Elle Jones

Chapter 7: Funerals and Dicks

Every day I have been reminding myself that New York is the city that never sleeps. From the sound of chirping crickets to the rustle of thick leaves settling in their tree branches, there was no way I can concentrate.

As though my bare legs have been covered in frostbite, I couldn't walk, run, or shift my toes inside these damn black shoes. The luring scent of pinecones and needles rushed through my nostrils as I trotted behind Kristy, forcing myself to stay awake.

Blood and cigarettes from earlier became my afternoon dinner because I couldn't get rid of the taste out of my mouth.

Hazelnut-colored ribbons of my hair dusted on the back of my neck as a fly—bigger than the size of my thumb—whisked by, delivering a loud buzzing noise inside my left ear.

Shooing the despicable pest away, I caught the old woman and Kristy laughing about something I didn't hear.

Their arms were linked on each other's shoulders, their smiles were like a breath of summer, and their cheerful personalities reminded me of two old friends chatting about the golden days.

Catching up to Austin, who is approximately twelve miles away from me, I asked if he knew the old woman.

Bobbing his head yes, Austin leaned over to my ear then told me that her name is Maple Frost.

"What does she do?" I ask.

"She writes for the Wall Street Journal," he began, shuffling his feet over to mine.  "But sometimes, Maple would write scripts for Elle Jones."

"Really?" I ask in amazement. "So, did Elle Jones—"

"Hire an all-female staff to assist her in her movies?" guessed Austin. "You are right as rain."

I give him a modest look.

"I wasn't going to say that," I said in a disgruntled voice.

"Sure, but you were thinking it," said Austin, smirking. "Anyway, legend has it that she became the first female director in Australian history."

"I think have heard about it," I say, burying my hands inside Austin's coat pockets.

I ran my tongue across my dry lips, hoping the saliva can warm them. However, it didn't; my spit only absorbed the dead skin like a sponge.

"Although I do think it wasn't the case."

Austin frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well," I began. "I read in a news article that Elle Jones was also a professor who surrounds herself in cinematography, directing, and screenwriting."

"I may not be accurate, but during the 1980s, Elle said in an Oscar interview that she became a director so she can give representation a fighting chance."

Austin looked up from his dirty shoes. "Representation?"

I nod, swaying my hair back and forth.

"It's like people of color, gender, sexual orientation," I explain. "Everyone thinks  Elle is like the Martin Luther King Jr. of directing."

"She hires those who deserve the roles, pays them respectable wages, and whenever they get discouraged, Elle gives them advice."

The cold wind gave my hair another toss, but for once, I didn't mind. In fact, it helped me brush the impeccable wisps away from my eyes.