Page 103 of Margo's Got Money Troubles

“Right, so maybe we offer multiple levels of ongoing subscription service, and we have, like, a basic one that just gives them updated demographic feedback, post-performance analysis, your tips for what they could do with their persona or their content, but we also offer a prestige, like, white-glove service, where we manage everything for them, website, ad placement, maybe even a set number of scripts per week. How much do you think we should charge? Like, what’s a monthly fee they wouldn’t balk at?”

“I don’t think we should do a standard monthly fee. I think we should do a percentage of earnings.” It was cold enough I could see our breath in the air.

“I like that,” he said, “but how much?”

I thought about it. It really depended, but for the white-glove service I didn’t think we should charge anything less than 10 percent.

“That high?” JB asked.

I nodded. “And presumably if we’re doing our job right, their earnings should increase enough that it pays for our ten percent and then some. I think that’s how we sell it to them, that there’s no risk, that they won’t see any earnings decrease because we’ll be earning our own keep.”

“The only thing that’s starting to bother me,” JB said, “and I didn’t think about it until we started talking about a percentage, but like, Margo, are we—like, are we talking about becoming pimps?”

I hesitated, really thinking about it. Then I let out a Ric Flair “Wooo!” into the cold February afternoon. “Hell yeah, we are,” I said. “We’re going to be the most awesome, ethical, kick-ass pimps of all time! I mean, if sex work can be a legitimate profession, why can’t being a pimp? Hey, that gives me an idea: Do you know about, like, VPN stuff? Like, could we offer a security service that shields them from doxxing?”

We kept walking, talking over everything, how many clients we could do at a time, the best way to start. We made a big loop, ending up back in the parking lot of the Arby’s.

“What do you want to call it?” JB asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Like, Special Services?” I laughed; it was such a bad name.

“I think we should just call it Ghost Ink,” he said. “You know, like a ghost writer?”

I couldn’t even say anything, I was so pleased with this idea. I just nodded.

“I don’t know, maybe you’ll come up with something better,” he said. “We’ve got time to think about it.”

“How long are you in town?” I asked.

“My flight isn’t for a couple days.”

“Want to come to my house?” I asked, suddenly excited.

“Yeah, when?”

“Like tomorrow?”

“Okay, awesome!” JB said.

“I’m so excited!” We had arrived at my purple Civic, and I went to give JB a side hug since the gigantic sleeping Bodhi was still strapped to my front.

“Hey, wait,” JB said, stepping away from me. “I have something for you in my car.”

He popped the trunk on his rental. Then he presented me with a gallon Ziploc bag filled to bursting with Runts.

“How?” I asked. “Where did you get these?”

“At the mall,” JB said, smiling sheepishly. “I brought, like, twenty dollars in quarters.”

“You harvested these Runts for me yourself?!” I crowed with happiness.

“From the dark fertile soil of American capitalism,” JB affirmed.

“JB, thank you.”

“Oh, it was a silly gesture,” JB said. “I mean, it’s pathetic that I have that much free time. It’s weird not having a job. I haven’t really known how to fill the time.”

“No, I mean for coming out here. For demanding that we talk and having this idea.”

“Oh, you don’t have to thank me. This is going to sound weird, but I just... I kept thinking we weren’t done. That was all I could think: I know this isn’t done. Me and Margo, we know each other for a long time. We wind up in each other’s lives. It just took me a while to figure out how it could work.”

I looked up into his beautiful face. He was right. I wanted whatever allowed us to keep each other, whatever path forward that would allow us to be in each other’s life. Besides, there would be plenty of time to seduce him later. I held out my hand. “Partners?”

JB looked almost like he was about to cry, but he was grinning. “Partners,” he said.

And we shook on it there under the glowing red hat of the Arby’s, with Ric Flair and the Virgin Mary smiling down on us, willing the story to go on, to never end, to start over again, one adventure leading to the next, and we would never die, and we’d be young forever, and we would scream to the crowd, “Look at me! Look at the beautiful, insane things I can do with my body! Look at me! Love me!”

Because that’s all art is, in the end.

One person trying to get another person they have never met to fall in love with them.