More Than a Kiss

Car, Duct Tape, Art

Jordan and Amy stood on the museum steps, each wanting to spend more time with the other, each unwilling to let the afternoon go.

Amy said, "I can't believe I've never visited here before."

"I come here all the time. At least once a week. I find it very inspiring. Especially the children's art. They have such freedom.” Jordan led the way down the steps and to the bicycle rack where she had locked up her bike.

Amy said, "So, when you're painting, which comes first, the color or the emotion behind it?"

"It's hard to explain. Colors can make me feel, but feelings make me see colors. It's a matter of translating the feeling into color and onto the canvas. You've heard of the expression 'seeing red?'"

"Sure, when somebody's angry," Amy said.

Suddenly, Jordan's face turned a bright crimson. She clenched her fists and spun in a circle, punching the air, stomping her feet, and saying, "Damndamndamn! I can't believe it!"

Amy laughed at Jordan's antics. "I know what anger looks like," she said. "You don't have to show me."

"I'm not showing you. I am angry!" Jordan said. "Look!" She pointed at her lime green Trek bicycle. Both tires were flat.

"Oh my God," Amy gasped. She moved in for a closer look. "The tires have been slashed. Who would've done such a thing?"

"I have a good idea." Jordan fumed and paced away from the bike. Petronella had obviously followed her again. When she saw her kissing Amy, she'd taken out her revenge on the bike.

Jordan wiped her hand over her face, took a shaky breath and collected herself. "Sorry I lost it like that." Now, she was embarrassed. She didn’t want Amy to think she needed anger management classes, but this clandestine vandalism was getting old. Petronella had demolished her car, now her bike. What was next? She’d be reduced to roller blades?

"I'll give you a ride home," Amy said.

"Okay," Jordan said. “Thank you.”

Jordan carried the bike, following Amy to her car. Jordan scrunched her face up when she stared at the car. “This is it?”

“Yes.”

“I like it,” Jordan said, leaning her bike up against the parking meter. She walked around the car. “It’s adorable.”

“It doesn’t have a trunk exactly.”

“Oh, that’s all right. We’ll just duct tape the bike to the roof,” Jordan said.

“Really?”

“Sure. I’ll line the part that touches the roof so it won’t get sticky.”

“But I don’t have any duct tape,” Amy said.

“I do,” Jordan said, pulling a roll of hot pink tape from a small leather bag that hung behind her bicycle seat.

“Wow,” Amy said. “Maybe I should buy stock in duct tape.”

In a matter of minutes, Jordan had her bike secured to the top of the car. Amy backed away from the car and studied it. “It looks like art. Like some kind of modern art sculpture.”

“It really does, doesn’t it?” Jordan said.

A Japanese man stopped by the car, whipped out a camera and took a picture. Several other pedestrians stopped and gazed at the car. “Amazing,” one man said. “It’s a very interesting juxtaposition on the evolutionary drama between humans and their various modes of transportation.”

Amy giggled.

Jordan shrugged. “You can turn anything into art.”

Soon, there was a large crowd of people gathered around the car. Cameras flashed, people talked excitedly, throwing around phrases like social commentary and melding of reality and art. A pencil-thin woman wearing glasses emerged from the crowd, ran up the museum steps, stopped, turned, and flashed off several photos of the car and bike. Then she pulled a steno pad out of her purse and called out, “Who is the artist? Does anybody know the artist?”

Jordan stepped forward and pointed an accusing finger at Amy. “She is the artist.”

Amy playfully slugged Jordan’s arm. Jordan whispered, “Just go along with it.”

The woman hurried over to Amy. “How wonderful to meet you. Do you mind giving me an interview? I write for The Oregonian. I would love to feature you in our paper as an up-and-coming artist. What’s your name?”

The crowd of people surrounded Jordan and Amy, cutting off any easy escape route.

Amy eyes widened. She looked to Jordan for help. Jordan stepped up to the plate and told the reporter, “Sorry, but she’s quite shy. You know artists and their peculiarities. Her name is Amy Stewart. This installation piece is entitled First Kiss.

“What an unusual title,” the reporter said. “Is there a meaning behind it?”

Jordan raised an eyebrow at Amy, openly daring her to continue the charade. Amy accepted the dare and spoke up, “It’s the melding of… it’s about… Well, look it’s a car, right? A tiny car that is as much like a bike as it is a car. And you have a bike. A wounded bike. Its tires are slashed and it may never… transport… again. Until it meets the car. Then through the power of duct tape it is carried by the car. So, it’s like kindred spirits. Meeting.”

“Huh,” the reporter said. She turned and studied the car and bike for a moment. She popped off another couple of pictures with her camera. Finally, she said, “I get it. It’s like they’re kissing, right?”

When she turned back around, Jordan and Amy were kissing. She got a picture of that, too.