Burnaway

[cont.]
The traffic was horrible as usual. A few blocks past a construction site, the car swerved a bit and she heard that distinctive whompa whompa whompa of a very flat tire. In this traffic, it would take hours for anyone to reach her to assist. So she exited her car and opened the trunk. She might not know much about cars but she knew how to change a tire. Too bad she was wearing her favorite outfit. Well, it needed to go to the dry cleaners anyway.
When she finally arrived, hands still somewhat grimy, Maggie’s little cottage reeked of latex paint and curry spices. One wall inside was now bright, shiny orange enamel. The light coming in through the open front windows bounced color on all the other white walls, making them all look peachy.
“So, you’re thinking of yourself as Cinderella these days? Hanging out in a pumpkin?”
“Not exactly. I broke up with Madison and decided I needed a mood changer.”
“This definitely qualifies.” Odessa didn’t ask questions: Maggie would talk when she was ready.
“You better wash up those hands and you’ve got a nice long smear across your forehead. But don’t worry about your clothes. We’re not going to that bistro I told you about for dinner,” Maggie told her. “I decided to do the cooking. Don’t worry. I actually followed a recipe. Exactly. No substitutions. And feel free to help yourself to my closet. You’ll feel better in clean clothes.”
Maggie had been raised on frozen dinners, canned meats and fast food, so teaching her how to cook was one of Odessa’s great pleasures. Jack had only wanted to learn how to bake chocolate chip cookies and Dennis only did the grilling. Maggie, though, never met a recipe which couldn’t be altered. In one of the dinners she’d prepared, she’d substituted vinegar for wine. It was a painful meal for anyone with taste buds. And then there was the time she’d substituted cilantro for cinnamon in sugar cookies. Not even the raccoons would eat them. But for the most part, her experiments turned out edible. More than a few were even worthy of repetition.
“Other than the flat tire, how was your day?”
Odessa told her the saga of Paula and Jody, trying to mock each ordeal by imitating their voices. Not much point in getting too riled up about it.
“I just don’t understand Paula’s hostility,” Odessa said as she sat on the couch, a bottle of Merlot and glasses waiting on the end table.
“Really? You really don’t know? It’s pretty simple actually. You canceled her show when you closed the gallery to care for Dennis.”
“And I gave her the first available slot.”
“No, you didn’t. You gave her December when no one pays attention to art. I’m sure that crushed her ego.” Maggie handed her the cork screw.
“But I sold most of the show.”
“And she didn’t get a single review. She was not included in that New York show or the California biennial the way other of your artists were. And then you didn’t include her best friend in a show like she told her you would. What did you expect?”
“Egos. I seem to be mired in egos. More proof, don’t you think, that we’re in the midst of a cultural epidemic of narcissism.” Not a bad wine for the price, she thought, peeling off the price tag.
“Hmm. Is the systemic problem actually narcissism or is it low impulse control? Societies have historically promoted rules to curb impulses. That’s the fundamental purpose of all religions and most laws. It’s never worked perfectly but they established an environment which discouraged it. Our society, though, really does do everything to promote low impulse control. Think about it: buying everything right this second is the sole goal of advertising and the engine behind capitalism. Credit cards allow us to buy impulsively instead of deferring any purchase until we’ve saved enough. We’ve been conditioned to glorify quick decisions and short term profits. The ancient Romans would have viewed all this behavior as juvenile. An adult, actually an adult male, was expected to curb impulses, you know, the whole Stoic thing. As Democritus said, ‘Immoderate desire is the mark of a child, not a man.’ Maybe it’s part of our youth worship that we think acting without thinking and skirt chasing are signs of virility and not immaturity. Well, come on in and serve yourself.”