The Fartist (Short Story) - alisonlorraine.com

Dedicated to all those souls who’ve had their guts wrecked by Big Pharma.

Genevieve always got the call on either Thursday night or Friday morning. A slight, skinny woman – some would say delicate – she’d always be in bed by 8 pm, except on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. That was when she stepped out into Manhattan’s expensive night life and made the big bucks.

“Can you do an exhibit tomorrow evening? I got your number from Elena,” the voice on the other end of her top-of-the-line Samsung asked.

“Sure! I just need the time, place and fee – I take cash only. And make sure to get me on the list if there is one,” Genevieve said before writing down the client’s information on her whiteboard.

Poisoned by Big Pharma drugs to the point her digestive system simply stunk no matter what she did, took or ate, she had finally arrived. Or, in other words, she’d finally made her altered gut pay off instead of being a constant source of scrutiny, expenditure or embarrassment.

Genevieve first noticed her talent for farting after the umpteenth round of antibiotics, dispensed casually without the requisite gram negative/gram positive test done in most every country – except the US, of course. Typical lazy-ass American-exceptionalism-capitalist-bullshit healthcare system, she thought. Her body had been over-medicated to the extent that she had reached the tipping point, after which her digestive system had collapsed and she ended up in the hospital wearing IV needles in her elbows.

Nothing was ever the same after that. She weathered years of suffering. Food intolerances that had never before even crossed her mind became her daily living hell. She had to avoid wheat, soy, most dairy, fish, and quite an array of other common foods. She found herself avoiding most restaurants, with the fortunate exceptions of Mexican and Indian places that served largely gluten-free fare. She’d had rashes, chemical sensitivities, and foods dropping out of her life as often as people did when they got close enough to catch a whiff. All because she’d trusted her wealthy doctor and his antibiotic prescription habit, for which he received cash kickbacks from his pharma paymasters every time.

Genevieve was told she was crazy, that a young person like her shouldn’t have so many strange health problems. She saw shrinks. Medical specialists. Nurse practitioners. Dentists. Nutritionists. And on one occasion, a shaman. She’d been prescribed every stomach-related drug ever concocted – round, multicolored antacids, triangular purple anti-emetics, blue oblong muscle relaxants – oh my! They looked like candy, none of them were sweet, and all featured unbearable side effects. But her gassy ass outsmarted them all. Genevieve was convinced her pharma-altered intestines might even survive a nuclear strike.

She’d lost 60 pounds and around a dozen jobs when she finally had the good fortune of landing a steady position as Personal Assistant and Fashion Manager for Rollings Fashion CEO Lucas Rollings at his Midtown Manhattan headquarters, close to 59^th Street and Columbus Circle, just off Central Park. It wasn’t great money, but she got by. At least there was that, though with over 20 food intolerances, she’d become a real food bore – and not exactly winning dating material, either.

But, as things in life often did, an unexpected bathroom meeting would serve as the catalyst for a big shift in Genevieve’s smelly and largely solitary existence.

The day when Genevieve met Sally in the corporate restroom at Rollings Fashion – which was only accessible with a special key entrusted to just a handful of people – was the day that changed everything. After that, Genevieve never worried about money or being a social outcast again.

The ravages of pharma-altered digestion didn’t have many perks, at least at first. Genevieve spent years learning how to navigate her new microbiome-scape, and it often took a few go-arounds to establish what worked and what didn’t. As soon as she’d had her last forkful at a gathering of any size, she’d excuse herself to the bath, warn her host or hostess that she would take her time, and grab her purse, making sure she had the requisite book of matches for lighting after she was done. It was the only way to quell the stench – and she burned through books of matches as if they were going out of style.

And so, for a long time, Genevieve did much of her time at parties in restrooms and bathrooms of various shapes, sizes, conditions, states of cleanliness and operational capacity. That is, until one fateful luncheon celebrating her absolutely insufferable boss’s 65^th birthday.

She had eaten heartily, having given up on all the restrictive diets handed to her by various doctors and integrative healthcare practitioners. What difference had they ever made? She was a stinker, would remain a stinker, and so be it. For the most part, she’d learned how to handle the aftereffects of any food group using a simple incendiary, and figured, why not at least enjoy herself?

During dessert – a wheat flour cake she couldn’t eat – she finished a short conversation with the Executive Vice President of Rollings Fashion’s Clothing Division, and excused herself to the corporate restroom, coveted company matchbooks with their requisite Rollings tagline – I Found Fashion – in hand. Rounding the three corners that would take her to the inner sanctum, what she called the Mother of All Restrooms, she passed fewer and fewer people, hoping to have the large and luxurious restroom and its two couches to herself. After coming around the third corner, she saw the large, heavy restroom door and took her key out of her bag.

Once inside, she leaned back against the door for a long moment, in an almost spiritual pre-peristalsis trance. She was alone…or so it seemed. As usual, she would take her time, and for a few minutes, she found herself sinking back into the luxurious couch she’d come to love while on the job. It was covered in a Rollings company floral that, for some unknown reason, featured the occasional skyscraper or other famous building among its many plant varieties. That was one thing she loved about Rollings – the guy had some kind of flair. Specifically, this pattern didn’t repeat for over 6 meters, so no matter where you sat on the sofa, you’d see a different plant with a different name under it…and every twenty plants or so, you’d get a rendition of the New York Free Library, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the Flatiron Building, or the Guggenheim. Those didn’t repeat for over 8 meters, so there was a math problem to think about to boot.

The couch had another feature loved by Genevieve – it had all the same curves as an oversized pregnancy pillow. This came in handy when she knew she was going to have a harder time on the john. She could stretch out her abdomen in various helpful ways that would help get everything – including the stink – the hell out.

10 minutes into her reverie, Genevieve began to smell something. Something very stinky, but not her usual kind of stinky. Was it coming from her? She wondered. She sniffed around. No – it was not her. Not this time!

She sat up and ventured toward the last stall at the far end of the restroom, noting that she passed through the stink and then didn’t smell it anymore by the time she got to the end of the long row of well-appointed stalls to the very last one. No matter, she thought. She would stink up the whole place momentarily with her very unique brand of stink – which overwhelmed any other stink she’d ever encountered.

Taking her respite on the toilet seat, she let out a long, slow, silent and deadlier-than-hell, bowels-of-the-ship stinker. Burning rubber tires, Liquid Ass, and five-alarm chemical blazes had nothing on Genevieve. She wondered if it had come from the ceviche she’d had the day before, or the artisanal organic multi-bean taquitos she’d indulged in a little over an hour ago before partaking in her requisite slices of watermelon, seeds intact. No matter on that count, either, she thought. Nor did the large number of probiotics she tried in a steady rotation make much of a difference. She was what she was – big stinker, and here to prove it once again.

“Hol-EEEEE SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!” came the spunky voice from the other end of the restroom. “I know that isn’t me! Who else is in here? Lucas, is that you, visiting the women’s room to lay a big one and blame it on us girls?”

Genevieve was stunned and silent. Should she reveal herself?

“Come on…who is that? Whoever you are, you’ve got me beat by a mile!”

Genevieve farted, this time loudly enough for her restroommate to hear.

“I heard that! Come on, give it up! I’m not leaving this restroom until you do, so you may as well come clean.”

Genevieve felt a ripple through her abdomen and let loose a third time, almost as foul as the silent and deadly thing she’d laid as soon as her ass had touched porcelain.

“It’s Vive,” Genevieve ventured.

“Vive? Vive Campos? Are you serious? You mean, you’re that snazzy little thang tagging along after Lucas all the time?”

“Y-y-yeah,” Genevieve stammered. “It’s me.”

“Wow, you deserve a raise for keeping your stinky little secret under wraps for this long! You’ve been here, what, five years?”

“Who are you?” Genevieve demanded, consternated, but no longer constipated.

“Oh, you’ll see in a moment. We’ve worked together remotely, but this is the first time I’ve been in the New York office.”

“Sally? The CTO?”

“Bingo!”

Genevieve cleaned herself up and flushed, hearing the same down the row of stalls where Sally was parked. She exited the stall, and a slight distance away was an elegant, somewhat older woman with a blonde crew cut, lively face and piercing blue eyes, dressed in a silken electric blue suit and matching skirt. Petite in stature – the biggest farters always were – she moved gracefully toward Genevieve, who’d forgotten all about her matches. Amazingly, Sally didn’t seem offended by the smell. She reached out a delicate hand to Genevieve. “Sally Stenmacher. Pleased to meet you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Genevieve asked, stifling a laugh.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Sally allowed herself a full belly laugh. “You’re not the only one who ducks into far-flung restrooms to let it all blow out. I’ve been at it for years, ever since I chose – stupidly – to have my stomach stapled. I was on bariatric foods for a long time, and nothing was ever quite the same. The weight did come off, though, so there’s that.”

“You look like a million bucks! I would never have guessed this was you. Zoom doesn’t do you justice!”

“Neither does Facebook, or so I’ve been told.”

Sally eyed Genevieve playfully. “I have an idea. Would you like to make a few extra bucks tonight? My ex is having his grand opening over on the East Side in one of those mid-sized, yuppie galleries, and well, you’d be perfect. You could stink everyone out of that snotty place, including that whole new psuedo-blueblood crowd of his. How ‘bout it?”

Genevieve was taken aback. “You mean, you want me to fart up the place? For money?” Genevieve let the laughter rip through and out of her body.

“Yep. Eric is already so jaded by my stink he probably wouldn’t even notice. But you are an entirely different matter.”

Silence. Then after a long moment, “Deal!” Sally and Genevieve shook hands again, laughing and talking like two schoolgirls who’d just discovered they had a crush on the same cute teacher.

That evening, Sally and Genevieve met at Sally’s new Upper East Side apartment to get ready for Eric’s “Sculptorial A-Z” exhibit, and they dressed to the nines. Genevieve was Sally’s official +1 – and Sally was as good as gold on her promise of money, handing $1000 to Genevieve after dressing her in one of her all-time slinkiest, most elegant numbers. It was a sunset gold dress with black interwoven silk and an occasional saffron-y thread or so. Topped off with one of Sally’s charming emerald green blazers, Genevieve looked like a million bucks.

“Don’t worry about food,” Sally said, handing her a money clip with a wad of cash in it. “Eric has a full bar and extensive menu at all his gatherings. It’s his way of keeping the money flowing.”

“If there’s something cheesy and beany, I’ll have the whole place emptied before long,” Genevieve responded.

“Oh, there’ll be more than that. Plenty of booze and sugar to go around to boot.”

“So…am I prying if I ask why Eric is your ex?”

“Not at all,” Sally said. “Irreconcilable differences was what went on the legal paperwork. But, it was a bit more intricate than that.” Sally paused for effect, pulling on a sheer and shiny left thigh-high over her very shapely and toned left leg, then adjusting it. “Eric had a very bad habit of putting his hands into one too many cookie jars. I’d watched him borrow scads of money from friends and others for his projects, including his art exhibitions. I’d also noticed how few friends we had, because he never paid anyone back. Then, we’d move and he’d start over with a fresh crowd. Two moves and four years later, I’d had enough – and the kicker was that he’d started borrowing from me, saying that I was the exception, that he’d be sure to pay everything back to his one and only. But as it turned out, I wasn’t his one and only.”

Genevieve’s eyebrows perked up.

“Eric had two other women on the side – and another wife, apparently, of the common law variety. He’d always travelled so much, and I thought it was great. I’ve always had a fantastic job with a great salary and travelled quite a bit as well, so none of what he was up to ever really phased me.”

“How is he walking around, holding art exhibitions? Isn’t polygamy against the law?”

Sally nodded. “Yes, it is. But Eric’s resourcefulness never quits. He simply borrowed a lot of money and bought off his common-law wife. Most states no longer even recognize common law spouses, so there’s that, too. She was always a cheap date – so he said – so a hundred thou did the trick. She signed off on everything, and even agreed and signed a confidentiality agreement that said she had no right to talk about their so-called marriage. He also got the judge to decree that she could not approach him for any further financial remuneration.”

“Holy shit!”

Sally: “Yeah. Eric got himself into some real trouble, but always wangled his way out of it. Observing it all gave me a case of the creeps. He’d never really had my back, so I decided to cut loose at around the same time. As it turns out, timing was everything – he was in a mood to end things, so I took advantage before he could suddenly declare his eternal love for me and my frontloaded pay packet. He’d done it before to keep me around, but enough was enough. Still, he does put on quite a party, and one of the terms of our divorce was that I had a perpetual invite. My livelihood depends quite a bit on networking. Some of his parties have produced a few of Lucas’ biggest partnerships. Never mind that I’m Mizz Techie, I just work it however it works.”

Genevieve breathed a long breath out. “Wow. This is who you want me to stink out? Are you sure?”

“Yep. I never quite got my just desserts on Eric for that whole mess. Add to that, he’s moved again, here to New York. It’s like he’s stalking me. He’s a real son of a bastard, and from what I’ve heard, he’s already at work on a new group of suckers to fund his existence. So, if tonight works out, you’ll get an even bigger wad as a bonus.”

“I love it!” Genevieve said. “A woman who isn’t afraid to hand another woman some real money.”

“A rare one, I know. But very important if we want to cull the male chauvinist herd.” Sally winked. “Are you ready to rock and roll?”

“Hell, yeah!” Genevieve twinkled back, and the two lovely coiffed-to-the-max ladies walked arm-in-arm out of Sally’s penthouse suite and into the hallway toward the elevators.

Genevieve’s highest and mightiest fart fantasy often involved letting a few loose in a hot shower at just after sunrise on a hot, humid summer morning. The kind of morning that happened after a hot night that, thanks to New York City and its heat-trapping qualities, never quite cooled off enough for the various smells around her to dissipate. It always provided ample inoculation on mornings before stink outs, which helped her keep her cool at work events where she’d have to put in appearances and eat everything in sight.

Tonight’s event was different. This was a very well-moneyed crowd, and the venue was a bit larger than usual. Still, she was confident enough she would pull off her routine, and sure enough, Sally had delivered on the financial front. Five minutes from the venue entrance, Sally briefed her on what to expect.

“Eric’s put the word out that the AC is on the fritz, and the gallery is in the penthouse. Should be pretty warm up there, but then again, this could just be Eric’s come-on to get all the ladies to show up in their shortest, strapless, backless best.” Sally sighed. “There are lots of windows, but these are the kind that don’t open. Perfect opportunity for sick building syndrome – or a well-contained fartfest. And – more good news – the kitchen is just below where we’ll be. There are apparently two floors with kitchen facilities, the ground floor, and the floor just below penthouse level. So, possibly even more heat to work with.”

“How’s the plumbing? Do you know how many restrooms there are?”

“Not offhand, no. But where there’s a kitchen, there is sure to be a lot of plumbing.”

“Fantastic! I already feel a hot dump coming on – and I can’t wait to sample all the wonderful food!”

“…and then give his audience a real sampling!” Sally clasped her hands together in a quick, satisfied clap and chuckled. “I plan on having a few hot toddies, will you join me?”

“Count on it. Alcohol makes the farts grow yonder. It’s almost like a Mormon Tabernacle-effect, where I can fart in one end of the room, and it’ll be sniffed up at the opposite end in seconds.”

Sally bent over and laughed again. “Ohhhhh, I cannot wait to see the looks on some of the snooty faces you’ll see here. Just the laughs alone will add about five years to my life, I think.”

Genevieve looked startled. “Gosh. Now that you bring that up, I wonder what the life expectancy of a full-time farter is. I wonder if there are any data sets on that?”

Sally looked at her, her face puffing up just before they both exploded in laughter. Genevieve was in her High Heaven; a born-again farter. With Sally, she felt as if she was sixteen again. The world was a whole new can of beans, and she felt like she had only just discovered her raw, smelly-ass talent and what it could really do.

“Here’s the venue,” Sally waved her hand in front of them. “The Atlas. It even sounds snotty.” Sally shook her head. “I wonder how deep he’s into someone else’s pockets for this one.”

“Sally!” A voice yelled from behind them just as she opened the door to let Genevieve in.

“Hi, Tom!” Sally said, holding the door open for him. “Meet Genevieve…”

“Well, hello there, Mizz Plus One. Always happy to meet Sally’s friends.”

“Genevieve is one of the biggest art fans I know…and, Tom…” Sally lowered her voice to a whisper as the door closed behind them, minimizing the cavernous lobby echo effect for good measure. “Vive’s got quite the fashion plate fabric collection as well. She’s been a PA at Rollins for several years, and I think she’s kept every sample in triplicate for the duration.”

Tom looked at Genevieve appreciatively. “Keep a hold of those, my lady. They are probably going to be worth a fortune one of these days.”

“Planning on it,” said Genevieve. “So, Tom, what’s your business?”

“I design phone and tablet apps for restaurants. Waiting lists, carry out automation, new location mapping, supply chain optimization with an eye toward food sensitivities. All that.” Tom said with a supremely satisfied look on his face. “I love it! And it’s been surprisingly lucrative. I just signed HaLo.” He smiled a wide, proud smile.

“Really?” Sally chimed in. “That’s…wow. That chain is just about to bust out national. They have a great business model.”

“Don’t I know it,” Tom responded. “All their food, gluten free by default. So, they’ve eliminated all the customer questions and hesitation in one fell swoop. Everyone feels very, very comfortable there. And, they’ve categorized their menus by other sensitivities on top of that. They’re a part of the Clean Kitchens movement, nothing from the top eight allergens is even allowed in their locations.”

“So, that’s what all the buzz is about,” Genevieve popped back into the conversation. “I’ve not yet eaten at a HaLo, but this sounds really good, really foodie appreciative. So many people I know don’t even bother to go out to eat because their personal menus are so particular…many are gluten-free, some can’t or don’t want to do dairy, a few are doing FODMAPS. It goes on and on.”

“I’ve been gluten-free for five years now,” Tom said. “It’s why I found myself developing apps that help restaurants accommodate all these dietary necessities and preferences in addition to everything else. Living in New York and staying home to eat all the time? It doesn’t exist!”

“I’ve been gluten-free ever since Big Pharma took a wrecking ball to my intestines, this was nearly eight years ago now, since college.” Genevieve shook her head wistfully. Tom looked at her, with a look that was so deeply understanding that he knew immediately where she was coming from.

“And what effects has this had on your life?” he asked, his face shifting to a countenance of thoughtful concern as he looked at her.

“Oh. My. Well, lots of missed opportunities. Too much time spent at stores looking for stuff I could actually tolerate when I should have been out networking,” Genevieve confessed. “Restroom visits are a pretty time-consuming hobby…and things get really sticky. And the blowouts! I don’t mean to be crude, but…”

“…but I asked. I find your candor refreshing. I’ve had loads of hanger-oners on the TP.” Tom’s eyes widened with total wonder, concern and knowing, his eyes taking on what Sally and Genevieve would later describe as the look of a first-time therapist-to-the-stars meeting a new, very troubled, very beautiful, but well-respected famous client for their initial visit. “This has been both a deal-breaker and maker. Look what I do for a career now. It has paid off handsomely. I never realized it until…”

“…until you realize just how many people’s innards have been fucked up by pharma,” Genevieve said. “There’s definitely money in numbers. It has certainly changed my whole outlook on life, and uh, yeah. New careers have been christened in the least expected places.”

Genevieve’s eyes caught Tom’s, and they had a long, silent moment as Sally looked on from her perch just outside the elevator landing area. Genevieve could see Tom’s pupils dilating as his irises grew into smitten golden-brown discs on the realization he’d found another digestive misfit, one who wasn’t afraid to talk shit. Literally.

Tom reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small silver case and took out a business card. “Please, Genevieve, take this and call me.” Genevieve looked down at the colorful card as a smiled edged its way onto one side of her mouth. Tom looked at her intently. She knew it right then, as his large eyes lit on her. He was a farter.

“I will,” she said, looking earnestly back up at him. She felt – and was sure Tom could see – her cheeks flushing. She looked into his eyes. She meant it.

“I will see you both upstairs later on,” he said, just before ducking around the corner to the ground-level kitchen facilities. He nodded once again in Genevieve’s direction. “A pleasure.”

When he was out of sight, Sally looked at Genevieve intently.

“Wow. He’s really taken to you, hasn’t he?”

“Just wait ‘til he gets his first whiff,” Genevieve said as Sally started cracking up. “That will be the real test.” Genevieve paused. “But, you know, I get the feeling he might just pass it. I usually don’t mention that I give new meaning to the term ‘running on fumes’ until the second date.”

Sally smiled and nodded. “So much of relationship compatibility depends upon the mix of personal smells, we just never hear about it. It’s all deodorize this, and protection that. In any case, Tom is a truly kind person. A protective spirit. I wouldn’t be caught dead with him otherwise.”

The elevator doors opened in a grand cascade of decorative layers, as if welcoming the Queen and her Court. The two ladies stepped on board, and up they went.

Eric Samuels was smiling grandly and caught Genevieve’s curious eye as she and Sally waltzed into the penthouse gallery of the Atlas, a recently refurbished building on the Upper East Side. Genevieve gazed in appreciation at the beautiful elliptical-shaped mahogany bar in the center of the venue, dotted by various guests on barstools, a few of the women reminding her of colorful birds on pedestals, laughing as they nursed champagne in elegant flutes. Paintings, sculptures and photos – including some pieces that looked like a combination of the three – adorned the entirety of the inner walls and pedestals of the rounded space.

Genevieve took in a breath. They were absolutely stunning.

“Sally…”

“I know. Aren’t they brilliant?”

“Oh, it goes beyond that. These are masterpieces.” She grabbed Sally’s hand, leading her over to the wall on one side of the bar. “Look at this brushwork, it’s absolutely fearless.”

“Jeez, you really are a connoisseur,” Sally said.

“I’ve farted up so many gallery events working for Rollins, and I can’t tell you how many of the shows were disappointments.” She turned toward Sally. “Thank you, so much, for inviting me here. This is such a treat, to see some actual greatness before I let it all blow.”

Sally took in Eric’s paintings with brand new eyes for just an instant. She had to admit, yes – he was talented. A talented asshole, but talented nonetheless.

Just then, the artist himself finished conversing with two shiny-suited gentlemen in front of the bar, grabbed his drink and came over to introduce himself to Genevieve.

“Sally, so nice to see you. And who have we here?”

“Genevieve Campos,” Genevieve said, extending her free hand to meet his. “Your work is extraordinary.”

“Thank you, Miss – is it Miss?”

“Absolutely. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Eric leaned back and had a belly laugh, looking up briefly at the ceiling. “Did you see this one? Up here?” Eric pointed up, then looked in her direction.

Genevieve leaned her head back, and took in a large, suspended gauze – exquisitely painted – that took up at least half the ceiling. “Wow! How clever!” She walked around in a small circle as Sally and Eric followed her gaze around the piece, called “Whispers.” It consisted of layers of gauzy material, painted together with a fern-like pattern that could almost be mistaken for an animal, like a leopard’s skin that gave the already fast animal the look of movement, even when still.

“It’s stunning.” Genevieve looked up, and felt the first rumbling of what would be a very productive night fart-wise lighting up her lower abdomen. “How did you come up with the theme for this exhibit?”

“There are twenty-six pieces in all,” Eric said. “Each one starts with a different letter of the alphabet.”

“They all have such a movement to them, it’s wonderful.” Genevieve felt some hot air paunching out her insides, just a bit, and let out a silent, deadly whisper of her own before dancing around Eric to stand at Sally’s side. Eric’s face twitched a bit, changing to an expression Genevieve knew so well, that first instant when someone smelled something, but didn’t know quite what it was or where – or in this case, who – it came from. He sniffed a half-sniff and looked around, his face showing a hint of annoyance. Two women in long pink and gold gowns had their backs toward the three of them as they conversed with three tuxedoed gentlemen in black. Eric frowned in their direction.

“What’s wrong, Eric, are their high-backed gowns not to your liking?” Sally asked, winking.

Eric’s face remained troubled. That smell. It would NOT help sales, would it? No, he thought.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said to Sally and Genevieve. “I’ve got to go and check on something.” He checked his initial stride and paused for an instant. “Is it me, or is it kind of stuffy in this corner?” His face bore a questioning look.

“Not at all,” Sally said.

“I’m fine,” agreed Genevieve, gaslighting the unsuspecting Eric as she passed more gas in his direction.

“Goddammit, I told these guys to have the AC sorted out before the opening.” Shaking his head, Eric whisked away to an area behind the bar where Genevieve could see a thermostat and some other environmental controls. Genevieve watched as Eric tried to figure out the digital thermostat display and scratched his head before asking the barkeep for clues.

“I think the party just got started,” Sally winked at Genevieve, who looked first to her left and then to her right in a classic “Who, me?” routine before a big smile crossed her face.

“I think I’m going over to the food table. I see some bean burritos. Maybe that’s what Eric smelled?”

Sally laughed. “I’ll join you. I’m going to be laying a few myself momentarily. Eric always had that effect on me.”

“So, who are the deepest pockets in the room tonight? Since this place is so large, I’d like to know who to focus on,” Genevieve said, her professionalism on full display as she scanned the nearly three dozen and growing crowd.

“You see that couple over there?” Sally pointed to an elderly man and woman, both dressed for a cotillion, the woman dripping with jewelry. The man’s face looked vaguely familiar to Genevieve, and she farted again, passing bursts of gas in rhythm with every step she took toward the couple to say her first hello. Sally looked on in admiration. She was going to get her money’s worth. And Eric, well, he didn’t know what he was in for.

“I’m Vive,” she introduced herself with a big smile and outstretched arm to the elegant couple as another slicer exited her backside. “I manage fabrics for Lucas Rollins, and…your gown! It looks like…”

“It’s a Rollins,” said the female half of the couple. “An old original, from about 15 years ago. Can’t put a price on it now. I’m so impressed, young lady, that you know your fabrics so well to be able to identify this dress! It’s such a treas—” the woman stopped, sniffing around a bit. Then, her face cleared up, and she continued: “It’s such a treasure. It’s the most distinctive piece of clothing I own. I’m Alecia Noonan, by the way, and this is my husband, Gareth.”

“An absolute pleasure!” Genevieve didn’t bat an eyelash at hearing the name Gareth Noonan, she had to keep her cool, even in front of owners of national jewelry chains. “I can’t wait to tell Lucas – too bad he couldn’t be here – all about you and your magnificent dress! He has such a way with clothes, never strikes a bad note.”

“No, he doesn’t.” Alecia’s face contorted slightly, obviously reacting to the smell. “Gareth? Do you—?”

Gareth looked at his wife. “Yes, dear, but we were warned that Eric may be having to deal with AC on the fritz. He told me there are repairs being done on it as we speak, so let’s not get into a tizzy.”

“Don’t you poo-poo me, Gareth! You know I cannot stand this hot, stuffy environment!” Alecia’s face was contorted with anger over top of disgust at the smell insidiously taking over their area of the gallery. She wrinkled her nose and took out a scented tissue from her obviously pricey Coach bag and held it over her face briefly.

Genevieve and Sally exchanged quick glances and did their best to contain peals of laughter, Sally’s lips pursing a bit as her cheeks puffed out, barely saving herself by raising her glass to her lips. Suddenly, Sally spied Genevieve’s left hand counting down from four fingers at her side and out of sight of the agitated couple. Her tummy tightened with stifled giggles, and just after “one,” she adjusted her left butt cheek and let more hot smelly air out in a near-perfect, almost-silent ‘pfffffffffffffft.’ Her abdomen was so full of gas from her prep meals hours before that she felt she might pop like a balloon if she didn’t get some relief.

“Alecia, Gareth…this is Sally,” said Genevieve, completely ignoring the smell and the intended effect it was having. “She knows the artist better than anyone in this room, I’m willing to bet.”

Gareth and Alecia extended their hands in succession to shake Sally’s. “An honor to meet you both,” she said. Genevieve smiled, continuing to slip out silent deadlies in between sips of her drink, which was a divine mix of dark cherry juice, fresh orange sections and a fruity, sparkly red wine.

“It was an absolute pleasure to meet you,” Genevieve said to the couple. “I think we’re going to go and mingle with the food a bit. It is a tad stuffy right here, but I’m sure the AC will be back on in no time,” Genevieve said, again gaslighting her targets as she gassed them again. “It’d be fantastic to chat with you some more – and I’d like to get a photo of you in that dress. Lucas would absolutely flip! And who knows, you might just be featured in his next magazine spread. He’s planning on having some vintage pieces, and as always, he wants them worn by a living being out on the town.”

That last remark brought some relief to Alecia’s face, which managed a twitchy, hesitant smile. “Yes, dear, that would be lovely. I haven’t spoken to Lucas in what seems like ages.”

All four of them made for fresher parts of the gallery, Sally and Genevieve venturing toward the vast table, full of food from all over New York and thus the world. There were Mexican bean burritos – her favorite – paired with a lovely enchilada sauce, laced with pureed orange and cream drizzling over them as sprigs of cilantro danced around the exquisite presentation. There were slices of roast duck with an apple butter-like sauce and sauteed lamb with mint jelly and a dusting of Mexican oregano, just enough to power up the mint without clashing with it. Chinese food adorned one whole end of the table, next to a large selection of seafood and vegetarian sushi. Italian pasta with fresh marinara sauce circled a gigantic salad trough, behind which was a selection of dressings that would please most any royal family. Fruit bowls abounded, and – Genevieve was thrilled – she saw sliced fresh pineapple rings, along with her favorite, Crema Catalana. She had so loved Spain, and wanted to return to Barcelona as soon as she could.

She could hardly wait for dessert, and she hadn’t even had a bite of dinner yet. She lined up behind Sally, who commenced piling several burritos onto her plate, garnishing her main entrée choice with small samples of all the others. Genevieve followed suit, farting long and hot as they both sauntered away from the buffet area for a standing table near the bar, each ordering seconds on their drinks from a waiter who constantly circled around the room.

As the evening went on, Genevieve found her groove, fweep-fweep-fweeping in diagonals all the way across the venue, making the rounds to every single guest in attendance. She would leave her special scent in each and every area as she effortlessly introduced herself and made charming chit-chat.

One gentleman, almost as drunk as she and Sally, bumped into Genevieve, causing her to spill part of her drink and lay a quick, loud burst as she righted herself. “Oh! Excuse me!” Genevieve looked at the adorable man smiling in his grey business suit and guessed he hadn’t gotten the memo regarding the tux request. But no matter, he only laughed in Genevieve’s direction.

Leaning way over, he growled in a clipped but unrefined British accent, “Aaaaaghh, don’t worry, love, I’ve laid me some bangers. Especially on ships I served on in the Royal Navy. Couldn’t escape them below decks, no. First marine, found the bean, parlez vous. Second marine cooked the bean, parlez vous. Third marine ate the bean, farted in the submarine….hinky-dinky parlez vous! Cheers!”

He raised his glass in her direction for a toast and Genevieve absolutely lost it. Sally came back from the restroom and looked back and forth at Vive and the man and felt like she’d stepped out during the climax of a movie. “What’d I miss, what’d I miss?”

“I just farted!” Genevieve said. Sally started cracking up. “Right onto this fine gentleman. And loudly! Oh my god, I never do that at parties! I’m so embarrassed!” Sally and Genevieve roared, and the man joined them, none the wiser.

“Hey!” said Sally to the man. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Roger Wells, madame.”

“Sally Stenmacher. And this is my friend, Genevieve Campos. Or, Vive as she likes to be called.”

Just then, a tall, prim and lanky gentleman with a broad smile on his vertically slim face approached, carrying what looked like a double. He stared straight at Roger Wells and shouted, “Mate!” The tall man’s British accent poked through the smelly air with airs of its own, his brilliant blue eyes protruding out from his face like dueling periscopes coming up from under a drunken sea. “I heard you singin’! Takes me back to me days at sea.” The man paused. “Niall Barriman.” The tall man extended his hand, first to Roger, then politely to Genevieve and Sally, almost bowing to each of them as they caught his routine and curtsied back.

“A pleasure!” Genevieve exclaimed as she farted again, this time silently. What was that saying about never lighting three on a match? She thought to herself, not wanting to give herself away. Still, these two guys were as drunk as skunks, with accents to match. It was starting to feel like she had stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone. The original Rod Serling-narrated version, of course.

Suddenly, the dessert cart appeared, pushed into the center of the gallery near the bar by two bow-tied waiters. It was a huge marshmallow-topped Baked Alaska, followed by a large bin of dozens of individual Bananas Foster, all aflame!

“Shit!” Genevieve hissed under her alcohol-tinged breath in Sally’s direction. “This could burn up all the gas I laid in short order!” Sally saw Genevieve’s distress, and drunkenly charged straight across the room, purposefully running into a waiter, catapulting her drink and the waiter’s tray, splaying liquid all over the cart and effectively snuffing out the flambeed Baked Alaska, which ended up on the floor. Not so for the Bananas Foster, half of which were still burning strong.

“Fuck me!!!” Sally shrieked at the waiter. “Can’t you watch where the hell you’re going?”

The waiter looked sheepish and horrified all at once. “S-sorry, Miss! I didn’t even see you coming!”

“Of course not! Because you weren’t looking where you were going!”

Eric lept to the defense of his gallery opening, grabbing the mic and apologizing profusely for the commotion. He begged everyone to please just enjoy some Bananas Foster and resume their perusal of his work.

But for some, it had become a bit too much. The crowd had already shrunk in size from the surly combination of farts, an honest gas leak in the kitchen, and lack of functional AC in the venue at large. Half of Eric’s potential buyers had disappeared out into the stiflingly humid August New York City evening. Only two members of the press remained. The night was turning into a disaster, now topped off by his ex’s embarrassing clumsiness.

He was deep in the red for this one, and he knew it. He watched two bussers come out and clean up what had been a beautiful Baked Alaska, scraping what was left of it off the unfortunately partially carpeted floor. That would take some doing, to get that out, he thought. May as well leave it – he could put a title on it and refer to it as art at this point.

As for the smells, Eric could only rationally point the finger at the AC repair crew and a gas leak, and windows that wouldn’t open.

Never again, he thought. Next time, I’m going to have it outdoors on a deck somewhere, providing the weather was good, with a rain date in the offing. He looked over at Genevieve, whose placid countenance amazed him. Was she fazed by anything? He could only wonder where Sally had come across her. She was a brilliant addition to the event, charmingly schmoozing everyone from the press to the high rollers. He had made a mental note that she had not missed one single soul of all 54 guests there that night. He had to get her number, and make sure she was pulling the reins at his next event. He could surely use someone like that, who knew how to work a room, and managed to get everyone to smile amidst the ongoing stink.

Eric sold exactly one painting that evening, and it was none other than Sally who bought it, as an apology for ruining the desserts. It was a colorful piece called “Nougat by Numbers” and, if one looked carefully, one could see numbers hidden within a swirling honeycomb-like pattern where greens, reds, purples and deep mahoganies danced around together like a box of chocolates that all had one bite taken from them, their colorful fillings popping out all over the canvass. It was a beautiful work of art – or “quirk of art” – as Sally often called Eric’s pieces. But, she had grudgingly admitted to his talent on this night, as wrecked as it was.

The price of the painting just about covered the cost of the waitstaff and chefs for the event. Eric still had to figure out rent, bar, food, movers, planners and nine paid attendants, all hired from a craigslist ad for local actors and extras to help fill the room. And oh, yeah – Eric had rented a tux. Dressed to the nines, but he owed tens now. He didn’t even want to read the reviews the next morning.

“Who knew that my New York gallery opening would end up being reunion week for the British Navy?” Eric asked Sally and Genevieve as the two British gents carried on their storytelling, singing and drinking on the opposite side of the bar, thankfully enough of a distance away that they could carry on a conversation.

“Timing is everything,” Sally chirped back. Eric just shook his head.

“At least Genevieve and I got to connect here. I’ve been looking for someone who can work a crowd like you for ages.” Eric looked over at her. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Literally, I saw you strike up conversations with every single person in here. And all of them smiling even more by the time you made your way to the next group. You walk on air.”

Genevieve barely stifled a smile as Sally fumbled for something in her purse to cover a giggle. “I have that effect on people. When I make my exit, it makes them happy.” Genevieve laughed and half-winked in Sally’s direction. She wasn’t about to tell them how helpful it was to sail around a room as a way of releasing all the pent-up gas in her body. “Movement doesn’t lie, right?”

“No, really, Genevieve. I think you saved the evening, or at least what could be saved of it. And goddamn that awful stink that never seemed to leave. The AC still doesn’t work. I’ve been sweating like a pig most of the night.” Eric’s face showed true gratitude toward Sally for being his lone buyer, but also a humbleness befitting someone who had suddenly slipped a few notches.

Just then, Tom resurfaced from the downstairs kitchen, carrying a tray of gorgeous gluten-free, no-refined-sugar chocolate brownies, sided with fresh strawberries and flawless non-dairy ice cream made of avocados and a few other ingredients.

“I think the kitchen downstairs deserves a lot of credit. The way they rescued the evening from the Baked Alaska debacle should go down in history. Anyhoo, these are some of the leftovers from their quick brownie backup plan. Eric? You’re the star of the evening, you get to help yourself first.” Tom placed the tray down in front of Eric on the bar before parking himself on the stool next to Genevieve’s. “The next round is on me. And, here’s something of interest for you: These brownies are made mostly from sweet potatoes. So, don’t be surprised if you gas things up a bit later on.”

Sally dropped her purse on the floor, hurriedly snatched it up and excused herself, facing away from Tom and covering her laughter as she made haste and rounded the corner to the restrooms. Genevieve could have sworn she heard Sally laughing hysterically from inside the restroom not even 10 seconds later. When she turned to select her sweet potato brownie, Tom was right there with a thick, luscious selection that he’d cut from the center of the tray, in the center of a plate, surrounded by strawberries and cream. She found herself catching her breath.

“The juciest brownie of the night goes to you, my dear,” he said. Genevieve looked into his eyes, sure he could tell she was melting under his kind-eyed gaze.

On that night, new relationships blossomed and new career tracks were born. No one except for Genevieve and Sally knew what had gone on, or how deliberate it had all been, and they laughed about it often. But everyone was surprised and pleased, even Eric, who went on to gain a ravishing new events emcee in Genevieve. On top of her day job and the additional wads of cash she earned under the table as the mysterious New York City Fartist, she was able to sock some real money away at long last. More than enough to share a lux apartment on the Upper West Side with Tom, where they gleefully planned a gluten-free, low dairy future together – one full of chocolate and travel, and just plain love and mutual admiration for each other. Her best friend Sally also found a new flame – a tech entrepreneur who came all the way from Sydney, Australia, just to be with her. “That’s how I know he’s really into me,” Sally always said.

Eric’s exhibit went on successfully for months across various venues in cities around the world, and eventually brought in the sales and notoriety he’d hoped for on that fateful, fartful opening night. Reviews he’d expected would outright pan the opening weren’t as harsh as he thought. There were some tongue-in-cheek remarks, but one reviewer had won his heart with this line:

In a roomful of what smelled like hot gas, Eric Samuels’ astonishingly fearless swaths of color rose above even that with a gauzy, roof-mounted piece that reminds art fans that sometimes it’s all about looking up. Not to be missed.