The Wages, An Illustrated Story | 11. Masterstroke | Rhonda’s Policing
Just as I began to feel weird because my big-shot record-label boss was staring at my underpants, Rhonda burst through the door and surveyed the room. There were a couple of feet of snow outside but she had stripped off one of her furs to reveal a lime-green halter top with her tiniest disco gym-shorts, and a pair of electric-blue platform boots I hadn’t seen before.
“Hi, Rhonda!” I said, to no reply as always.
Echoes of her clomping heels ricochetted off the ceiling while she marched to Ben and purred, “I had to warm up—but I got toooo hot. Now I want a soft ice-cream with a sugar cone that stays stiff when things get sticky. If they don’t sell them in winter—I want something else like it.”
She shot me the most deathly withering glare while Ben grabbed her hand and yanked her to the exit to accommodate her wish. On their way out, Rhonda slammed the door so hard that the thunderous bang filled the photo studio, and a can of hairspray fell off a cart. Everyone stood stunned for a moment while the hairspray rolled along the floor, and I sent out a silent prayer of gratitude for Rhonda and her policing.
I could never match Ronda, but her inspiring performance helped me to feel bold and unbothered while we finished my saucy pictures. I imagined people would have varied reactions of outrage or amusement that would spark interest in my music. It wasn’t just for men, a woman might pretend she was me being glamorized in a photo studio. I thought it would be a cool clincher for the back of the album.