A woman who is used to getting a reaction, Samantha was dismayed when no one, not even the framer, commented on the nude photos she had commissioned.
When the photoshoot was over and the results hung in a pure-class, charcoal-matted frame next to the front door of her studio apartment in the meatpacking district, Samantha allowed herself a little fast food. She was, after all, extremely hungry after her diet of hot water and lemon. And since she was splurging on convenience-eating indulgences, Samantha even had her cheeseburger and fries delivered in a greasy paper bag.
The delivery guy caught sight of the boudoir portrait and told Sam: “Nice ass.”
“I didn’t tip you enough,” she said, handing him a twenty.
And just like that, Samantha formed one of the longest male relationships she had in the city: her late-night food delivery guy. Once in a blue moon, often with a post-coital companion, Samantha would order in from her favorite burger place, the only guilty pleasure she actually considered taboo.
Over time, Samantha would learn that this delivery guy, Ramone, moved to the city from Jersey, where he had worked at a wallpapering company. His former boss had almost gotten mixed up with the first lady of organized crime in the Garden State. The boss came to his senses in time to avoid any dangerous liaisons, and instead of the planned rendezvous, he sent his assistant, Ramone, to finish the contract at the mafia don’s McMansion.
A few weeks later, Ramone walked into the paint store and saw his boss chatting with the woman in question. After she left, Ramone’s boss turned to him and said: “Do you know who she’s married to?”
That was enough for Ramone. He was sick of his boss making out with clients while he was in the next room or lying that Ramone had backed over his lunch cooler with the company van to get clients to cook for him. Ramone quit that day. He moved away from Jersey to avoid any association with the “family” whose members could beat a waiter to death for complaining they had not tipped him enough.
Ramone took the first job he could find, running deliveries for a greasy burger joint. He met Samantha a year later, and as long as she lived in the meatpacking district, Ramone continued to deliver her beef.
I couldn’t help but wonder, why did we never see the nude portrait hanging in Samantha’s apartment again? Did she move it? I tried to google Samantha Jones nude photo, but I just got a bunch of results for pornography.
But that night, as Samantha tore into her cheeseburger, she looked out the window of her studio. It was still too early for her prostitute friends to be working their corner, so as she chewed, Samantha watched Ramone walking down the middle of her street. He threw his arms up, clutching the $20 in one fist, and shouted into the night: “I love New York!”
Photo of a TV. Like I said, this image is tough to google.