Woman in the shower. She’s bending over and running her hands through her long hair, pulling out huge gobs of loose hair. She rubs her hands together to mat the hair and then she uses the soap to paste them in a pattern on the shower wall. She signs her name, using shampoo for ink, below this hair sculpture.
She’s shouting “Fuck you,” repeatedly in a Tourrette-like manner.
Then she shouts “Jenny Pail.”
Once again, â€œJenny Pail.â€
Several more times: â€œJenny Pail, Jenny Pail!â€
The neighbors next door bang on the wall.
She gets out of the shower; shakes herself like a dog, shuffles her feet to on the rug to dry them off.
This time, a more concrete sentence: â€œFuck you, Jenny Pail.â€
She puts toothpaste on the brush and foams up her teeth. With whipped toothpaste dribbling out of her mouth, she examines herself in the mirror, poking at that pimple on her cheek.
She stands up, singing in a loud, loud voice the following waaay off-key song in a tune she is making up on the fly:
â€œJenny Pail’s an idiot. La, la, la. Jenny Pail’s an idiot. Doo-wop be-bop. I’m walking down the street saying, â€˜Jenny Pail, go to hail.’â€
The neighbors next door turn on Pandora web radio, Peter Tosh, really loud.
Who is this woman?
She is an actor.
Today is the day after she didn’t get a role.
Who is Jenny Pail?
The actor who got the role? The director? Someone who distracted our heroine on the way to the reading? We’ll never know.
A demure woman in jeans and a black mock-neck is race-walking through the sculpture garden, passing among joggers, mothers with babies in strollers, chi-gong practitioners and folks holding leashes of dogs who are sniffing every bush. Only if you pass very close to the woman can you hear her mumbling,
â€œFuck you, Jenny Pail; fuck you.â€