BIKER CHICK

RAWLIN STAEWN ISN'T MUCH OF A NEWSPAPER MAN. Oh, his writing has a certain style and he can say a simple thing. But, Rawlin still believes that newspapers have a purpose besides advertising.

My name is Teena. Rawlin calls me "Typesettin' Teena," and I shoot him the bird. I undressed in front of him the very first time I met him, those bright brown eyes of his staring into the corner where I slipped off my dress, dropped my bra and stepped out of my new silk panties. That was about a year ago, when I was modeling at the Herron Art School. Twenty students stood in a circle, each behind a drawing board, all eyes furtive or averted, except for Rawlin. You couldn't miss his eyes, glistening out from olive face and wild black hair. He told me later, that was the first time he ever saw a woman "completely naked in public," and he didn't plan to miss a second of it. Now, I know I'm not beautiful, but when I take off my clothes, I like for a man to be interested.

Of course, that was before I joined the Ashram of the Guru --- Rawlin calls Him "The fat fifteen year old God."

"You know why I heard you joined the Ashram?" Rawlin asked me, and I didn't know. "I heard you just wanted to suck the Guru's dick."
"Wouldn't you give God what he wanted?" I asked Rawlin.

Rawlin laughed that booming laugh of his, like happy thunder, and then he spoke very softly to me. "If it sustains you, then I'm happy for you. But, will you feel the same in six months or two years?"

"He's God!" I don't know why he doesn't understand.
"I just don't believe that God is a fat fifteen year old who rides around in limousines."
"But he is God! You have to have faith."
"My Daddy has a God that has sustained him for fifty years, and I can't even believe in his God," Rawlin said, and shook his head, like he was sad.
"Because the Guru is God," I tried to make him understand.

Rawlin got a serious look on his face, clouds floating behind his eyes, the furrows on his brow like muddy ruts in a Mississippi road, and his voice got full of gravel. "My Daddy's God is as good as your God," he said. The words seemed to surprise him, a light came on behind his eyes. "Did you hear what I said? My Daddy's God is as good as your God." He laughed thunder again.

That pissed me off, a little, and it made me sad, that he can't recognize God.

But Rawlin likes me, and when he started this weekly newspaper -- he named it Expecting Rain, from the Bob Dylan song, "everybody's making love, or else expecting rain" -- he gave me the job of typesetter. The Brothers and Sisters at the Ashram feel better about me typing than posing nude, or at least they like the steady paycheck.

BUT I WANTED TO TELL ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TODAY. It may not be important, but maybe if I put it down on paper, it'll make more sense to me.

About noon, the paper was all typeset and pasted-up and ready to go to the printer, except for one hole, which was supposed to be filled by a full page advertisement. We were all waiting to hear from Shag, the advertising man.

Rawlin and David, another editor, had been up all night getting the paper ready. The rest of the staff go home around ten o'clock the night before, leaving a room full of layout tables filled with pages as full of holes as swiss cheese. Rawlin calls this "the most creative" time; and I can only imagine him, a beer in one hand, coffee in the other, pipe hanging from one side of his mouth, a joint from the other, eyes blazing over the layout sheets. Whatever, it works. Because when Arthur and I arrive the next morning, the office is a stinking mess, but the newspaper is neat and clean and all but ready for the printer. Then I sit down at the keyboard while Arthur, the other editor, checks to see that all the page numbers, captions and continued lines are in their proper places. He tells me, "Teena, type me a 'Page 7,' this one got torn," or whatever. While Rawlin and David, looking like mongrels back from a prowl, laugh and stare at us like we were some sort of surreal aliens.

That's where we were, waiting to hear from Shag. To pass the time, Rawlin, David and Arthur were poring over the finished pages one more time, looking for the last typo.

"I don't see a single typo," David said. Fortunately, David has a real talent with language, because most people find him as peculiar as ketchup on cottage cheese.

"It is a pretty nice edition," Arthur added. As bohemian as Rawlin is, Arthur is at least that conventional. They are a real odd couple: the one with beard, jeans, sandals and every vice; the other clean-shaven, suit and tie, home to his wife every night. Arthur's father owns a daily newspaper in a small Indiana town, and he expects to inherit it, soon. While Rawlin has no expectations beyond this afternoon. Yet they seem to have some common bond and a mutual respect.

"I wish the story about the Indian massacre at Wounded Knee was more interesting," Rawlin complained. "It's a terrific story, but the writing is so bland." Then he asked Arthur, "You're sure Shag has an ad for the motorcycle shop? Otherwise, we've got a whole page to fill."

Before he had finished speaking, the telephone rang and Arthur rushed into the other room to answer it. A moment later he returned with news. "Big Steve is bringing in the copy. He's on his way."

"Camera ready?"
"Camera ready."

Ten minutes later, Big Steve came bursting through the door, excited. "Here's the ad!" Steve is ER's photographer. He's six and a half feet tall, square body and jaw, and always has a camera hanging from his shoulder. "Wait till you see this!" He opened a large brown envelope and took out a tabloid-size sheet of art paper, spreading it over an empty section of layout table. "What do you think?"

I swiveled my chair around and watched the four men lean over the artwork. David's short, chubby penguin arms flapped up and down as he stepped back and giggled, "Hee hee, hee hee," rubbing his hands together. Arthur turned his head and spoke to Rawlin, "I'm not sure we want to print this." Rawlin stared intently for several minutes, then staggered backwards like he'd been punched. And he doesn't even stagger when he's drunk. "It's so ugly!" Rawlin said.

"It's a full page ad, and he'll sign a contract to run it every week for six months," Big Steve told the editors.
"That's a third of our printing bill," David mused.
"Maybe it's not so bad," Arthur said.
"It's great," David laughed, slapping his palms together.

Rawlin leaned back, then forward, gazing down at the art work. Then he leaned back and forward again, three times, as though he hoped one time he'd see something different. "It's so damned ugly!" he said, more to himself than to us. "I just don't want to print that."

Steve, David and Arthur exchanged glances, then turned back to Rawlin, who paced around the room, clouds in his eyes, furrows on his brow. I don't usually pay attention to their ads, but this one I had to see, so I rose and crossed the room to look. It was an advertisement for The Chopper Motorcycle Shop, for Harley Davidson motorbikes ("Hogs" the ad called them). In the very center of the page, amid information about store location and hours, was the drawing of a naked woman on a "hog." It's poorly drawn, as though by a curious but ignorant eight year old; all breasts, thighs and blank pubis. "What's wrong?" I asked.

The three waited for Rawlin to respond, then Arthur told me, "It's so crudely drawn."

"This is what the advertiser wants," Steve said.
"It would pay a lot of bills," David observed. Then he spoke for all of us. "Well, Rawlin?"
"It's so damn ugly," the gravel grinds deep in his throat. "I don't think we should print it."
David and Steve smile, and Arthur says, "I'm surprised at your reaction."
"You didn't mind seeing me naked," I had to say.
"I'd rather print a photograph," Rawlin said. "I'd print a picture of a naked woman." Then he paused, something like pain on his face. "I like naked women," Rawlin's voice was resigned. "But, this is so damned ugly. I just don't want to print anything I'm not proud of."
"It don't bother me," Said David. And Big Steve looked at Rawlin as though he were mad. "Shag will be pissed. It's a big commission for him," Steve said.
"It bothers me. But, I'll go along with whatever you all say," Rawlin said and looked us each in the eye.
"It's a tough call," Arthur spoke thoughtfully. "But I have to go along with Rawlin."

We all stood there for the longest time, like passengers on a sinking ship, waiting for a life raft.

"I've got an idea," Big Steve finally said. "Let me call Shag." David and Arthur followed him out the door, to listen to the conversation with the advertising man.

Rawlin smiled at the question on my face. "It's so ugly," he said again.

After a few minutes, Steve came storming back into the composing room, followed by the others.

"Here, look at this!" He takes a small piece of paper and sets it on top of the artwork. I look over Rawlin's shoulder and see that Steve has placed a professionally drawn eagle over the sketch, covering the female torso. "A biker chick with an eagle on her chest," he said proudly.
"The advertiser doesn't like it, but he's willing to go along for two issues," Arthur explained.
"I can live with that," Rawlin said. "It's a good eagle."
"The advertiser is really mad! And Shag is upset--he's losing a big commission," Steve continued. "But the owner said he'll run the ad twice, to see if he gets any response."
"Shag will probably quit," David said, slapping his palms together again.
"Tell him I'm sorry," Rawlin said.

WELL, NOW I'VE TOLD IT, but I still don't understand, any better than I did before. Hell, one of these days they'll have cruder drawings than that on television, ugly characters saying "Huh huh, huh huh" and "That's cool," and it'll probably be a big hit.

So, who is this guy, happy to watch me undress, his eyes so hot they nearly burned me? Yet, he won't recognize God when he sees him, and he won't print an ugly drawing of a biker chick. Rawlin Staewn is certainly no newspaper man.