PART #15: THE DREAMER SLEEPS WITHOUT DREAMING

THE DREAMER SLEEPS WITHOUT DREAMING

Appendix: Final Q & A Session between Benjamin J. Schreiber and Dr. C

Well, okay then, Dr. C. If you're so smart, and you think you know everything, let me ask you a question: What does Georgie Gust really want?

That's a simple question, Ben. I can give you a simple answer. You see, Georgie Gust, like countless other American men of his psychological profile, weight, age, and character type, simply wants to find a perfect and flawless, beautiful and untouched, pure woman whom he can worship and adore while writhing and groveling at her feet. Someone he can love with his entire soul while she treats him like dirt.

You mean like Claudia Nesbitt, Doc?

Or maybe it's like Georgie Gust's idea of Claudia Nesbitt. You see, Ben, because no actual sweating, breathing, menstruating woman could ever possibly hope to live up to Georgie Gust's supreme stereotype and highly repressed sexual fantasy of his ideal woman, Georgie Gust is subconsciously obsessed, and compulsively driven, by the unspeakable need to desecrate, defile and compel the perfectly beautiful woman - to submit to his self-punishing, psychological abuse, and sometimes to actual physical torture, so that he can feel superior to her and make her what he wants her to be. You see, Ben, just like you, Georgie Gust-

Whoa, whoa, now! Wait a minute there Doc; let's not get personal. I've got another question for you.

Okay, Ben. Go ahead. Shoot.

What I want to know is this, Doc - if you're such a psycho-guru and know-it-all shrink, and have such keen insight into the male character, why don't you tell me: What does “Famous Amos” Daedalus really want?

That's another simple question, Ben. I can give you a simple answer - in a nutshell. You see, Ben, like countless other sexually repressed, emotionally frustrated, and secretly homosexual American men, “Famous Amos” simply wants to create his own supremely idealized stereotype, and subconscious sexual fantasy, of the perfect woman who will embody his sublimated and spiritual ideal, and still submit to his disgusting, pornographic fantasies.

Wait a minute! Okay. Yeah, I get it Doc. So you'd say, Doc, that because Amos can't ever really find some perfectly beautiful woman, or flawlessly pure babe to live up to his sublimated sexual fantasies or spiritual ideal, or whatever - then he tries to make a perfectly beautiful, flawlessly pure and ideal woman by carving her out of wax and making her into a department-store window-display, or wax museum manikin, or something?

You got it, Ben.  However, not even a perfectly beautiful display-window manikin or flawlessly pure wax-museum sculpture can ever hope to live up to Amos' perfectly sublimated stereotype and highly repressed sexual fantasy. Amos, like Georgie Gust, is subconsciously obsessed and compulsively driven by the unspeakable need to desecrate and defile, to debase and mortify - even his own supremely beautiful stereotypes and flawlessly pure images of the department store-manikin or the wax museum sculpture.

To shit on her, you might say, eh, Dr. C?

Right, Ben. So, like Georgie Gust, and maybe like you, Ben, he can prove to himself how superior he is to those mere sweating, breathing, and menstruating mortal women. He can then reign supreme as the sublime creator-god, and highly spiritualized wax sculpture artist, within his own private universe and fantasy world of the wax museum.

Well, you know, Doc - I have to admit you have a point, there. It seems like you know Georgie Gust and “Famous Amos” pretty well, now, don't you?

You know them, too, Ben - even if you want to admit it.

Hey now, knock it off, Doc! It's nothing personal, you see?

Sorry, Ben. I'll be good now.

Good enough. Because you see, Doc, I have one more question for you. What I want to know, Doc, is this: What does Claudia Nesbitt really want?

Well now, Ben, that's a little more difficult, isn't it? But you know, Ben, despite the fact that Claudia Nesbitt is a pretty complicated character (and maybe she isn't just one woman, but an amalgamation of a bunch of women - all lumped together into one), I really think I can give you a fairly simple answer to that question.

Okay, Doc - go ahead, shoot. But watch where you're pointing that thing, will you?

You see, Ben, Claudia Nesbitt, like Georgie Gust, like “Famous Amos,” and maybe even like you, Ben-

Aw, c'mon! Get off it, Doc!

-Like everybody else in the whole human world, Ben, Claudia Nesbitt really just wants to be loved. Loved wholly and completely, for who she is as a real, live, sweating, breathing, and menstruating woman. Complete with her flaws and imperfections, complaints and complexes, with all her cruelty and perversity, her craziness and insecurity - and despite the fact that she really is something of-

A bitch! Isn't she, Doc? I mean, she's-

-A difficult woman to live with. Just like we all are.

Even me, Doc?

Women and men - even you, Ben.

But nobody can ever really give us the complete and unconditional love we want, huh Doc? Except maybe our mothers-

So, we get stuck in these self-destructive, abusive relationships and failed marriages. We do hateful, hurtful things to each other and just repeat the same stupid psychodramas over and over again.

Like Georgie Gust and Claudia Nesbitt?

Right, Ben.

So do you really think, Doc-?

Think what, Ben?

We could just snicker and chortle and snort.

And chuckle and snigger-

And laugh our way out of it?

And smile through our tears-

And the whole thing would just disappear?

And the whole world would be a paradise - a heaven on earth.

And we'd all be perfectly beautiful and perfectly sane human beings?

It'd be worth a try, wouldn't it?

Okay, Doc. Here it goes-

One, two, three…

Ha, ha, ha…

And he, he…

THE END

PART #14: THE DREAMER SLEEPS WITHOUT DREAMING

THE DREAMER SLEEPS WITHOUT DREAMING

Codex: Doctor C Writes Back to Benjamin J. Schreiber

Yes, Ben. I know exactly what you mean. You should know, too, that it's not just you. Many other people sometimes feel like the whole world is crazy, and that they're crazy, too. A lot of people think the whole world is ridiculous and pointless, and that their entire life is just as meaningless and absurd. Some people feel like everything is falling apart around them and they don't want to go on living. And, they don't have any kind of cosmic glue, or spiritual supergoop, that'll stick it all together and make the whole world work for them so they can just go plugging along. Maybe they just don't have what it takes to make the whole world stop being ridiculous, and meaningless, and stupid, and absurd and make their whole life seem worth living again, too.

But, you know, Ben, maybe you're right. Maybe those schizophrenic blue-movie skits and sleazy hardcore porn-flicks (as you call them) are trying to tell you something. Maybe they really are like fairytales or folktales, or old-time movies or old-fashioned myths with some kind of message or moral hidden somewhere inside them - like fortune cookies. Maybe they're sending messages from your deeper self and beaming signals from your subconscious mind, your libido or your ID ego (or whatever you want to call it), or even from the whole collective subconscious of the human race.

The message they're sending you, as far as I can see, Ben, the moral they're trying to tell you, is really pretty simple. Despite all the self-destructive, abusive things and all the hateful, hurtful things Georgie and Claudia (and everybody else) do to each other, and despite the absurdity, ludicrousness and ridiculousness of it all, the message or moral they're sending is really pretty simple and pretty straightforward, you know? The message or moral of the whole story, as I see it, Ben, is this:

They're trying to show you what it's like to get stuck in hell, and know that you're stuck in hell, and still not be able to find the way out when all along, Ben, the way out is right there in front of you. All you have to do is look for it - all you have to do is want to get out. You can raise yourself out of hell, you can make a new life for yourself, and you can make the whole world over again, Ben, whenever you want to - and all you have to do is want to.

Because, you see, Ben, in this crazy, mixed-up, stupid and absurd world, everybody needs somebody or something to make everything whole. It's to save them from the absurdity and meaninglessness, the ridiculousness and stupidity, of their existence. For some people, that somebody or something is a person, a spiritual teacher or holy man, a great lover or secret soulmate who makes their whole life complete and becomes the entire world for them. For other people, that somebody or something is a spiritual teaching or religious doctrine, a secret philosophy or work of art, that makes the whole world speak to them and convinces them they can live forever.

Georgie Gust and Claudia Nesbitt, as you see them, Ben, are people who want to find the whole world in a significant other, and build a whole world around that other person, to save themselves from the stupidity and absurdity of their empty, meaningless lives. Of course, Georgie and Claudia's struggle to discover the whole world in each other, and build a world around themselves, are tragically doomed to disappointment and failure because neither one of them can really fulfill the other's fantasies and dreams. Neither can carry the whole weight of the world they're building together.

Because neither Georgie nor Claudia can really accept the stupidity and ridiculousness of their significant other, or the absurdity and emptiness of their great fantasy, they get caught and trapped in their self-destructive and abusive relationship. They're stuck in a self-perpetuating cycle of hateful and hurtful acts, and they just keep repeating the same self-destructive actions, and playing the same stupid scenes, and somehow they just can't break the cycle or get out of the loop, or take a deep breath and tell themselves to just stop!

Georgie Gust and “Famous Amos” Daedalus on the other hand, are people who build a whole world around a creative delusion or a life-changing illusion and try to transform the stupidity, absurdity, emptiness and meaninglessness of worldly human existence into an immortal sculpture or an eternal work of art. The problem is that the world they want to create, to save everything from absurdity and meaninglessness, and save themselves from stupidity and ridiculousness and emptiness, - the “Hall of the Unknowns” in Georgie Gust's One-&-Only Original, Classical Wax Museum! - can't really support their spiritual aspirations and artistic illusions. So, their statuesque, classic sculptures and waxen talking heads of self-important small-town celebrities, and unknown street people, finally become just as stupid, absurd, meaningless and ridiculous as the world they're trying to escape.

So as much as everybody, just like you, Ben, needs somebody, or something, to make the world whole for them and save them from the their solitary, empty lives, it's also important to remember that no single person in the whole world can support your whole solitary, empty existence. They can't make the world whole for you if you can't do it yourself. The world is what we make it, and so the whole world is only as we allow it to be, as we make it to be, as we name it to be. If it's what we make it, then we can make the whole world over, and make ourselves over, too - but only if we want to. Otherwise, the whole world really is just as absurd and stupid, just as empty, and meaningless and ridiculous as we think it is.

Also, Ben, it's important not to take those eternal works of art, or immortal waxen sculptures, those great passionate love affairs, or our secret soulmates too seriously - or to take yourself too seriously, either - which is maybe the only real message or moral that Georgie Gust and Claudia Nesbitt, Sir Tony Halldale and “Famous Amos”, Stevie and Mary, and all the others are trying to teach you, Ben. Their only real purpose, meaning, or reason for existence as far as anybody can say for sure, is to teach you how to laugh.

Does that make sense to you, Ben? Or am I getting too moral? You know, you can make me stop, too - or you can make me do whatever you want me to do. Can't you? If you really want to or have the will to do it because you, after all, are the author - which is as close to “the gods” (or God) as we get in this stupid, absurd, meaningless, empty universe. And whatever you do, Ben, it's all up to you.

So, Ben, no matter how bad things get, no matter how stupid and ridiculous and absurd the whole world seems, even if the whole world goes crazy - remember, Ben, don't forget to laugh.

PART #13: THE DREAMER SLEEPS WITHOUT DREAMING

THE DREAMER SLEEPS WITHOUT DREAMING

Part XII: Coda: Benjamin J. Schreiber Writes to Dr. C

So you see, Dr. C, it's like I have these schizophrenic blue-movie skits, and sleazy hardcore videoclips, flashing through my nightmares and daydreams all of the time - night and day, and day and night. It's not like I'm making them happen. It's not like I'm writing the script. It's not like I'm the director or producer, or anything - it's more like, I'm just another spectator or bystander out there in the invisible studio audience, watching the skits and clips flash past. Or maybe I'm the invisible cameraman behind the invisible video camera, just rolling along and shooting the pictures, and watching and waiting for whatever happens next. I can't switch the channel, or change the script, or rewrite the scene, or even make the whole stupid thing just stop!

You see, Dr. C, it's like those schizophrenic blue-movie skits and sleazy hardcore videoclips just keep playing over and over again, in some kind of continuous tape-loop or endless cinematic flashback. They're stuck on instant replay, or whatever - and sometimes the same scuzzy characters show up and the same crazy scenes keep playing like it's déjà vu all over again, you know? Like there's Georgie Gust, okay? There's that Claudia Nesbitt - and there are maybe three or four other characters who keep showing up in different bodies or different egos, even though I know they're really just the same creepy people. They're the same creeps and perverts, the same suckers and chumps, the same bitches and yo-ho-hos - I already know - and they're always stuck in some kind of perpetual jilted lover's quarrel, or some self-destructive and abusive relationship. It's like they just can't get out of the same stupid trap, or get away from wherever they are - or even just make the whole world stop.

So sometimes, you know, Doc - sometimes I think that maybe they're trying to tell me something. Maybe they're sending me messages and beaming me signals through my daydreams, my fantasies, my nightmares and my wet dreams. Maybe, someday, it'll add up to some kind of message or morale or something - like in those old-time movies and old-fashioned radioplays -or, maybe, like those fairy-stories, folktales and myths. But you know, they just don't fit together; those schizophrenic blue-movie scripts and hardcore porno clips - they just don't fit together, no matter how I try to write them down, or how I try to play them out, or how I try to shuffle them and juggle them into some kind of storyline or movie-plot. And then the whole stupid thing falls apart like some jump-cut, film splice flick or cut-up videoclip that didn't really work - and it won't get taped up, or glued down, or somehow stick together again - ever. No matter what I do.

So then, you know Dr. C, the only thing I can think is that maybe the whole world is crazy, and maybe I've gone crazy too - and the whole world's getting crazier and crazier, every day, and in every way. Or like that Georgie Gust says to his shrink, somewhere in this whole crazy mess: in all his NYU undergrad, and Harvard graduate education, and all that Wakefield prep-school jazz, and all of that psychology, those humanities, that literature and art - it just makes him think how ridiculous he really is and how absurd everyone else is, too. It makes him think how the whole world is just wacko when you get right down to it. The whole world is stupid, and meaningless and empty. And then I think, well, if the whole world really is absurd, and everybody else is just as ridiculous as me, then why bother to write, or paint, or do anything? Why bother to make movies, or tell stories, or even get out of bed for that matter? Why even bother to go on living?

You know what I mean, Doc?

PART #12: THE DREAMER SLEEPS WITHOUT DREAMING

THE DREAMER SLEEPS WITHOUT DREAMING

Part XI: Epilog: The Waxworks

With Claudia Nesbitt tragically dead, the bereaved Georgie crushed, devastated, without reason to go on living decides to sink his whole inheritance into a colossal project: an enormous wax museum containing surrealistic wax-work manikins of classical heroes, and immortal figures of ancient and modern history. Georgie's secret plan is to immortalize Claudia by making her into a Greek goddess or Romanesque empress, a Byzantine queen or Hollywood sex-goddess - Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, the Venus de Milo, Marilyn of Monroe - whose statuesque sculpture, breathtakingly captured in perfectly lifelike wax, will live forever in the bemused and astonished minds of contemporary women and men.

To fulfill this rapturous fantasy and romantic dream, Georgie must find a still-living woman to serve as the perfect waxwork model for the immortal Claudia. Although he has found a highly skilled waxwork sculptor (Amos “Famous” Daedalus) whose craft in fashioning supple wax into divine human forms almost matches Claudia's perfect beauty, the sculptor cannot work without a suitable true-to-life model. And there Georgie's grandiose project and glorious dream stews and stymies for want of a second beauty to equal the one-and-only, the incomparable, the true - Claudia Nesbitt.

Strolling down the crowded city street Georgie Gust swaggers and struts through the shuffling crowds with a big lollipop stuck in his mouth. (It's a daylong sucker, and so is he. There's one born every day. And it's Georgie's day to be.)

Georgie pauses on the white concrete sidewalk to contemplate the enormous edifice (an old abandoned waterfront warehouse with smashed windows and a broken-down roof) that soon will be unveiled as:

GEORGIE GUST'S ONE-&-ONLY ORIGINAL, CLASSICAL, WAX MUSEUM!

The shuffling crowd around him has no comprehension of his grandiose project and glorious dream. They only push, shove and elbow him out of the way.

“Hey, Mac!” it sneers. “What's the matter with you?”

“You stupid or something?”

“Get out of the way, huh?”

Georgie continues to slurp his daylong sucker, oblivious to the barbarians and philistines around him.

Although he's in the same sophisticated elegant clothes as before, he's much heavier. In fact, he's become rather portly and almost fat. In Georgie Gust's perpetually bemused mind, Claudia Nesbitt is still as perfectly statuesque, as eternally beautiful, and as immortally youthful as she was in the golden days of their secret love.

A broadside poster next to the museum door shows a brightly colored, glossy picture of several wax figures. Including Claudia looking supremely beautiful - incomparably sexy, yet untouchable - in death as in life.

Crashing through the museum's workroom door, Georgie enters to find his faithful assistant, Amos, hard at work on his immortal project.

Engrossed in his sculptural work, “Famous Amos” looks up to see The Boss in a distinctly un-Georgiean state of distraction.

Stupefied, mesmerized and bemused, Georgie peers around the cluttered workroom as if he's never been here before; as if he is seeing these works of classic heroes and ancient deities for the first time.

As Georgie dawdles and gawks, Amos works among several wax figures in various stages of disfiguration and defacement, deconstruction and disrepair.

There's a sway-backed, bow-legged figure vaguely reminiscent of Roy Rogers or Gene Autry, whose cowboy-hatted head is melted making him The Wild, Wild West's greatest disfigured cowpoke or zombie-lawman.

Beside it is a conservatively dressed feminine figure, vaguely reminiscent of a very young 1960s-esq Queen Elizabeth, with a smiling face that is chipped and gouged, and makes her Great Britain's first defaced maiden-queen or living-dead monarch.

Snapping out of his stupefaction and distraction, Georgie finally pulls up a chair and sits down. He looks impatiently at his wristwatch.

“You got five minutes, Amos,” Georgie snaps. “Convince me this Hall of the Unknowns thing is the way to go. Make me believe it's the next big thing.”

Amos drops his work and wipes his hands. He shuffles his feet on the dusty floor as he hems and haws for a few minutes before answering.

“Think about it, Georgie,” Amos says. “Who really wants to see another waxwork Tom Mix?”

Georgie's eyes widen as he does a double take of the disfigured cowpoke.

“That's Roy Rogers,” he says. “I think.”

“Or a baby Queen Elizabeth the 93rd,” Amos goes on, “when they can see themselves, their family, their friends and next door neighbors captured in immortal wax?”

The cherubic Amos' face is faintly illuminated and numinously haloed by his immortal conception. But Georgie still looks unconvinced. So “Famous Amos” winds up his pitch.

“It's not just my idea, Georgie,” Amos coaxes. “It's a really old idea. It goes back to the Greeks, Romans, and the Christian Middle Ages when artists made dolls in the images of their monarchs, heirs, and their family, friends, and neighbors. It was for admirers to worship and adore - or maybe just to stick pins into. Of course, some things have changed since then and maybe some people have changed, too. But one thing doesn't change and that's the eternal human need to desecrate, defile, and downright hate whatever they once worshipped, adored, and loved.

#

“Georgie Gust's One-&-Only Original, Classic Wax Museum!!! will serve the profoundly spiritual need for the contemporary populace. The only difference is that we make our suckers and dummies perfectly lifelike, life-sized, and realistic. The better to worshiop and adore, and the better to stick pins into, too. And, of course, we charge them to see them, and we charge them to worship them, and we charge them to stick pins in them, too - or to stick pins in themselves, as the case may be.”

#

With furrowed brow and pursed lips, Georgie still looks unconvinced.

“I'm telling you, Georgie,” Amos cajoles, “it's the biggest pitch since P.T. Barnum's Three-Ring Big Top Circus! It's the biggest spiel since Jenny Lind, the Swinging Soprano Songstress! It's a surefire winner! As The Man once said, 'You'll never go broke trading on the American public's need to stick pins in celebrities.' And besides,” Amos concludes, “it really can't be any worse than what we're doing now, can it?”

Spent by his impassioned spiel, Amos swabs the seat from his brow and goes back to working on the cowboy. Abruptly, in a fit of pique and faced with Georgie's yawning indifference, he throws his tools down on the waxy floor.

“Just listen to me for a minute, Georgie! Dammit!” Amos bluffs. “Do you know how many times I've fixed this guy after someone decided to deface him?”

Georgie just shrugs and sighs.

“No, Amos. Tell me. How many times have you fixed him?”

Amos starts to count, moving his lips and using his fingers like an elementary school student learning mathematics, but finally gives up.

“A lot!” the exasperated Amos blurts out. “That's how many! And we don't even know who he is!”

Still breathing heavily, Amos pauses as he tries to keep his cool and pull himself together.

“He's just some big cowboy creep.” Amos spits out bitterly. “At least if we put in some humble, homely local people from Sheltered Cove, we'd know who they were - and so would they.”

Giving in to Amos' enthusiasm, Georgie finally laughs.

“If anybody really wants to know, huh?” Georgie scoffs. “Which I doubt.”

Famous Amos turns back toward him, sensing an opening.

“Just think of it, Georgie,” Amos wheedles. “We start small: one or two small town celebrities - just to see how it goes.”

Hesitating and cautious, Georgie thinks it over.

“And once it catches on-” Amos leaves the sentence dangling.

“I'm not sure, Amos.” Georgie is still dubious. “Maybe if we dress them up a bit. You know, give them different clothes, different noses and different heads?”

“I'm telling you, Georgie.” Amos slaps Georgie's back. “This is going to be big - really big. It's The Next Big Thing.”

Finally, Georgie nods.

“Okay, Amos. We'll give it a try,” Georgie grimly agrees. “But I'll tell you, buddie, this better work out. Because if it doesn't-”

Georgie waits to let the threat sink in.

“Your ass is waxed.”

#

The swank three-story suburban McMansion in Sheltered Cove, New Jersey, is dimly lit as it usually is. Georgie Gust is sprawled on the living room sofa drinking beer and munching junk food while his current wife, Clio, performs domestic chores in their beautiful, very modern kitchen.

Georgie is watching Jeopardy on television. A smiling Alex Trebek is waiting for a successful contestant to select another $10,000 question.

“I'll take Greek Mythology for $300, Alex.”

The sweaty contestant looks slightly nervous and on edge as his finger taps the buzzer. Alex reads the cue card:

“Hesiod referred to them as the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne.”

The invisible video camera pans across the three contestants as their faces go totally blank.

Georgie Gust blasts them with his withering scorn.

“God! What idiots!” he scoffs. “'Who are the Muses, Alex?'” he mocks.

Then suddenly, Georgie pauses.

“I used to think Clio was my muse,” he mutters. “Because of her name.”

Another pause.

“I met her at State. When was it? Back in the golden age of-”

#

A slightly more well-groomed and younger (but still awkward-looking) Georgie sits at a big wooden table. Books are strewn around him. He holds one book in front of his face, pretending to read.

Instead of reading, he's actually staring across the room at a slightly more statuesque, younger and prettier Clio, who's intently reading a book and chewing on a yellow pencil.

“Yes, that's her,” Georgie muses. “Clio, just as she was when I first fell in love with her.”

“I just loved the way she chewed on that pencil and how she left little bite marks all over it. Little love-nips. Now, Clio still chews pencils. But-”

“Now, I don't really love it all that much.”

#

At the same big wooden table in the University library, Georgie and Clio are talking. Both are smiling, laughing, and shuffling books and papers with their distracted hands.

Georgie, the campus hot shot, is practicing his technique and working his lines.

“So,” he smiles suggestively. “Your name is Clio, huh?”

The shy and demure Clio nods pettishly as she whispers, “Yes-”

Picking up the subtle cues, Georgie goes on.

“I've never met a Clio before,” he says. “Sounds like an astrological sign. Sort of.”

Clio giggles.

“Seriously, though,” the suave Georgie pushes on. “Where did you get a name like that? A Greek goddess or a household detergent, or something?”

Clio laughs awkwardly.

“My parents are Classics' scholars,” she says. “They love the Greeks.” She pauses as if she is exposing her deepest secrets.

“You think Clio is a funny name?” she says. “You should meet my brother. They named him Hermes.”

Georgie clucks sympathetically.

“I bet the other kids gave him hell on the playground.”

Clio nods, looking dreamily away.

“They still do.”

#

Georgie is still sitting on the overstuffed couch, still staring at Jeopardy on the enormous, 205-inch TV screen.

Slamming the door to the three-car garage, Clio walks in carrying bags of groceries.

“Georgie? Are you busy?” she calls. “Could you give me a hand, please?”

Sluggishly, Georgie gets up from the couch.

Glancing at the TV, Clio notices that Georgie is watching Jeopardy.

“Georgie?” she clucks critically. “You're watching Jeopardy, again?”

Shrugging off Clio's tone, Georgie takes the bulging shopping bags from her.

“This is a new one, honey. Not a re-run.” Georgie keeps watching the TV set behind Clio's back. “They ran the 'Greek Mythology' category again.”

Clio ignores Georgie's excuses.

“There are more groceries in the car,” she says, “if you can tear yourself away from the TV.”

Georgie grabs a couple of grocery bags and follows Clio into the kitchen.

“Sure thing, honey,” Georgie says. “Glad to help out.”

Clio is still slightly peevish.

“It's just-” she pauses. “I thought you knew Mom and Dad were coming over. I thought you'd be cleaning and tidying up. Whatever.”

Georgie sets the grocery bags on the counter. He doesn't react to Clio's innuendoes. Clio pushes her point.

“You did remember, didn't you?” she asks.

Georgie walks out of the kitchen.

“I don't understand why they're always over here,” he mutters. “Your mom and dad, I mean.”

Clio snaps back.

“They're not always over here, Georgie,” she says. “You're exaggerating again.”

“What is it?” Georgie mocks. “They can't afford to feed themselves? Is that it?”

Clio's takes up the defense.

“They're old,” she says quietly, “and frail.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Georgie concedes. “But they can sure pack in the groceries, huh?”

“Georgie.” Clio warns, “They're my parents.”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, honey.” Georgie sighs. “I'll try to be good.”

Later that evening Georgie, Clio and her parents, and June and Leopold, are sitting around at the big wooden dining room table that is piled high with food.

Clio's parents are old, yeah - but t   hey sure are not frail. In many ways they look stronger, huskier, and healthier than Georgie who's looking a little peaked.

Clio's father, Leopold, is a stocky and muscular specimen. While Georgie watches Leopold stuff fried chicken and potato salad down his gullet, he checks out Leopold's stylish “No Whining” T-shirt and tattered designer jeans.

Clio's mother, June, is a stringy and vegan-thin woman with long, unkempt, gray hair and no make-up. She wears only natural fibers and picks at a full plate of food.

“Clio, honey?” she asks “Is this chicken free-range?”

Catching Clio's eye, Georgie raises an eyebrow. Clio ignores him.

Suspiciously, Clio's mother puts a tiny forkful of food in her mouth and chews tentatively, like she's afraid the chicken will bite back. Meanwhile, Leopold is eating heartily.

“Georgie boy!” he booms out. “How's that shop of yours coming along, GW?”

Clio rolls her eyes.

“It's a wax museum, Daddy,” she says. “I told you.”

Leopold shrugs and waves his hands.

“Sweat shop, wax museum,” he gripes. “Same thing.”

Georgie wants to impress Leopold. “We're expanding,” he says calmly, glancing at his father-in-law's waist.

Clio rolls her eyes. “Don't call him GW, Daddy,” she scolds. “His name is Georgie. I told you.”

Leopold shrugs and waves his hands again.

“Georgie, Porgie, Pudding and Pie,” he says. “Georgie, GP, GW -same thing.”

Across from Leopold, Clio's mother reaches her skinny fingers into her mouth and plucks out some half-chewed chicken. She smiles apologetically, but Clio is not amused.

“Mother!” Clio tsks.

Leopold ignores them both.

“You don't mind if I call you GW, do you?” he asks Georgie.

June blurts out-“I'm sorry,” she says. “But you know I eat only free-range.”

Georgie, ignoring Leopold, butts in:

“And organic,” he observes drolly.

Smug and self-satisfied, June beams back at Georgie.

“See? See?” she says to Clio. “Your husband remembers.”

Meanwhile, Leopold continues to pester Georgie.

“What kind of money are you making, now” he asks tactfully, “that you can afford to expand?”

Clio rolls her eyes again.

“Dad-dy,” she whines.

Leopold brushes her off.

“He doesn't mind,” he says.

He playfully punches Georgie's shoulder.

“Do you, GW?” he says.

#

After the Great Free-Range Chicken Dinner Massacre is over, Clio washes a sinkful of dirty dishes while Georgie dries.

“That wasn't so bad,” Clio casually observes. “Was it?”

“Compared to what?” Georgie asks incredulously. “World War II? The Battle of the Bulge?”

“Hon-ney!” Clio sing-songs. “It really wasn't.”

Georgie finishes drying a big stack of dinner plates and hangs the damp towel on the refrigerator door handle. Clio nervously observes, watching and waiting.

Finally, she bursts out:

“Well say something, Georgie! Don't just stand there.”

“You feel like taking a walk?” Georgie asks.

Clio frowns and shakes her head vigorously. “No!”

Shrugging her off, Georgie walks out of the kitchen. He rummages through the cluttered hall closet for his summer weightjacket, slips it on, and shuts the front door on his way out.

Slightly distracted, shoulders stooped in his thin jacket, Georgie walks past the brightly lit and bustling Tully's Diner. Through the big plated-glass windows he notices Claudia, the waitress, flirting with the customers in her short skirt and low-cut blouse.

Bemused, he stares at her.

#

As before, “Famous Amos” works amidst the clutter and ruin of the workroom.

This time, however, the workroom is even more cluttered than usual. There are several bulletin boards and a display board, each filled with bristling clippings of black and white photographs from the local “Sheltered Cove” newspapers: The Sheltered Cove Sentinel, The Sheltered Cove Gazette, and The Sheltered Cove Observer.

In the newspapers, there is an array of pictures of the swarthy and handsome, young Mayor Greene and the whole Sheltered Cove Police Department in full dress uniform. Also, the Sheltered Cove Fire Department in partial undress, with trucks and hoses, and the Sheltered Cove Elementary School complete with the principal, teachers, and students.

Of course, there's a picture of the frizzy-haired, hipshot Claudia in a white cap and waitress-skirt, working at Tully's. She's smiling and laughing as she carries an enormous tray full of heaping plates.

Behind his big wooden desk, Georgie shuffles through piled stacks of mail. Despite his well-dressed and elegant demeanor, he looks worried.

(We know just what he's worried about. Don't we?)

#

In the white-carpeted living room of Georgie and Clio Gust's white-pillared, classical and elegant McMansion in Sheltered Cove, New Jersey, Clio works at her computer. She's talking on the phone and laughing all the while.

The big white wooden front door swings open and Georgie walks in as he slams the door behind him. He briskly strides into the living room, still looking distracted and worried.

A guilty expression flashes over Clio's face. She hurriedly hangs up the phone and smiles weakly at Georgie.

“You're home early,” she says.

Without looking at Clio, Georgie glances at his watch. He shrugs as if he hadn't even noticed the time. Clio notices his furrowed brow.

“Anything wrong?” she asks.

Georgie doesn't answer.

#

Two hours later, Georgie slouches on the overstuffed couch and stares blankly at the TV.

Swishily and silently, Clio dressed in a black silk evening dress sweeps into the room.

Abruptly shaken out of his distraction and worry, Georgie looks up and whistles.

“Woo-woo! Clio!” he says. “Aren't you fancy?”

Like a classic ballerina, Clio swirls and twirls before Georgie's eyes, then finally whirls to a stop in a perfectly poised relevé.

“You like it?” she whispers. “It's for you.”

Georgie beams.

“You look terrific, honey!” he says. “What's the occasion?”

Clio blushes.

“No occasion,” she murmurs. “Just a night out with the girls. That's all.”

A shadow seems to pass across Clio's face, but Georgie is too amused to notice.

“Looks like quite a night!” he blurts. “Where are you girls going?”

Defensively, Clio feigns hurt at Georgie's distrust.

“I don't ask you where you're going when you go out.”

Georgie holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“Just making conversation, Clio,” he says. “Nothing to get upset about.”

Clio smiles.

“I know. I know,” she says. “I just feel a little guilty, maybe. That's all, you know. Just getting out with the girls. It's been a while.”

She heads towards the door.

“Are you going to be out late?” Georgie asks.

She turns back, looking annoyed again.

“I don't ask you-” she starts to say, and then leaves the sentence dangling.

“I know, I know,” Georgie repeats mockingly. “You don't ask me when I'm getting home.”

She stares at him, still looking annoyed.

“Should I wait up?” Georgie asks.

“No.” Clio answers. “Don't wait up.”

After a microwave dinner on the couch, Georgie walks past Tully's Diner. Through the big, plated glass window he glances into the white-lit and busy restaurant. In her white waitress-cap, low-cut blouse, and short skirt, Claudia is laughing.

Shivering slightly in his thin jacket, Georgie stares longingly at her.

That night in the white and red canopy bed, Georgie is fast asleep.

Still wearing her black silk evening dress, Clio tiptoes into the white-carpeted bedroom and undresses silently. She slips into bed beside him and rests her head on his chest.

#

Amos Daedalus sits at his workbench cradling the disembodied head of a statuesque wax figure on his lap, as he carefully positions a platinum blonde wig on the bald pâté.

There are noises at the warehouse door as if somebody was trying to open it, but the door is stuck shut.

“Famous Amos” looks up just as the big wooden door crashes open and Georgie flies into the room.

Amos, amused, watches Georgie slowly pick himself up off the floor.

“Jesus, Georgie,” he says. “You about gave me a fucking heart attack, you know?”

Georgie carefully brushes off his stylish clothes, trying to look dignified.

“I just stopped by for a minute,” he says, looking at his watch. “I just thought I'd see how The Hall of the Unknowns is going.”

Without getting up, Amos turns the platinum-wigged and waxen head on his lap toward Georgie. It is a generic manikin's head - it could be anybody.

Seeing Amos' expectant look, Georgie reacts with befuddlement and confusion.

“It's Claudia,” Amos says.

Georgie does a comic double take.

“Claudia?” he says doubtfully. “You mean - from Tully's Diner? That Claudia?”

Seeing Georgie's scornful look, Amos reacts with defensiveness and hurt.

“She's not done yet.” he whines. “I still have to get the nose correct.”

In Claudia's presence Georgie is more calm and quiet than usual.

“But Amos,” he says gently. “It doesn't look anything like her.”

Dashed, downcast and defeated Amos still faces up to Georgie's criticism.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Maybe it doesn't right now. But it will. I swear to God it will.”

“Yeah?” Georgie says. “You swear?”

Amos' lip quivers slightly. He nods.

Georgie holds out his hand.

“Okay, Amos,” he says. “Give her to me.”

Cradling the waxen bust in his strong hands, Georgie carefully examines the manikin's head.

“This isn't Claudia,” he says. “Claudia has those fiery green eyes, that frizzy red hair, and an unusual bone structure. Those perfectly sculpted-”

Georgie leaves the sentence dangling.

Slowly and thoughtfully he gives the platinum-wigged, waxen head back to Amos. Amos takes the false Claudia by the hair and holds her up like Persius with a laughing Medusa.

“So, Amos. Where did you get this bogus Claudia?” Georgie asks. “Did she ever even model for you?”

Slightly embarrassed, Amos shakes his head.

Georgie is baffled.

“Then how did you ever get this Claudia?”

Amos points to the newspaper pictures tacked to the bulletin board.

Striding over to the nearest bulletin board Georgie looks over the clipped-out newspaper pictures. He finally pulls the black and white photograph of Claudia, the waitress, off the board.

“Jeez, Amos!” he scoffs. “No wonder! This doesn't look a thing like her, either.”

With his bare hands Georgie rips up the false image of Claudia Nesbitt and disdainfully hands the shredded picture back to Amos.

“You'll never capture the true Claudia that way, Amos,” he says. “You need to get her to sit for you.”

Amos only scuffles his feet and shakes his head.

“No. Huh-uh. No way.” he says. “That modeling thing never works. Not with waxworks. Not for me. I'm telling you Georgie, models, when they're not professional, always move - and when the model moves, the wax melts.”

Georgie ponders this profound artistic truism for several minutes before responding.

“Well then, Amos,” he finally says. “If she won't sit still for you, you can at least take her picture. Close up. As close as you can get.”

Pulling away suddenly, Amos shudders, like maybe he's afraid to get too close to his work.

“Georgie, man!” he says. “I'm an artist! Not some kind of trick photographer!”

Georgie flashes Amos a withering look.

“Amos,” he says calmly. “You promised me. You swore to me.”

Before Georgie can finish his sentence, Amos cuts him off.

“Okay, okay,” he says, “I'll take her fucking picture.”

#

Sometime later, Georgie Gust leaves The One-&-Only Original, Classical Wax Museum!!! His faithful, loyal, and trusted accountant, Richard, is with him.

At the doorway they talk confidentially and repeatedly nod to each other. Finally, they shake hands and then go their separate ways.

Georgie locks the big wooden door with one of many keys on his giant keyring.

In the bustling and crowded Tully's Diner, Georgie and Clio sit at an intimate table in the farthest corner of the restaurant. Empty plates and half-full glasses of soda litter the small table.

They're in the middle of a difficult conversation. Clio's grilling Georgie about Georgie Gust's One-&-Only Original, Classical Wax Museum!!!

“But, Georgie. Really,” she protests. “How is this wax museum ever going to make money?”

“Clio, honey,” Georgie soothes her, “can't you at least listen to me?”

Clio feigns a long-suffering patience.

“I am, Georgie,” she says. “But-”

Without paying the slightest attention to their petty spat, Claudia the waitress sidles over. Imperturbably, she starts clearing their plates.

“How you kids doing?” she asks, offhandedly. “Want anything else?”

Trying to put on a false face, Clio smiles grimly. She gently kicks Georgie under the table.

Georgie takes the hint.

“Just the check,” he says.

Claudia, of course, pretends to not notice the ill feeling that surrounds their table like a foul stench.

“You got it,” is all she says.

She rips the check from the pad and smiles at Georgie.

“Thanks for coming in,” she says. “Come back and see us, okay?”

Distractedly, Georgie watches Claudia sashay off as she swishes her hips.

Clio watches Georgie's eyes. After a terse silence, she finally bursts out:

“You know, Georgie, I have never liked that waitress.”

Still distracted, Georgie stares at the check.

“Huh? What?” he says. “Why not? What's wrong with her?”

Clio sniffs.

“Well,” she says, “she's cheap, for one thing.”

Still staring at the check, Georgie doesn't respond.

Clio tries to break Georgie out of Claudia's spell.

“Well, Georgie,” she sniffs. “Did she at least get the check right?”

Without looking up, Georgie says, “Hmmm?”

The bottom of the check reads:

Your Server: #9.

Claudia Nesbitt.

#

Later that week, Georgie and Clio Gust are sitting at the same intimate table at Tully's Diner - it's honestly just a poorly lit table off in a dark corner.  Of course, they're having the same secretive, festering and seething marital difficulties that they both stubbornly, and futilely, pretend to ignore.

In the dismal illumination, they begin to peruse the oversized sticky-looking menus. As they sit brooding silently behind their menus, Claudia the waitress sidles over and stands waiting with her pencil and order pad in hand.

Behind his sticky menu, Georgie smiles shyly up at her.

Behind her greasy menu, Clio looks disenchanted, peevish and bored. She notices Georgie's infatuation with Claudia and she's obviously not amused.

Claudia is serenely wrapped in her distant beauty, with her white waitress-cap, and her shocking red hair sticking out in every direction like a frizzy halo.

“Morning, afternoon or evening, folks,” she wisecracks. “We serve breakfast anytime at Tully's Diner. So, what would you like to drink? Coffee? Tea? Soda? Postum?”

Clio tries to smiles at Georgie through his sticky menu, with no success. She glances sideways at Claudia as she orders.

“Iced tea for me,” Clio says. “Do you have herbal?”

Claudia smirks and smacks her Juicy Fruit.

“Sorry, hon,” she says. “Nothing but Lipton's. And no decaf, either.”

Clio frowns slightly. “Well, then,” she says. “How about lemonade?”

Claudia, scratching her head with her pencil, doesn't answer. Instead, she turns to Georgie.

Basking in Claudia's beauty, Georgie's quick to speak.

“I'll have a chocolate malted.”

Georgie puts down his menu and briefly turns to Clio.

“Clio?” he says, not meeting her eyes.

The conspiratorial silence and sexual buzz between Claudia and Georgie is undeniable, palpable. From her dark corner, Clio mutters annoyed, martyred.

“Just water.”

“Okay,” Claudia says. “One chocolate malted and one water, coming up!”

Swinging her hips, Claudia starts to walk away.

Before she's out of earshot, Clio calls out: “With lemon.”

Although she obviously catches Clio's order, Claudia doesn't turn around. She just waves a hand in acknowledgment.

“You got it,” she says, still not looking back.

Clio, disgusted, shakes her head.

Georgie picks up Clio's disgust but doesn't admit it. Instead, he changes the subject.

“So,” Georgie still won't meet Clio's eyes, “how's that promotion going, honey?”

Clio reels back as if Georgie has slapped her.

“Georgie! It's not a promotion!” she snaps. “You know I work for myself, right?”

Georgie's indifferent, unperturbed: “I know that, Clio,” he says calmly.

Clio rolls her eyes in exasperation.

Georgie recognizes the familiar gesture and backs off slightly. “Okay, Clio,” Georgie says. “How about we start again? I say I'm sorry. You say that you forgive me, and then we'll be even. Okay?”

Clio, in a huff, says nothing.

“Please, Clio,” Georgie pleads.

Georgie obviously doesn't want to be embarrassed before Claudia - but Clio wants to make him squirm.

There is a long silence. Finally, Clio breaks down.

“It's all right, Georgie,” she says in her martyred voice. “I don't mind. You can't even keep track of what I do or who I am. Really, I don't mind if you ignore me. You'd rather pay attention to that - that-!”

Claudia swishes back. She swings her waitress tray casually in front of their faces as she sets the chocolate malted in front of Georgie. Then she puts a sweaty glass of ice water, without lemon, in front of Clio.

Clio, of course, can't help but notice. Still, she says nothing. Claudia sashays away again, serenely indifferent.

Clio fumes.

“It figures,” she says. “I just knew she'd do that.”

Georgie looks quizzical as if he hadn't noticed.

“The lemon?” Clio says. “Really, I just knew she'd forget.”

Georgie feigns concern: “Well, so what honey?” he says. “Why didn't you say something?”

Clio sniffs.

“It doesn't matter.”

Pretending to want to make the evening with Clio work, Georgie tries one more time.

“Okay, Clio,” he says. “Just tell me about the big account you landed today, then.” He pauses. “Please?” he says.

While Georgie and Clio are still snorting and sniffing at each other, Claudia comes swishing back carrying a small bowl of lemon slices. She makes a dramatizing display of setting the bowl in front of Clio.

“Silly me!” she singsongs in a sweet musical voice, “I forgot.”

Clio accepts the offered bowl petulantly and ungratefully.

“Oh, thanks so much!” she says, dripping sarcasm.

Naturally, Claudia is sublimely indifferent and coolly distant.

“You two ready to order?” she asks.

Frowning and pursing her lips, Clio rolls her eyes and picks up the menu.

Behind his menu Georgie smiles at the imperturbable Claudia.

Claudia pretends not to notice.

Several hours later, Clio and Georgie sit in the half-empty diner at the same small table in their dismal, poorly lit corner. They're subdued, restrained, but obviously still fighting. Plates of untouched food sit on the table between them. The crushed ice has melted in Clio's glass.

“I just don't understand, Georgie,” Clio continues, “why you never remember anything I say. I told you weeks ago about the Times account and how, if I got it, I'd be copyeditor for this entire area. Not just Sheltered Cove but the whole greater metropolitan area, too. The entire northern part of the state! You still just don't give a damn!”

Georgie feigns interest most unsuccessfully. “I remembered,” he says. “I took you out to dinner to celebrate. Didn't I?”

Clio stares at the ceiling. She's frustrated, unhappy, and angry.

While scattered customers slouch toward the checkout counter Claudia swishes over to Georgie and Clio to see if they're ready for the check.

“Okay,” she says. “That's two meatloaf specials with succotash and gravy and a small desert bowl. Can I get you kids anything else?”

Perking up in Claudia's presence, Georgie smiles and shakes his head. Clio turns her face away as she tries to snub the imperturbable Claudia.

Claudia simply drops the check on the table and walks away.

Frustrated, exasperated and fed up, Clio jumps to her feet.

“That's it, Georgie! I'm walking home,” she says. “I'll see you when you get home. If you get home.”

As Clio huffs out, Georgie sits silently and watches her leave for several long seconds. When Clio sweeps through the big glass door, Claudia swings back toward the dark corner table. He takes out his wallet and pays her with a $50 dollar bill.

“You can keep the change,” he says. “I'll see you next time.”

But Georgie doesn't get up to leave - and Claudia hangs around.

“She's some lady, huh?” she says, jerking her frizzy redhead toward the swinging glass door. “Is she your wife?”

Georgie nods.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he says. “At least, we've been married seven years.”

“Well, you know, Mister,” Claudia says, “forgive me for saying so, but she seems a little - harsh, maybe?”

Georgie shyly glances up at the statuesque and beautified Claudia. His slightly haggard and unshaven face is a curious mixture of gratitude and guilt.

“Yeah,” he says. “That's my wife, all right.”

Claudia smirks sympathetically.

Later that night in their enormous master bedroom, Georgie and Clio lay in bed. Clio is sleeping and snoring softly with her bristly back turned. Georgie is still wide-awake as he stares at the ceiling.

The silently screaming clock on the nightstand says: 3:10 AM.

Georgie lies there and fantasizes.

At Georgie Gust's One-&-Only Original, Classical Wax Museum!!! Georgie sits on the cluttered workbench, bemused and entranced as he stares at the statuesque waxen head of Claudia the Waitress. The whole workroom is dimly and sadly suffused with a sepulchral green twilight. The manikins, even Claudia the Waitress, look slightly ghoulish.

Georgie stares at Claudia - at her pallid and waxen face. Then he turns his own face toward her and smiles.

For a brief and fleeting second he almost believes she is smiling back.

For a few seconds more he stares at her shapely, waxen breasts. Then, blushing deeply, he averts his eyes.

#

A slightly slimmer, younger and more handsome Georgie, nattily dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and flashy tie, walks by Tully's Diner. He impulsively walks over to the big plated glass windows and peers in.

Claudia the waitress dances from table to table, breezily taking orders and flinging down full, heaping plates of steamy cheeseburgers and drooling meatloaf specials before the smiling, laughing customers. She's still sporting her white waitress-cap and frizzy red hair, but she's exchanged her ordinary, humdrum waitress uniform for a breathtakingly sexy, belly-dancing costume.

For a few minutes, Georgie simply watches her and laughs. He then suavely glides over to the swinging door, throws it open and steps inside.

The whole diner sparkles and flashes. Soft music plays in the background. Glasses clink. Customers eat and drink and laugh merrily.

Wanting to join the crowd, Georgie sits down at a spotless table with white linen tablecloth, crystal wineglasses, and sterling silverware.

Without missing a beat in her swirling, dancing waitress routine, Claudia swoops over to him. She sets down an elegantly upholstered menu with a monogrammed leather cover embossed in gold letters. Then she stands transfixed in the brilliant white fluorescent lights awaiting his order.

“What'll it be, Mister?” she asks in a scintillating and golden voice. “Cheeseburger and fries? Possibly the meatloaf special?”

“You're beautiful,” Georgie says.

“I know,” Claudia beams back. “That's what all the guys say.”

“You're immortal,” Georgie adds. “You're divine.”

“Yeah, that's right.” Claudia chews her Juicyfruit gum. “I wouldn't have it any other way. So, what are you having?”

With his sophisticated, debonair, playboy manner, and irresistibly sexy smile, Georgie winks and says, “You.”

Claudia the waitress laughs melodiously.

After a brief epiphany Georgie drops his sophisticated, playboy manner and suave style, as steps back into some version of reality.

“Just kidding, my pet,” he says. “Bring me the usual.”

Claudia the waitress smiles knowingly.

“The usual, huh?” she says. “You mean, The Works?”

Georgie smiles back.

Immediately, Claudia swirls, twirls, pirouettes, and dances balleretically away. She reappears instantly with a silver platter filled with an assortment of gourmet foods and wine - foie gras, escargot, and exotic cheeses. Claudia hovers over him and feeds him bits and morsels of tasty delicacies - harem girl-style. Georgie swoons back in his chair and starts eating voluptuously.

Somewhere outside this brilliantly glittering soap bubble of seductive and sybaritic fantasy, somebody sneezes and sniffles with post-nasal drip. The boorish, anonymous somebody sneezes and sniffles again.

Snapping out of his self-hypnotic fantasy, Georgie scowls, frowns and harumphs.

The sophisticated andelegant restaurant immediately fades away.

#

Now, Georgie, in shabby overcoat and scroungy ragged pants, is standing on the scruffy sidewalk in front of Tully's Diner.

A decrepit old homeless man stands next to him sneezing, sniffling and wiping his nose on the empty sleeve of an old ragged coat.

#

In Georgie Gust's One-&-Only Original, Classical Wax Musuem!!! Georgie is, as usual, hard at work as he gets ready for the Spectaular Grand Opening Celebration and Gala Wax-Warming!  that is scheduled for just few weeks away.

He sits at the workbench holding a headless Claudia the Waitress in his arms. The white fluorescent lighting is perfect - the strikingly lifelike manikins appear to pulse and glow.

Holding Claudia in his arms, Georgie can't take his eyes off of her breasts - her perfect, inviting and delectable breasts.

But then Georgie looks up at where her perfectly sculpted head should be. There's nothing there.

Quietly, Georgie mutters to himself:

“No head.”

Suddenly, and with a horrendous crashing sound, Amos breaks through the front door and falls face first onto the workroom floor.

With Amos' unexpected entry, Georgie is rudely shaken out of his worshipful reverie.

“What the fuck, man?!” he shouts. “Didn't I tell you? Always knock first!”

From the dusty workshop floor, Amos looks up at Georgie and slowly gets up.

“Huh? Georgie?” he spits out, still somewhat confused. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

Amos spies Claudia Nesbitt on Georgie's lap.

“And with Claudia the Waitress, too, huh?”

Georgie sets the statuesque and headless Claudia-manikin down and glares at Amos. But he's still too stunned and embarrassed to come up with a quick comeback. Amos takes advantage of Georgie's silence to make up.

“Hey, man,” he says. “I'm sorry if I scared you. I've been having a problem with that freaking lock all day.”

Finally getting his bravado back, Georgie blurts out: “So you just break the fucking door down?”

As Sheltered Cove's greatest wax sculptor, Amos isn't famous for thinking fast on his feet.

“Well,” he says. “Yeah.”

Amos deftly maneuvers the conversation away from the broken door and nods at the manikin in Georgie's arms.

“What do you think of her?” he asks Georgie. “She doesn't have a head yet, but I'm working on it. I'm working her head and I'm going to make it purr-fect.”

Georgie is caught off guard by Amos' quick-change act.

“Perfect?” he asks. “How?”

“What do you mean, how?” Amos parries. “I'll tell you, Georgie.”

“I mean,” Georgie counters, “do you have a picture of Claudia or something? Or maybe-” he shudders, “a death mask?”

Amos scoffs.

“What you talking about?” he snorts. “Picture? I don't need a picture!”

Amos gestures at Claudia the Waitress.

“How can you forget a face like that?” he asks.

Still slightly off guard, Georgie looks at the defaced and headless figure, then back at Amos.

“Like what? Like this?” he snorts. “This Claudia doesn't even have a face!”

Still Amos keeps up his bluff. “Shucks, Georgie,” he scoffs again. “I remember what she looks like.”

“Okay then, Amos,” Georgie smirks. “If you remember Claudia Nesbitt so well, then what color eyes does the woman have, huh?”

Still, Amos tries to fake Georgie out.

“Blonde hair, blue eyes,” he says. “All blondies have blue eyes, you know?”

Georgie stares at Amos until the embarrassed sculpter drops his gaze.

“Yeah. That's what I thought.” It's Georgie's turn to scoff. “You need a photo of Claudia to work from, or else-”

But before Georgie can make any other stellar suggestions, Amos cuts him off.

“Fine, man! I'll work from a photograph!” he blurts out. “So hook me up with a photo!”

“Me?!?!” Georgie sputters, caught off guard by the unexpected twist.

“Yeah, you!”

(Who else?)

#

The stylish and elegant Georgie walks past Tully's Diner and glances inside. He stops when he sees Claudia swooping gracefully from table to table.

She seems even prettier than Georgie remembers - even prettier than he fantasizes and dreams about. He stands there for several seconds just staring at her.

#

In still another version of this obsessively repeated scene, Georgie walks past Tully's Diner and abruptly stops.

It is the evening hour between late lunch and early dinner specials. He spots Claudia the Waitress sitting at the counter alone. From the inside pocket of his blue pinstripe suit he removes his camera phone.

He just keeps staring at Claudia until, as if sensing his presence (his breath, his eyes, his voice), she slowly turns.

Georgie pretends to talk on the phone. There's a silent click.

Claudia instinctively sneezes.

Geirgie ducks his head and walks away.

#

In still another repetition of this obsessively repeated scene (Is it a nightmare? Obsession? Psychosis?) Georgie walks past Tully's Diner and abruptly stops.

There's no Claudia there.

Georgie keeps walking.

In still another repetition of this obsessive scene (All right already! We get the picture!), Georgie walks past Tully's Diner and abruptly stops.

He scans the smiling and laughing crowds and the hustling, bustling waitresses for a long time. Finally, he sees Claudia waiting on tables as she smiles and laughs with some regular customers. In a split-second flash Georgie aims the camera-phone through the big plated glass window and shoots his masterpiece.

Swept up in his obsession, he continues to stare at Claudia with a strange mixture of desire and repulsion. He's torn between the obsessive drive to flee immediately and the intensely consuming desire to fling himself at her feet.

Finally, he walks over to the big glass, swinging door.

The door swings open. Satisfied customers exit.

Bemused, consumed and dazed, Georgie flees.

#

Amidst the wreckage and rubble of his cluttered sculptor's workshop, Amos unveils the completed Claudia figure.

Georgie does a tragic double take. He's immediately stunned, shocked and horrified.

“Famous Amos'” Daedalus', statuesque and waxen effigy of Claudia the Waitress looks like she's about to sneeze.

Georgie is appalled, aghast and disgusted.

“What the fuck!” he bellows. “She looks like she's about to sneeze!”

“Famous Amos” sighs and shrugs.

“Yeah, well,” he says, “it's realistic. You snapped the pictures and I gave it my best shot. You should have taken more photos and maybe I'd get her, like, you know - smiling or something.”

Georgie struggles not to snarl and leap at Amos' throat.

“Amos. Listen,” he says. “We don't have enough money to be-”

But before Georgie starts screaming, Amos cuts him off.

“To be what?” he scoffs. “Craftsmanlike? Artistic? Aesthetic, maybe?”

“To be fucking around, Amos!” Georgie screams.

Amos only snorts.

“Fucking around?” He sniffs. “Freaking fucking around?!” He repeats, “Who? Me? You brought me the world's shittiest photograph to work from, Georgie, first of all. Like maybe you took it through a big plated glass windowg or something! And then you didn't-”

“I didn't what?” Georgie snaps. “What didn't I do, Amos?”

Amos slacks off slightly.

“You didn't ask her, that's what!” he scoffs. “Like, you didn't have the freaking balls to ask her to even model, pose or vogue, or whatever. Or- or- or, even fucking smile, Georgie! I mean, fuck, man!”

Now it's Georgie's turn to cut Amos off.

“Fuck that, Amos!” he shouts. “Fuck this, man! Fuck that, man! Fuck - fuck you, man!”

Taking a wild swing, Georgie kicks some junk on the cluttered floor. He's obviously losing it. A waxen head imbeds itself on his pointy-toed shoe.

Amos shakes his head in disbelief.

Georgie tries to shake off the disfigured head.

There's a long and stupefied silence.

Finally, Georgie sputters:

“J-j-just - fuck it, Amos.”

Amos pats him on the back and smiles sympathetically.

“Don't worry, Georgie,” he says. “I'll work it out, man.”

The disfigured head falls off Georgie's foot; Georgie stops sputtering.

Amos smiles sardonically.

“And, Georgie-?” he says

“What?!” Georgie shouts.

“Sorry, man.”

#

Several days later, nothing has really changed. Georgie is still standing next to the cluttered workbench. The white fluorescent lighting is dim, slightly garish and slightly ghoulish.

The statuesque sculpture of Claudia the Waitress seems vaguely greenish, slightly cheesy, and maybe half dead (or half alive?). Her white-toothed, half open mouth looks harsh and biting. Her glittering green eyes are cold and hard.

Somewhere between nightmare and dream Georgie hears Claudia (What Claudia? Which Claudia?) call to him in a soft, seductive, and siren-like whisper.

“Photograph me, Georgie,” she whispers. “Picture me. Print me. Capture me and keep me in your memory. I just love, love, lo-ove pictures. Take more pictures of me. Please, please, please, Georgie-boo-boo! I can never get enough pictures of me! More, more, more pictures.”

Snapping out of his reverie, Georgie slowly exhales. He holds his hand to his heart with a slight shiver like he's having a coronary - or something.

Georgie Gust is not a profoundly religious man, usually - but at this moment he crosses himself and whispers:

“Jesus. Jesus freaking Christ.”

He shakes his head as he walks out of the workshop and leaves behind only silence, darkness, and the faintly creepy sound of slowly melting wax. In the stifling gloom, black mascara runs like black tears down Claudia the Waitress' perfectly waxen face.

In the black asphalt parking lot outside, Georgie finds his piece of crap Toyota Tercel parked in the white semi-circle of the silent streetlights. As he reaches in his pocket he drops his car-keys and, bending to pick them up, discovers a large piece of red linen slowly floating down to the black asphalt parking lot.

Bemusedly, he picks up the scrap of linen and the slowly picks up the keys.

Indecisively, he casts a furtive look back at the brooding and silent building. Then he looks back at his jingling car-keys.

He thinks about going back in.

Then he thinks about his car keys.

Back and forth, and back and forth.

Until, finally - in the sweaty waxwork workshop, Georgie stands next to the cluttered workbench. The white fluorescent lighting is soft and slightly pink. He is alone with the sculptured manikins of “The Hall of the Unknowns,” and especially with the statuesque-figure of Claudia the Waitress.

With a sweeping and magisterial gesture, he pastes the frizzy red cloth from the black asphalt parking lot back where it obviously belongs - on Claudia the Waitress' pubic patch.

Georgie catches his breath. Claudia Nesbitt stands in front of him. She's perfectly beautiful and perfectly naked - all women and all woman. Her perfectly pursed red lips seem moist and damp - almost kissable, almost edible. They're slightly parted revealing the tiny gap between her two front teeth.

Her perfectly smooth and supple skin is flawless, lifelike and dewy, as if the perfectly sculpted wax had in fact become immortal flesh - or maybe something more than flesh. Her superbly sculpted breasts are plump, firm and round, and her nipples are erect. They long to be stroked, touched - suckled.

For several eternities, Georgie, Pygmalion-like, feasts his eyes on this immortal creation. This perfectly beautiful woman - this woman without flaw and without sin: Claudia the Waitress. Claudia Nesbitt. The one and only, the eternal - she is the immortal.

Finally, Georgie drops his eyes again to her frizzy red pubic patch - so silky, so full, so almost kissable - almost edible. The clump of frizzy red hair falls off again.

Georgie starts to snicker and snort. He finally laughs out loud.

“I always fall for dames who don't have their shit together,” he sputters as he addresses the manikin. “You know what, baby? You really have to get yourself together.”

Georgie laughs uproariously at his own joke.

#

Later on, “Famous Amos” is busily working on Claudia the Waitress manikin. He's sculpting and molding her statuesque body just after having removed her disembodied and defaced head.

As for Claudia (whatever Claudia, whichever Claudia, whoever Claudia might be), Claudia is still headless. The patch of pubic hair falls off once again.

Amos snickers and mumbles to himself (or to whatever Claudia he worships), “Ah, fuck, man - come on now, baby-don't be so bitchy.” He casts a cold eye where Claudia's head would be if she had one.

“Claudia!” he screams. “Quit dropping your tangles or I'll get the idea that you want to be waxed!” Like Georgie, Amos laughs uproariously at his own joke.

“Ha ha ha, he he,” he chortles. “Get it? Waxed. Down there, I mean.”

Getting up off his knees, Amos stands with the frizzy pubic-hair in his hand.

Also like Georgie, Amos' bad humor sometimes runs to the obscene - the scatological.

“All right, Claudia baby,” he darkly threatens. “I have to go to the bathroom now while nobody is looking. So, why don't you just turn your head away?”

Amos takes another look at Claudia the Waitress and starts chortling uproariously again. Then he drops to his knees to remove a few frizzy shreds of Claudia's leftover pubic hair. It's not exactly clear what he's doing. Maybe he's just twitching around.

Whatever he's doing gives him some enormous sense of satisfaction.

“There ya go, Claudia, honey,” he nods. “You're officially in modern times now, baby.”

As Amos enters the bathroom he stares blankly towards the workroom and whispers:

“Boy, when you gotta go, you gotta go, huh?”

After his business, Amos holds Claudia the Waitress' disfigured and eyeless head in his lap while he strings her frizzy red hair in the sweaty workshop. He painstakingly dresses the decapitated manikin in her white and red waitress uniform. Fussily, he leaves the top buttons undone just a bit to show just a slight hint of cleavage.

He puts the perfectly coiffed and smiling head on the impeccably dressed body and stands back to admire his handiwork. She looks almost too perfect. Yet, somehow, less inspired than the real thing.

“Famous Amos” glances over at the 8x10" brightly colored and glossy pinup calendar on the wall and rips a statuesque page off the frontispiece.

Only four days until opening.

At Georgie Gust's One-&-Only Original, Classical Wax Museum!!! Georgie sits on the cluttered workbench as “Famous Amos” shows off the Claudia the Waitress manikin.

Finally, Georgie is a rapt admirer - a true believer.

“Jesus, Amos,” he rhapsodizes. “She's beautiful! She's perfectly sculpted. Perfectly lifelike!”

Amos only chortles as he fingers the statuesque Claudia's perfectly lifelike breasts.

“She's better than lifelike, Georgie-boo,” he snorts. “Believe me. I know.”

Georgie blushes. He tries to change the subject.

“What do we do with the old, sneezing head?”

“Famous Amos” plays the proud father.

“Save it. Save it, man!” he blusters. “Never throw your art away. Never. You never know when you might want it or even need it again. Like, when we become famous.”

Amos flies off on another hysterical outburst of uproarious laughter. Georgie tries to calm Amos down but only sets off another delirious outburst.

“Okay already, Amos,” Georgie drones. “It wasn't that funny.”

Georgie looks at the 8x10" waxwork, pinup calendar.

“We open, you know, in like, three days?”

Abruptly, Amos stops snickering and becomes nervous.

“No-o-o!” he moans. “You gotta be kidding! Three days? Oh, crap.”

Amos finally trails off.

“And I have the in-laws here tonight,” Georgie adds. “So I won't be much help.”

“Crap!” Amos curses. “Which one is worse - your in-laws or my wife?”

It's still not exactly clear what Amos means by these cryptic words. Whatever he means, Amos' dejection leaves Georgie feeling defeated, put-upon, and downtrodden.

“Whatever, man,” Georgie says, walking out of the old, broken-down front door.

“Georgie?” Amos calls.

But Georgie's gone.

#

Georgie walks the black midnight streets, stoop-shouldered with his hands shoved in his pockets. On the festive occasion of the Grand Opening!!! of Georgie Gust's One-&-Only Original, Classical Wax Museum!!!, he imagines everything going up in flames - the old, broken-down warehouse burning down to wreckage and ashes. All of those perfectly sculpted manikins and beautifully molded figurines melt down into splattered puddles and shapeless blobs. The tragedies of death spoken of in the opening passages still haunt him in bright flashes and sinister shadows.

As he walks broodingly huddled and crookedly hunched into himself, Georgie Gust starts muttering. His slight psychotic edge is almost bordering on crazy.

Georgie Gust, looping back on himself, walks slowly by his One-&-Only Original, Classical Wax Museum!!!, trying to sense all that he can from its cold metal doors and the smell of sewage from the empty street. A rat scatters into the alleyway. Georgie takes everything in. It all seems to be dead - dead and defeated.

An old crooked lamppost on the corner emits a static buzz as the white-lighted headlamp blows out. Without Claudia or Clio to comfort and console him, Georgie is completely alone now - and in the dark.

As he snoops around the back alley, Georgie sees Claudia the Waitress' perfectly sculpted and waxen head lolling and rolling around in the gutter, near the huge waste bins. Without quite knowing what is happening, and feeling too dejected and disturbed to rescue Claudia's decapitated head, Georgie simply observes the shapely head roll like some crippled and half-dead thing, until it comes to a complete stop.

#

In still another version of this strangely familiar scene, Georgie and Clio are sitting at a small and dark table in Tully's Diner, quietly bickering.

Clio is disturbed by Georgie's erratic behavior and wild mood swings, whereas Georgie is bothered by Clio's snooping into his business and her parents' constant intrusions into their private life.

“What's wrong with you, Georgie?” Clio whines and nags. “What are you talking about, you're 'not so bad?' You're really, like, crazy sometimes.”

Georgie snorts.

“You have the audacity to call me crazy?” he rants. “Your parents, sometimes, you know - they just about drive me crazy!”

Clio frowns, defensive and apologetic, but still she continues to accuse.

“I know my parents are difficult for you,” she admits. “But, come on. What are you trying to say?”

“I'm just saying-” He shrugs. “The visit wasn't bad, I guess.”

Clio nods as she begins to feel vindicated. “I know,” she says. “It was good - a good visit.”

“Yeah, right,” Georgie concedes. “It wasn't bad, I guess-”

Immediately Clio picks up on Georgie's unspoken words. “What are you saying, Georgie? Really?”

She doesn't wait for an answer.

“You're saying it wasn't good, aren't you?”

Georgie rolls his eyes. “I didn't say that. No,” he repeats. “Don't put words in my mouth, Clio.”

Clio isn't really listening. “That hurts my feelings,” she goes on, “because you're basically saying that you don't like my parents.”

Georgie rolls his eyes again. “When did I say that?” he asks. “When did I ever say that?”

Just as Clio is about to respond, Claudia the waitress switches over to their small corner table and adopts her statuesque waitress-pose: she crosses her arms beneath her breasts and juts her hips out to one side. She's chewing bubble gum, as usual, and blows small bubbles with her mouth.

As Clio's about to speak, a bubblegum bubble pops loudly.

Claudia giggles. “Excuse me,” she says. “I just - bubbled!”

Clio rolls her eyes. “God, Georgie!” she starts out, but she leaves the sentence dangling.

As Georgie looks up at Claudia the waitress, it's like she can read the slightly pornographic fantasies and sexual daydreams unraveling in his head. She knows how he wants to plead guilty to them (To her. To Claudia.) Instead, he chooses to just ask:

“Could I have another cup of coffee? If you're not too busy?”

Claudia the waitress just stares down at him as she continues to chomp her bubble gum.

“Please?” Georgie pleads.

Insecure, unsure, and not knowing where he stands with Claudia, Georgie appeals to Clio, but he gets no support from his wife.

Instead, Clio appeals to Claudia. She jerks her head toward Georgie.

“He's not being very nice today,” she says primly. “Is he?”

Claudia is supremely indifferent.

“What?” she says.

Clio repeats herself.

“I said, 'He's not being very nice today. Is he?'”

Georgie looks down as he attempts to hide his slowly reddening cheeks.

Suddenly and spontaneously, Claudia blurts out:

“I like him!”

Clio's taken aback. She reacts as if she'd been slapped. “What?” she snaps. “You what?”

Claudia is imperturbable. She gestures toward Georgie.

“Him,” she says. “I like him. I don't like people who aren't nice.”

With that, she sashays away.

Georgie wants to say, “See?” But he keeps quiet.

Clio bursts out, “Well, you're not! You're not, you know?”

“Not what?” Georgie asks, feigning innocence.

“You're not nice!” Clio blurts.

Now Georgie is taken aback.

“No? I'm not so bad,” he protests.

Sullenly and silently, Clio seethes.

While Georgie and Clio keep up their embattled silence, Claudia swings back with a full pot of coffee for Georgie. As she pours, she keeps up her banter.

“Wow. It's black, huh?” she adds. “See what I mean? It's good Joe today - strong and feisty.”

Perking up, Georgie glances at Clio and makes his delivery to Claudia.

“Like you, huh?” he says, blushing brightly. “Uh, like black coffee. The coffee's not bad today, either.”

Claudia the waitress pretends to be flattered. “Awww,” she whines, somewhat mocking. “Thanks for the compliment. I'll pass it on to the boys in the kitchen.”

Still, Georgie feels he's made his point. He smirks to Clio:

“See? She knows.” he jerks his head at Claudia. “I can be nice.”

Despite herself, Claudia cracks a slight smile.

“Oh, yeah,” she says as she sidles away. “You're not bad.”

This is the highest praise Georgie has received all day.

In still another strangely familiar scene, Georgie and Clio are nibbling on their food while the regular customers, at many of the other tables, have already left. Only one other table besides Georgie and Clio's is still occupied. It's complete with a boisterous group set on ribaldry later in the evening.

Claudia the waitress wears her white and red Tully's t-shirt without an apron while she helps the busboys clear some of the dirty tables. In a sudden fit (that's not as spontaneous as it seems) she pulls her still-clean white shirt up over her nose and mouth and sneezes loudly: “Aaaa...CHOO!”

Then she sneezes again - and again - and again.

Georgie, only slightly embarrassed, raises his voice and calls toward her.

“Bless You!”

The other table hushes, and for a moment everyone is silent.

In the Diner, the busboys, waitresses, and kitchen help all have their eyes set on Georgie - even the drunk and loud party at the back table.

Claudia the waitress turns toward Georgie. “What?” she asks.

“I said, 'Bless you,'” Georgie repeats. “It's allergy season.”

For a brief and passing moment Claudia the waitress turns bad.

“Yeah. It's allergy season,” she scoffs. “It seemed to start right when you walked in.”

Then she stomps off.

With a slight jerk, Georgie turns toward the wall beside him. He's suddenly fixated on a local eatery award encased in thin plastic and dated for1978.

Clio snaps her fingers to break Georgie's spell. “Georgie! Georgie!” she cries. “Wake up!”

Georgie, still transfixed, mutters quietly.

“We open tomorrow.”

#

As the day of the Grand Opening!!! of Georgie Gust's One-&-Only Original, Classical Wax Museum!!! approaches, “Famous Amos” nervously rearranges the various sculpted heads and waxen torsos of the five or six manikins in “The Hall of the Unknowns” gallery. This gallery is the most spectacular, the most beautiful, and the most perfect - mostly because Claudia the Waitress, or Claudia Nesbitt, is showcased in it. After switching the the figures around several times, and experimenting with several different arrangements, Amos can't quite seem to get the perfect tableau that he's searching for. He keeps trying, anyway.

Meanwhile, the invisible video camera outside of the old, broken down warehouse picks up Georgie Gust in his three-piece suit and flashy tie, as he tries to open the jammed front door.

“Hey, Amos!” Georgie cries out. “The door is jammed again! Dammit, Amos! Where's Amos? Amos!”

Finally, Amos rushes over to the big door.

“Hold on a sec!” he shouts. “I'll get it.”

Georgie is impetuous and impatient. “Come on, Amos!” he shouts again. “We open tomorrow! Hurry up. Now, please!”

Amos nervously searches his pockets as he fiddles with the keys, and wipes sweat from his forehead all at the same time.

“One minute!” he calls. “I'm coming!”

Georgie, of course, can't hear him.

“What?” he cries again. “What did you say?”

Amos continues to fumble the keys.

“Hold on a sec,” he mutters. “I'll be there in a sec!”

Georgie bangs on the door and shouts:

“A-a-mo-o-os!”

Inside the sweaty waxwork workshop, a big florescent light bulb on the ceiling blows out and crashes to the floor.

Still Amos fiddles and dawdles. “Wait!” he calls again.

Finally, Amos starts to laugh. “Wait! Wait! Wait!” he gasps hysterically.

“I never thought I'd have Georgie Gust and Claudia Nesbitt waiting on me,” he whispers, snickering.

With a sudden jerk, he gets the door opened.

Sophisticatedly and elegantly dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and flashy tie, Georgie enters the warehouse still looking at his watch. He's sweaty, nervous and obviously pressed for time.

Amos greets him boisterously. “Hey there, big buddie!” Amos smiles. “What's happening?”

Georgie is in no mood for pleasantries.

“We open tomorrow is what!” he shouts. “What's going on here?”

Under pressure, Amos seems slightly fragile, cracked, and nearly hysterical.

“Ha-haaa!” he screeches, “What's going on is we open tomorrow! Yes. Yes! Yes!”

Georgie rolls his eyes. “Amos,” he says as he strives to be compassionate, patient, and kind.

Amos digs around in the filing cabinets, but whatever he's looking for remains hidden.

“Come here,” he coaxes. “Come here, buddy.”

Still searching for the unknown and hidden something, Amos takes Georgie into the Men's restroom located in the back of the dusty and cluttered workshop.

It's a true Men's room complete with urinal and tank, it's masculine with the scent and sight of Thine Unflushed Porcelain Throne, testosterone-inspired literature, and 8x10" glossy pinup calendars plastered from wall to floor.

For some inexplicable reason, Amos pulls an old dogeared issue of Star Magazine from the pile of old supermarket tabloids, and thumbworn pornography, that drape over the white porcelain toilet.

Amos starts flipping through the pages.  Georgie is restless.

“Sit!” Amos orders.

As he plops down on the white toilet seat, Georgie rolls his eyes. He still says nothing and waits for Amos to speak.

“Look. Look. Look,” Amos says, flashing the dogeared pages. “What do you see?”

Georgie shrugs.

“I don't know.  People, I guess.”

The dim light bulb flickers in the restroom.

“Okay, I get it. I see celebrities.”

Amos only shakes his head to indicate that Georgie is still clueless.

“Yeah, okay, Amos,” Georgie says. “They're good photographs, right? Voilá!”

Amos nods.

“Yeah, right,” he says. “Good photographs - candid photographs.”

He flips to another page.

“Aww, look at Britney yawning! So sleepy, and fucking yawning!” he enthuses. “And look how interesting that is. She's on a freaking talk show yawning! The fans just eat it up.”

Georgie is still baffled.

“So you're making fun of me,” he asks. “Right?”

Amos shakes his head.

“No, idiot,” he scoffs. “The point is - it works. We can do the same thing and make money from it. Just like freaking Britney and fucking Oprah do.”

Even at this final moment, Georgie is still skeptical.

“Yeah, but,” he says. “We're talking about Unknowns. Not celebrities.”

Amos gloats. “Yeah, man,” he says. “We're talking about Unknowns. We're talking about creating something to know about them - like they're celebrities. We make it so people want to know it. We get people talking.”

Georgie remains dubious. “How?” he asks

Amos smirks. “By creating a little controversy.”

Slowly, the whole sleazy scam starts to dawn on Georgie, although it doesn't make him any less skeptical.

“Oh man, Amos,” he moans. “I don't know.”

Amos soothes him.

“Listen, Georgie,” he says. “It's like you say - we don't have the money to putz around. So we need to work with what we have.”

In the midst of Amos' pitch, Clio walks in on them. She's even more doubtful than Georgie. She looks back and forth between the two men. In disbelief, she sighs. “Whatever it is,” she says, “I don't even want to know. The two of you-”

Despite his own doubt, Georgie tries to reassure her.

“No, Clio,” he says. “You really do want to know.”

Amos seconds the motion. “Yeah, Clio,” he says. “It's all good stuff.”

Trying to be friendly, warm and intimate he steps closer, but Clio instinctively backs off.

“Hey, Clio,” Amos soothes her. “Sorry I kept him so late. I need to go fuck up some faces.”

As Amos walks away, he continues to chant. “Thank you, Georgie. Thank you! For whatever, man. Whatever, wherever, whoever - just, thank you, man.”

Wanting to make up with Clio, Georgie sticks out his hand, but Clio pulls him up short.

Georgie hems and haws, “I'll tell you when we get home,” he offers.

Clio looks Georgie right smack dead in the eye as she replies.

“It better be good, Georgie. It better be good.”