Cop and a Blacktress

So, as you know, I work on a plantation--a plantation of writing, crazy artists, and writing about crazy artists. I really enjoy getting know the artists and their process, as most of them are very friendly to the person writing a feature-length article on them. My favorite artist thus far has to be, hands down, the man I like to call "The Detective"--mainly because that is his occupation. Based in the Pacific Northwest, he's a man of the law who draws composite sketches of criminals based on witnesses accounts. When he's not doing that, he's doing high-class commissioned portraits. He is, in short, bad ass and artistic-- and cool as ice.

The thing I like most about him is that we've sort of developed a rapport that has lasted long after his article was published. He sends the funniest emails ever, and I thought it was behoovy of me to share them with you, my gentle readers.

I knew from our first interview that The Detective and I would get along. He was already a reader of our magazine, so he was all flattered by the idea of being interviewed. He was really long-whinded (which I love when writing an article, because it means I'll never have a shortage of quotes), and he laughed at all my jokes. Before we'd even spoken, he'd done a little research on me, reading my past articles to see if I had the chops. I immediately told him, "Detective, I'll bring nothing but my A-game with this article--primarily because you could have me killed and make it look like an accident."

We had a good long laugh at that one, and we only calmed down once he said, between chuckles, "Yes, that's true."

So, needless to say, I got down to business--but there was also some pleasure.

The Detective told me he'd never been to NYC, and I told him all about our fast-paced lifestyle. I also explained that I could never live anywhere else, because I hate nature. He couldn't believe it. After that convo, he sent me the following email:

Sojo,

Nice talking to you today. I'm still laughing. I've never met anyone who doesn't like nature. Just for you, I'm attaching the photo collages I sent out with our last Christmas card. You're going to see a lot of my family, but what I really want you to see is the number of photos taken outside--in the woods, trails on the sides of mountains, on the beach, in parks, in kayaks on the water, there's even a picture under the water, etc. Pay special attention to the photo of my whole family on the beach building an enormous sand castle. You want to talk dirt... Okay, it's sand, but pretty much the same thing. I love it outside. Maybe I should write an article about you. In Seattle, you'd be the fascinating one! Like talking to an alien.* "Yes that's right. She doesn't like nature!"

Let me know if you have any more questions--I will have more time this weekend, but right now I have to go to bed because I have to get up at 0230 to go serve a warrant. This could be a wild one--house full of armed gang members involved in an assortment of crimes. It's not as bad as it sounds--we're sending in the SWAT team first. - D

Please note that this last paragraph has not been doctored in any way. The Detective is hard core. Note the use of military time when he tells me what time he has to wake up. Also note how chill he is: "it's not as bad as it sounds--we're sending in the SWAT team first." Oh, okay detective--and when you're done, you'll all have some donuts and coffee and go make love to your wives.

I love the detective. In my head, he and I could be a dynamic duo, if not the basis of a TV movie. He'd be solving gritty crimes by day, and by night he would come home and draw his victims. Only with the help of Sojourner would he be able to unlock the truth and crack the case. I think it'd be something like this:

I'm the little black boy and he's Burt Reynolds.

The detective and I still talk, and he sends me emails to let me know how things are going. Sometimes he asks for favors, like advanced or discount copies, and because of our bond--and his power (see above re: killing me and making it look like an accident)--I often give in. He's always really nice, but he makes sure I never forget who I'm talking to. Take, for example, this short gem he sent a few days ago:

Sojo,

I've been busy all morning arresting a guy--got a full confession though. You find anyone to help transfer that file?
I'll be back in an hour--got to go meet a victim.
-D

Was he telling me I only had an hour to get him the file or I'd be sleeping with the fishes? Was he mentioning a "victim" just to give me the willies? I didn't even give him time to explain--that file was in his inbox in 12 minutes.


*[The Detective thinks I'm from another planet simply because I said to him, "I don't get why anyone would want to go outside and pretend to be poor. I don't want 'the stars as my blanket'-- I want a blanket as my blanket!!"
I don't get what's so crazy about that.
Oh, and fyi-- one of his family photos showed his son with a black gf--holla at interracial love!]

Mondays with Artists....

So, I sorta like my job. Not only do I put the “ASS” in “assistant” on a regular basis, I spend a lot of time talking to our subscribers and interfacing over the telephone with artists.

I love talking to artists. Some days I am caught off-guard by a verbose, lonely painter who thinks that because we wrote an article on them, and I answer the phones, I’m clearly the president, treasurer, and social chair of their fan club.

Today was one those days. And in true woman of color-writer fashion, I provide you, gentle reader, with a transcript. All the words of the artist are completely true (I took notes once it became clear this was going to be a doozy), and I merely agreed. Please read on…


Sojourner Truth: Good morning, Art Magazine,* this is Sojourner Truth.

Crazy Artist Lady: Hello, Sojourner, this is Ellen Tembly. I received my slide returns, but still haven’t gotten copies of the September issue I was featured in.

ST(reverting to my slave ways): I am so sorry, Ms. Tembly. I’ll get that order right out to you—can you give me your address again?

CAL: Yes—but, I have to tell you I ended up driving an hour away to another bookstore just to pick up a copy. I can’t believe it.

ST: Oh my, that is a hike!
(If you found the magazine, then why are you calling me?)

CAL: And it’s no surprise, given the way my day has been going.
(Uh-oh. Here we go. I’m about to get T.M.I.—I can feel it.)

ST: Well, why don’t we get your order out and turn this day around! (insert fake laugh. She finally gives me her address. While I have her placated, I plug our website like a good employee) Ms. Embry, do you have a website? Your can put a link to your article on your own site—it’s very popular now. (This is not true.)

CAL: Oh, yes, I’d love to do that—but I can’t find someone to help me with my site. In fact, I’m sitting here looking at a bill for $800.00 from a web designer, and I just don’t understand it.

ST: $800.00—oh my goodness?! For what?! (Acting like I care and sharing her pain is part of serving the customer. It’s also called “mirroring,” and is an excellent psychological tool for gaining one’s trust and favor)

CAL: Well, quite frankly, I don’t know. Do you know who could help me?

ST: I don’t know anyone, no—but I’m sure there are a lot of young people in your neighborhood who could help you for a much cheaper—

CAL: I was working with this one woman, Carol—she is on the list of people who are the bane of my existence. (Now knowing that Ellen has a list, I am determined not to end up on it) She just uses me because I’m the best artist on her website.
(I am loving Ellen’s brutal honesty and sheer hatred for this Carol person—who I’ve decided is a talentless bitch. I laugh in agreement.)
She’s just one of those people who make me feel the need to take a bath after speaking to them.
(Haven’t we all been there?)
Well, anyway, for a while, my neighbor’s daughter was going to help me—she’s very technically savvy—but then her husband almost killed her and put her in the hospital, so she’s can’t help me. She’s busy getting a divorce—at least, I hope she is.

ST: Well, so do I!
(Pause. I’ve been on the phone for approximately 7 minutes and 30 seconds. I have her address and can send her magazines. How can I get off the phone and go to lunch and stop hearing about domestic violence?)
So, I will send this article out and get you the website link—

CAL: That’d be great—really, the web is all I have now. I don’t have a gallery.
(Cue strings….)

ST: Yeah, a lot of artists have sites now.

CAL: Well, I can’t even get a teaching gig!

ST: Really? But you’re an American Artist!!!

CAL: Pricheson hired me, then took it back.

ST: What?! How can that be?!

CAL: Yep, yep. It happened. Do you want to hear some gossip, Sojourner?! I love to gossip! I have this new neighbor, and I've just been filling her in on everything. I told her, "don't go over to that lady's house, cause she'll take your cat and won't give her back."

ST: Oh my goodness!
(What the hell is she talking about? Did someone steal her cat? Or did she eat it and forget?)

CAL: I bet SHE thinks I'm bonkers myself.
(Much like I do.)
Anyway, Pricheson is angry at me and I don’t know why.
(Could it be because she is abrasive and completely lacking in boundaries/the woman of my dreams?)
And it’s funny, because Pricheson got me the article in your magazine.

ST: Really? Well that is odd.

CAL: Didn’t you wonder why I said I only use Pricheson products in the article?

ST: Yes, I did, actually.
(No, I didn’t.)

CAL: Oh, Sojourner, I’m such a whore it isn’t funny. (She then emits a loud cackle that is still ringing in my ears) I’m actually getting ready to paint a portrait of myself as a trollop—and I’m 64 years old, mind you.
(The timer on the phone reads 12:15)
Yep, I found this blond wig, rhinestone boots, glitter glasses—it’s going to be called “Art Sells.”
(I want to tell Ellen that whores don’t wear glasses, but it's best not to engage her.)

ST: That’s hilarious!
(I’m uncomfortable.)

CAL: Now I just need a place to show it. Finding a gallery is a lot like a marriage—and I’ve had two of those—but none now, I’m single. My first husband was my manager, and that didn’t work out. He threw in the towel. I wasn’t his first priority—clearly!
(I’m really uncomfortable.)
It’s just hard for us artists—we’re just at the bottom. My second husband used to say we’re “lower than whale shit.” [she laughs] He always had these colorful phrases.
(Was she implying that he was “colored,” and therefore “colorful”?)

ST(awkward laughter): Oh no! (pause) Well, Ms. Tembly let me go process your order.

CAL: Oh, I guess I need to let you go.

ST: You have a good day now, Miss Tembly-- you promise?

CAL: I'll try.


The worst part of it was, that after 20 minutes and 12 seconds of emotional catharsis, I still forgot to send her copies of the magazines.




*I have changed the names of all proper nouns in this post to protect my occupation. My job may not be great, but being employed is better than being enslaved-- or broke.