A Thousand Words

Prologue

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words.

Swings in the tiny fenced-in schoolyard swayed and groaned on their rusty chains in protest of the biting winter wind that howled up the city streets. The few pedestrians that actually ventured out on this cold, cold New York day were bundled up and well protected from the frigid January temperatures and biting winds.

I made haste with my few purchases as the heavy gray clouds above threatened to let loose another winter storm, a nor'easter all the meteorologists were gleefully predicting, and I had no desire to be outside when that commenced.

I did stop, however, at the newsstand at the corner of my block for my regular fix of newspapers and magazines. I had become something of a regular there. I can only watch so much Dr. Phil and Judge Judy on afternoon television before I either want to throw the remote at the TV, or my brain turns to complete mush.

"Hi, Mr. Ramirez," I said to the man ensconced in the tiny booth.

"Cold enough for ya?" he asked jovially.

Mr. Ramirez was well dressed for the cold weather: a heavy wool plaid winter coat, a hunter's cap with the ear flaps turned down, skier's gloves and a fluffy woolen scarf that was wrapped three times around his neck. His breath puffed out around his face as he spoke, reminding me of the little dialogue balloons in the Sunday comics.

As I smiled and nodded, I turned to pick up my usual copy of The New York Times. My eye caught the cover of a popular fashion magazine that promised to help me rid myself of all my blemishes and flaws, and even though I didn't believe a word of it, I picked it up as well. Hey, a girl can dream, can't she? As I handed these two items to Mr. Ramirez, I noticed a stack of The Village Voice off to the side. I hadn't read one of those in years. On some crazy impulse, I added that to my purchase.

"That'll be nine seventy-five."

I handed him fifteen and motioned for him to keep the change. He deserved a little something extra for being out in this weather. I stuffed my new purchases in one of my bags and continued on home as the first snowflakes began to fall.

I put my groceries away, changed clothes, put on my pink fuzzy slippers, made a cup of tea and lit a fire before settling down in my favorite overstuffed chair for a nice long evening of reading. Spot, my white Persian cat, hopped up on my lap and purred contentedly.

I glanced outside to see the snow falling fast and furious. Yep. Tomorrow would be a bitch for the commuters. Too bad I wouldn't be out there with them. Heh heh.

I read through the Times first. More war, more shenanigans in Washington, more death and destruction.

"This is why I don't subscribe to the paper," I said to Spot, grimacing at all the bad news.

He looked up at me in annoyance at being disturbed, then stood and pawed at my thighs until my lap once more was deemed a suitable place for him to lay down. In a few moments he was once more off in kitty dreamland.

After I'd read "all the news that's fit to print," I set the Times aside and picked up the Voice. I used to be a pretty regular reader; it was a good resource for keeping up with restaurants, theatre and clubs. I liked that their reviewers didn't pull any punches – if they didn't like something, they let you know about it. But, as the demands of my job slowly deprived me of a social life, I eventually stopped reading it. Why torture myself by reading about things I'd never be able to see or do?

Hmmm... Some editorials, an interesting article about city nightlife, ads for some intriguing shops (I made note of a couple I particularly wanted to visit), a few restaurant reviews and two off-off-Broadway openings. One was "complete trash" while the other showed "glimpses of genius."

I flipped through the rest of the paper, skimming most of the articles, until I reached the classifieds. For some reason classifieds, especially those in the Voice, have always held a strange fascination with me – what people are trying to sell or buy, who is looking for whom, what out-of-the-ordinary jobs are available in the city.

I was mildly shocked to see so many ads for phone sex operators. I really don't know why it surprised me; pretty much anything goes nowadays, especially in New York. I suppose I can be a bit prudish about such things. I laughed out loud at the mental image that popped up in my head: me in flannel pajamas and my hair up in rollers, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of me, telling the anonymous voice on the phone to "do it baby, harder, oh yeah, that's how I like it!"

I was about to close the paper and put it aside when another ad caught my attention. It was small, only a few words, and I might have missed it had it not been at the very bottom corner of the page.

"Artist's Model Wanted." And a phone number. Nothing more.

I wondered what kind of artist wanted a model, and just what kind of model he wanted.

I yawned. It was getting late, so I carried Spot with me into the bedroom and we curled up together under the warm and soft mountain of blankets and comforters on my bed. Spot loves to burrow underneath the bedcoverings in the winter; I often wonder how he doesn't suffocate under there.

I tried to go to sleep.

That tiny ad in the paper may as well have been printed in Day-Glo ink, surrounded by neon lights and accompanied by blaring horns the way it kept my attention all night.

The Voice of Reason in my head kept telling me I was an idiot to let myself get so worked up over a silly want ad.

I knew the Voice was right.

But somehow, for some reason, I couldn't get it out of my mind.

I rolled over and valiantly tried again to go to sleep.

I ended up counting the stripes on my bedroom curtains instead.

As morning rolled around, I groaned and yawned mightily. Spot emerged from somewhere down at the foot of the bed, his fur disheveled, looking smugly well rested.

"Oh, shut up," I said to him.

He glared at me, jumped off the bed and headed into the kitchen to await his breakfast.

I peered out the kitchen window as I waited for the coffee to brew. Last night's snowfall blanketed everything with a mantle of pristine white. I guessed that there was at least a foot of the white stuff on the ground.

Spot's belly having been filled, and my morning caffeine requirement having been satisfied, I picked up the paper from the coffee table.

My fate was sealed. I knew I would call.

I picked up the phone several times before I could even summon up the courage to dial the number, and it took me several attempts before I actually punched all the digits. It rang twice, and I was just about to hang up when the most... mesmerizing... voice I'd ever heard before in my life sounded in my ear.

And he only said one word.

"Hello?"