When Ryan McGinley strode boldly into the Secaucus DMV he very nearly collapsed from an orgasmic shake that ran the length of his wiry frame. "Mon dieu," he exclaimed to Ellen, the pant-suit-wearing mother of four who was manning the desk on this chilly Saturday morning. Outside the window, a four-lane ushered commuters hither and yon. But the white noise could not distract McGinley now that he had entered his nirvana.
"Sir, please refrain from swearing. This is a city office."
Impressed by Ellen's command of foreign languages, McGinley quelled another vibrant shake that was beginning in his toes. "I apologize. But this lighting, it makes . . . starts of all who pass beneath it. It washes over the skin," and hear he leaned in closer to Ellen's face to celebrate her wan look, "and shows the pores and grease like no other." He took off his shoes and spun a 360, letting his feet absorb the dirt from the industrial carpeting. His eye fell on the mounted camera on the other side of the room. He fell to his knees and held out his hands toward the machine. "Please, tell me, Ellen, before I must call for medical help: Are there more secrets you are keeping from me. I have dreamt . . . it looks just like the camera from my dreams."
Ellen took the weakened McGinley by the arm, and helped to sit him on a stool. In her perfected motherly voice, she asked him if he would like a glass of water. "No, my queen. All I need is this. I will never leave the DMV. It can feel it consume me already."
Ellen wanted to tell him about the children -- well, they were children to her: the 16-year-old boys and girls, their hormone-ravaged skin and bad clothes, their eyes that made them look like they'd been crying all morning; their skinny torsos that hid their pained hearts and swollen lungs. But McGinley's prostrate form scared her. She was worried for his health and feared that any excitement might push him a step toward death.
Instead, Ellen offered him the last crueler from the dozen she had brought in that morning to munch on throughout the day and helped McGinley up from the floor.
"Sir, please refrain from swearing. This is a city office."
Impressed by Ellen's command of foreign languages, McGinley quelled another vibrant shake that was beginning in his toes. "I apologize. But this lighting, it makes . . . starts of all who pass beneath it. It washes over the skin," and hear he leaned in closer to Ellen's face to celebrate her wan look, "and shows the pores and grease like no other." He took off his shoes and spun a 360, letting his feet absorb the dirt from the industrial carpeting. His eye fell on the mounted camera on the other side of the room. He fell to his knees and held out his hands toward the machine. "Please, tell me, Ellen, before I must call for medical help: Are there more secrets you are keeping from me. I have dreamt . . . it looks just like the camera from my dreams."
Ellen took the weakened McGinley by the arm, and helped to sit him on a stool. In her perfected motherly voice, she asked him if he would like a glass of water. "No, my queen. All I need is this. I will never leave the DMV. It can feel it consume me already."
Ellen wanted to tell him about the children -- well, they were children to her: the 16-year-old boys and girls, their hormone-ravaged skin and bad clothes, their eyes that made them look like they'd been crying all morning; their skinny torsos that hid their pained hearts and swollen lungs. But McGinley's prostrate form scared her. She was worried for his health and feared that any excitement might push him a step toward death.
Instead, Ellen offered him the last crueler from the dozen she had brought in that morning to munch on throughout the day and helped McGinley up from the floor.
posted by kiddigit at 12:08 PM
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