Plan B (2003)
John S. Cooney's second novel, Plan B, finds three friends struggling to produce a magazine around their day jobs. With little time and less money, things are looking bleak until one of them gets an interesting offer. Lots of violent parts in this one. Also, a dog.
Roy’s arms were folded across his bare chest, his massive stomach sagging over the waistband of his red sweatshorts, his entire upper body dotted with splotches of white. An unlit cigarette hung down from the corner of his mouth, and the upper edge of his right ear was covered with paint. His face, utterly calm, was turned to the side, offering a pudgy profile. He looked up into the distance, stretching his double chin until it no longer existed.
Armand stood next to him, resplendent in a three-piece suit. His pants and jacket were cut out of a purple corduroy, large polka dots covering the cloth in a deeper shade of the same regal color. One arm hung down by his side, the other bent over his chest, his long and elegant fingers tucked under the wide lapel of the jacket. His paisley vest was visible over a sparkling white shirt, the starched collar reaching for his ears. An untamed mass of white hair sprung straight up from his scalp and his half-tinted glasses rested crookedly on his nose. His strong jaw was set and he sought the camera directly with defiant eyes. The entire room was bathed in the orange light of a safety lamp that swung slowly from an unfinished fixture in the center of the ceiling.
Cole stood in a corner of the room, watching Anise. She dropped to a knee and pointed her camera up toward the two men towering in the center of the space. The flash exploded, and Roy and Armand relaxed briefly, blinking their eyes, shaking their arms, and twitching their noses. Anise shuffled sideways on her knees, bringing the camera back up to her eye as Roy and Armand resumed their stiff poses. The flash went again.
Cole took a step forward and cleared his throat. Anise moved closer to her subjects.
“You, uh,” Cole smiled as Anise turned toward him, “you think it’s a good idea to keep the poses? It doesn’t seem a bit artificial or something? I guess what I’m trying to say is that it might be better to try to catch them acting natural or whatever, maybe. It’s just a suggestion.”
Armand held his arm out away from him, and used his other hand to yank the purple fabric straight down to the cuff. He adjusted his collar and smoothed the vest.
Anise laughed and put the camera back to her eye. “There’s nothing natural about this pair, Cole—you guys keep doing what you’re doing.” Anise took a step back, grinning madly behind her Nikon. Armand and Roy were standing so close that their shoulders and upper arms were touching. The flash went off. “You guys were made for the camera.”
“My momma always said I was gonna be a star,” Roy pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and laughed.
Cole stood behind Anise, watching his co-workers mug for the camera, one beaming, one glaring. “You said your mom was full of shit and always high.”
“Yeah, well, motherfucker, the road of excess leads to the shithouse of wisdom.”
Cole frowned. “How’s that again?”
Roy jerked a thumb at Armand. “That’s just some of his bullshit, when I asked him why he had a hard-on for purple—ain’t that a queer color anyhow?”
“It’s the color of royalty,” Armand gave the bottom edge of his jacket the faintest tug, pulling it smooth down his lean torso. “And it’s a palace, brother.”
Anise stood up, peering at the back of the Nikon. “Armand, that suit’s amazing, you look like you were born in it.”
“Nice of you to say so,” Armand flicked something off his shoulder. “It’s my suit for when I’ve got to go meet God.”
“You need a suit for that?” Roy fished a lighter out of his pocket and lit the cigarette in his mouth. “I’ll tell you what, dog, if God ain’t gonna take me buck naked with a half-smoked joint hanging outta my mouth, he can kiss my fucking ass.”
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