Acts of Violet(35)
“You really like it?” I ask again. “Honest?”
Her squared shoulders and raised chin tell me everything I need to know, but it’s still nice to hear her say, “I love it. It’s exactly what I wanted. And I didn’t even know I wanted it.”
A warm glow spreads through me. There’s that twinge of guilt that pops up occasionally, the voice of my sister that questions whether I could’ve made a more meaningful contribution if I had pursued medicine. Is there something lacking in me for not setting my ambitions higher? Even if there is, I can’t help but find satisfaction in the small ways I can contribute to brightening another person’s day. Isn’t that what ultimately matters, giving it your best effort and taking pride in your work, no matter the scope?
I smooth the top of Sally’s hair and grab my cell phone. “Mind if I take a photo? ‘For the ’gram,’ as my daughter likes to say.”
“You can take a photo, but if you ever say ‘for the ’gram’ again, we can’t be friends anymore.”
I walk in a semicircle around Sally and take some snaps as she makes sultry eyes at my phone’s camera. Scrolling through the results, I turn the screen around to show her the best one.
“You know what, Kerry and Jerry can suck a bag of dicks. I’m a stone-cold fox.” Sally marvels at her image and squints, craning her neck for a closer look. Her eyes zigzag between the phone and a spot over my shoulder. “Did Gabriel come back from his meeting?”
“Nah, he’s up in New York and won’t be back for a while.” I turn around and peer into the supply room: it’s empty. “Why, you see a ghost or something?”
“Something.” There’s a blue tint to Sally’s mouth as she hands me back the phone.
“I don’t see anything.” I examine the picture. “Are you sure—oh shit.” The phone slips out of my hand and clatters to the floor. A web of jagged cracks runs across the now-black screen.
But the photo remains clear in my mind. The naughty gleam in Sally’s blue eyes and the candy colors of her hair. The mirror behind her, reflecting the open storage room. And the woman in the reflected doorway dressed in head-to-toe black, her narrow face pale, her glittering red lips smirking.
I swivel my head again to the storage room: it’s empty. Back to the broken phone: its screen remains dark. But moments ago, it showed Violet leaning against the doorway, arms folded, her shrewd gaze taking dead aim at the camera.
FOXXY MAGAZINE
The Queen of Illusions: Exclusive Interview with Violet Volk
By Malini Agarwal
JULY/AUGUST 1997
“Could this shoot be any more of a disaster?”
The question comes from Violet Volk as one of her numerous pearl necklaces comes undone and scatters along the cobblestones of Fifth Avenue. The cover shoot takes place along the Central Park side of Museum Mile, and with the theme of Foxxy’s summer issue being Hollywood Icons, Violet’s been dressed as Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. What seemed like a whimsical idea in concept is proving to be … well, Violet’s not wrong: it’s a disaster.
The black column dress is so tight around her thighs and her stilettos so unstable on the cobblestones, she can take only tiny steps. On top of which, she’s walking three leashed huskies, which were supposed to be trained but are unruly, pulling in different directions. Then another pearl necklace snaps. And so does Violet’s patience.
“This is ridiculous,” she fumes. “Why am I dressed like some dainty sweet movie star? It’s not me at all. And it’s not even accurate. Didn’t Audrey have a cat in that movie? And didn’t she wear flat shoes? What is all this bullshit?” As she raises her voice, a small crowd gathers, and a few onlookers stop to take their own pictures. “If you wanted to update Holly Golightly, you could’ve given me wolves instead of dogs. You could’ve given me a vinyl dress, a tiara made of barbed wire, cooler hair than this beehive. You could’ve—” Before she can complete her thought, the huskies jerk her forward face-first into a light stand, leaving her with blood trickling out of the corner of her mouth.
“That’s it, I’m done.” Violet kicks off her shoes and stalks off to the wardrobe trailer. An assistant rushes off after her.
Fifteen minutes later, she returns, still wearing the column dress but with a hastily cut slit up one side and now paired with Doc Martens combat boots. She’s swapped her remaining pearls for a dog collar, her beehive is disheveled, and her tiara is crooked. The opera gloves are gone, and her arms are encased in fishnet, presumably the tights she was wearing when she first arrived.
“It’s this or nothing,” she says, striking a pose. “You have ten minutes.”
The photographer picks up her camera and starts shooting.
* * *
A few days later, I get to the Korova Milk Bar in the East Village fifteen minutes before our scheduled meeting time and several hours before it’ll be open to the public.
Any fan of Stanley Kubrik’s A Clockwork Orange would appreciate this dimly lit East Village bar, with its checkered floor, black-and-white-striped walls, and naked mannequins suspended from the ceiling. I order a Frozen Embryo, one of the alcoholic milkshakes the bar is known for, and take a seat on a white leather couch that glows under a strip of black light. The stereo system plays a chorus of Gregorian monks chanting over electronic beats. Not the strangest setting for an interview I’ve conducted (that honor goes to a museum in the Midwest whose works of art are made entirely out of corn), but it would make the top ten.