A PORTRAIT OF JOHN WAYNE’S COLLARBONE, SELMA BRAUN, 1992 by Will VanDenBerg
May 3, 2023
It’s 5:34 am and John Wayne is singing to his horse. The shoot is behind schedule; they’ve gone all night. Wayne’s singing voice will be dubbed over.
Fiction
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That’s the Way of the Boss. That’s the Way of the Boss! Well, fuck.
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But the product of this was both gushy and vain. Embarrassing. It was easy to read his real interest, which was carnal, puckered.
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On break, he spoke to us through the order box. The sun warming our necks, we tossed French fries to seagulls and smelled the electric static on his breath.
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They looked for the seller. They were sometimes lurking near the booth, watching as you handled the crockery. Watching as you flipped through the records.
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The girl came out, banana in hand, and the guy from the back followed, loosening his fruit-stained apron, gaping at the climb.
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Everybody in that coffee shop was always standing around, walking into each other, then backing up and trying again, like Sims, walking into the fridge, backing up, trying again.
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Then there was nothing left to sell. The blood bank told us we needed to give our veins a rest. Should we try pickpocketing, we wondered.