “I sent letters, but they always get sent back to me.” She snuck in another kiss. “Now sell some art. You owe me roses.”
“And dinner.”
“And wine.”
Jenny walked to the coffee table without another word, but she could feel Joyce’s laugh on her skin the rest of the night.
So Sunnydale might not be that bad, after all.