no exit

wall, south dakota
Originally uploaded by kristalynn.

many years ago, i got hired to take the photographs for a stage production of jean-paul sartre’s "huis clos". i suggested we take the photos in a small crawl space, to give the impression of confinement and being trapped. they loved the idea. four of us spent hours in this sweaty cramped space. the ceiling wasn’t even high enough for us to stand up - we had to walk around hunched over. at one point the woman playing estelle fittingly became claustrophobic and had to leave for a period of reprieve.


"you should totally put that on your blog: movie reviews in a minute. you know, what you just said about "shooter".... shooter in a minute."

"ohmygod, it sucked."

his eyes widened. "i BET it did. but you gotta get that on your blog - the whole thing with 'how'd you find me man? i'm off the grid, man.' hey - how DID they find him?"

"undercover smartnesses. and then danny glover is all, "here's my card in case you change your mind." of course he changed his mind.

"i'm still gonna see it."

we were sitting at dairy queen. i go there once a day. but i only have one evening per week with my boyfriend. we were sharing a sundae because i'm not permitted to have an entire one to myself. i get irascible or snappish or something.

we had finished our ice cream when i noticed a strange smile on my boyfriend's face.

"what? what is it? did you see that injured squirrel again?"

a friend of his - let's call this one parmigianino - stood above us. he was holding his tennis racket and a peanut buster parfait.

after initial salutations, i was assaulted with a series of stats on how good his tennis game is. he was some kind of junior champion, on his way to implausable things. that is, until he discovered "weed and girls."

the boys laughed. this was amusing for them.

i forced a smile. "that's really funny..."

i shifted. i moved my purse. i needed to depart.

parmigianino continued to talk, at great length, about regional building codes, commutes, and how some french guys, from france, showed up at his doorstep.

voices in my head screamed. my jaw clenched. my hands clasped. if only i could hold out long enough for him to eat his humungous ice cream. then he would be on his way to his silly tennis game. the game that only cost $8. because by now, i knew many, many useless facts about this man's life.

but he didn't eat his ice cream. he talked. and talked. and no one else talked. and his ice cream melted. and it dripped on the ground and on his shoes. and then it dripped on his shirt. and instead of taking this subtle hint and eating the ice cream really fast so that i could leave, he sought out napkins. several napkins. and he placed these napkins on his shirt and tucked them into his pants. and into the folds in his belly.

i, imaginarily, knocked the benign ice cream out of his hand. the melted portions got tangled into his long, mullety locks. the plastic container hit him on the face, making him wince with pain. imaginarily, again, i kicked the now empty container in his general direction. my kick was rhonaldihno perfect, bouncing off his shins, rendering them sugary and sticky. ants would be attracted to them.

i grabbed my bag. "i must go to the bank."

my boyfriend looked surprised. "the bank? it's almost 10. what do you need at the bank?"

"money. i have to go get some money."

"wait, i'll go with you..."

"no, no. don't worry about it. BYE!" i was already halfway across the parking lot.

l'enfer. c'est les autres.