The world waits for Boo Dolly to rise up in the morning.
Men give her things.
They bless her.
She does not halt when they call, but she tallies their cries and burns them like calories.
She hates spiders and loves daisies and has learned to throw a 186lb man over her shoulder — just in case, she says, an ex-boyfriend should appear in her arena.
Boo has either green or brown eyes, depending upon who is transfixed by them at the moment. However, in actuality, when she stands before the mirror every morning, one giant round eye is brown and one one is green. She stands a lithe 5’8 and one quarter inches which entitles her to claim 5’9”.
There is no society that can hold Boo Dolly; her peers weary her and she has no superiors. “Other people make me want to kill myself,” she tells PUNCH over the phone.
He has invited her go with him to a party.
He needs to get his mind off of Max.
He’s worked up after Max’s visit.
He’s had a phone call even, from SuperGenius magazine, asking him if it’s true that Max Poe Gallery will be featuring Peter Monday at Basel.
He needs to get out.
Boo declines. I hate parties, she tells him.
— But parties LOVE you.
—Maybe that’s why I hate them.
—Those tech guys will be there.
—Gene. The one’s who developed Panopticon.
—Oh yeah. LOVE that show. Tell them I says hi.
—You don’t hate them?
—Marcus is a little fart sniffer. But Gene’s uhkay.
—Okay? I thought you hit it off the other night —
—What are you doing?
—I got this blister on my little toe and I’m pulling it off.
—Fuck. Okay. Nevermind.
—I can come over and watch a movie with you. Fuck the party. Parties suck: people standing around agreeing with each other.
—Here I come.
Samples of Boo Dolly’s juvenilia look like Voodoo spells perpetrated upon Disney princesses. Her last show at Up So Floating Gallery featured close up photos of children’s mouths: it caused such an uproar the gallery had to add walls in front of certain photos with trigger warnings for those who might be sensitive to confronting pedaphilia or race sensitive imagery.
It’s why he gave me this show, she tells PUNCH now, sitting cross-legged on his sofa, rolling a joint:
—He doesn’t care for my work at all. Told me so at the UpSo opening. Said it was sensationalism. Told me I’m just a little girl who needs to fascinate.
PUNCH is staring at the television, brows in a darling dark knot, arms crossed.
—Then when the shit’s hitting the fan, he calls me up. Says he can use a little fascination. Wants to know if I’m free to show with him. He knows UpSo doesn’t do contracts, so…
She hands PUNCH the joint. Goes into the kitchen. Brings back two beers.
On the television the president of the United States is pretending to drive a big truck. A news anchor laughs. PUNCH switches the channel and takes a beer.
—Max told me to talk to Monday about working on a project together.
—See? He doesn’t give a shit about your work either. Just press. He just wants press.
—Well, I can give him press all right.
Boo sips, looking earnestly over the bottle at PUNCH.
— You really should.
On the television a pharmaceutical lobbyist is being interviewed on Panopticon. Charbel Mack, always a tough interviewer, is being harder on him than he was on the last guest and the ticker beneath the screen is running three lines deep with real-time fact checks which Charbel ticks off mercilessly. The interviews on Panopticon are only as good as the hosts who need to be able to conduct civil, coherent interviews while simultaneously reading, digesting, and communicating the fact checks as then come in.
You should find a way to Charbel that motherfucker, says Boo.