Within, Without the Jazz Age

I hate Jackson Pollock. A young, wire rim faced Jewess pointed her eyes deep into her Village Voice issue. O if only Albert Ayler and Ornette Coleman would corroborate on paper their mutual affection for Jackson Frigging Pollock. Then all would be right with the world. These people would byline the man if it got them more credit.

It's a fall day in 1952. Or is it 2002? Does it really matter?
A doctors office on the Upper West Side, she sat waiting ever so impatiently. She fingered past the delinquent pages, still engaged in the paper. She threw it aside like tatters to the floor. I am not worthy. Roaches are worthy.

She looked to the receptionist desk. As chance would have it, that was the exact moment the woman's phone conversation had gathered to a voluminous head.

"She didn't! No! At the Dougan's?! Backwards?! With the broccoli rabe?! Shut up! Shut up!"
The Jewess feigned disinterest while deducing. A kegger? She wishes to be known as the Jewess.

"And the children, too? That Kathy!"
Hmm.

A man barged in the room, the door banging against the wall. He was dirtied, shirtless, with only pair of briefs on. His body slumped as he stood, and he fell. A stumpy old dwarf collected him and closed the door.

Hmm. The Jewess sorted among the magazines.

"I'm gonna kill you! With a huge serrated knife, I will end your living days! I'm serious!", The receptionist laughed as she spoke with the oddest conviction.