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Black Cat
|
Adam Mite
Lisa Gray
Suzy died the day Adam proposed.
She’d been so happy. She’d called me from her cell-phone from the bathroom of the restaurant.
“Adam’s proposed!” she said. “It was so romantic! We were having dinner and he offered me a glass of champagne. And there it was. The ring! The very one I wanted. The one I saw. A year ago. In the jeweller’s window. Lying at the bottom of the champagne glass!”
Romantic? Adam? It was news to me. But I guess everyone can change.
Suzy had certainly changed from the day she had met Adam.
And Adam?
Adam had had a complete metamorphosis.
I remember that day a year ago when she saw the ring for the first time. Had Adam bought it then for her?
And kept it?
Maybe he was more romantic than I’d thought.
“Do you think Adam might buy it for me?” Suzy had said.
Like hell he will! I’d thought, watching Adam’s disappearing back slither like a snake into the Armani shop in the mall. Adam only thought of himself. Selfish. A spendthrift. And vain. Suzy had told me how he spent hours in the shower every day pampering himself.
“For my birthday?”
She was gazing into the window of an expensive jeweller’s. Pointing at an unusual ring in the window. It wasn’t an engagement ring.
I guess Suzy’s given up on looking at them, I thought. The fact Adam might propose was as unlikely as him buying that ring in the window.
Poor Suzy. All she wanted was a ring! A sign of commitment.
I knew how she loved gems. How she had become addicted to the jewellery shopping channel. How she had every precious and semi-precious stone under the sun. Not for acquisitiveness. Nor greed nor covetousness. But because she had a genuine love for gemstones and their properties.
“You might have to drop a hint or two,” I’d said, as tactfully as I could.
“Oh, I have to have it!” said Suzy. “I don’t have that one.”
She had every other one, I thought. Suzy had built up a considerable collection.
I’m the jealous type. Scorpios are. But I’m more artistic. That’s why I work in Interior Design. I wasn’t jealous of Suzy’s collection. She couldn’t help it. She was a Cancerian. They collect anything. Besides which, Suzy and I are sisters. Both water signs. Both deep feeling. We love one another.
“Let’s go in and take a look at it!” she’d enthused.
I knew Adam wouldn’t even miss us. He’d be too busy spending hundreds.
“It’s a very unusual stone,” the jeweller had said.
I didn’t tell Suzy. But it wasn’t my kind of colour. I prefer green.
“Oh, I love unusual stones,” Suzy had said with her usual infectious laugh. “What is it?”
“It’s Adamite,” said the jeweller.
“Did you hear that? It’s meant!” screamed Suzy.
The couple standing next to us looked shocked at such shouting.
“You see, my boyfriend’s called Adam,” said Suzy to the jeweller, as if by way of explanation for her unrestrained excitement. “And I’m hoping he might————————.”
She tailed off. But the jeweller had got the drift.
“You tell him about it!” he said,” grinning, “Sometimes all a man needs is a little push in the right direction.”
“Oh, I will. I will,” she’d said.
And she did.
But Adam wasn’t convinced. Suzy tried explaining her love of gemstones to Adam. He still wasn’t convinced. That’s why she lent him the book. The gemstone book. I think she thought if he knew a bit more about gemstones he’d come around.
So he had.
Too late.
I didn’t suspect Adam at first. He was so distraught at Suzy’s death. Besides which the coroner had come up with a cause of accidental death. Suzy had apparently ingested arsenic accidentally from the lime she’d been spreading on her garden. Gardening was her second hobby. Gardening and gemstones.
And yet I found it hard to believe that Suzy wouldn’t have washed her hands after handling any potentially toxic substance.
It was only after the will was read that I started to have any doubt.
She’d left her gem collection to Adam.
Even since that day we’d seen the Adamite ring, Suzy’s collection had grown considerably. Encouraged by Adam who, it seemed, had found a new interest in gemstones.
And since when had Suzy made a will?
I guess Adam thought I was jealous. Even though Suzy had left the contents of her house to me.
“I can’t believe it!” he said. “I don’t want anything. Just my memories of Suzy. I can’t believe Suzy would have done such a thing!”
I believed him. He looked so distraught. So a considerable fortune was involved. What was money compared to the loss of a sister? And Adam had almost been my brother.
Maybe it was time I started treating him that way.
“I want you to have a keepsake to remember Suzy by,” Adam said, a few days after the will had been read. Come round and pick out one of the gemstones.”
I could see already death had changed Adam.
So I did. I picked out the Adamite ring. It would always remind me of Suzy.
I guess I shouldn’t have.
Adam looked apologetic.
“Anything but that one,” he said. “It was our engagement ring. It has a sentimental attachment.”
“Of course,” I said. “It was insensitive of me.”
So I picked out a large greenish one with pretty markings.
Adam seemed happy.
I didn’t see him for a few weeks after that. Not till I summoned up the courage to clear out Suzy’s house. I’d packed up most of her things in boxes for charity when I found it stuffed down the side of the sofa.
Suzy’s gem book.
I was leafing through the pages idly wondering why Suzy had found gemstones so fascinating when Adam walked in.
The smile on his face crumpled like cellophane when he saw what I was holding.
“My book!” he said, recovering somewhat. “You’ve found it!”
“Your book!” I said startled.
I did sound pettish. But Adam’s covetousness annoyed me somehow. He had her whole gemstone collection. What could he want with her book?
“It’s Suzy’s book!”
“Yes—————————,” Adam’s voice paused momentarily, as if weighing his words.
“—————————————but Suzy lent it to me.”
“But it’s still Suzy’s book,” I said.
My pettishness showed no pity.
“Yes. I guess so,” he conceded, somewhat reluctantly.
“And she did leave the contents of her house to me?”
His eyes widened in surprise at my assertiveness.
But I didn’t give him a chance to reply.
“And, as this book is part of the contents, I’ll be keeping it.”
He wasn’t about to admit defeat.
“But you’re not interested in gemstones!” he protested, somewhat too vehemently.
For God’s sake it’s only a book! I said to myself. Why the hell would he want it?
“My sister was. And it’ll remind me of my sister,” I replied.
He seemed to realise he’d gone too far.
“Sorry!” he said. “Of course it’s yours. We all need something to remember her by.”
I’d never have read it normally. I’m not into gemstones. Though I do like books. Being the artistic type. I guess I became suspicious after Adam left. Maybe Suzy had left something in it.
But I didn’t find anything.
So what was all the fuss about?
I was about to discard the book but something changed my mind.
I started reading. It was in alphabetical order.
I only got as far as A.
Then I knew why Adam had wanted the book.
Suzy had died of arsenic poisoning all right. But not from a lime fertiliser.
From her engagement ring.
That’s why Adam had put it in her champagne glass. How long had it lain there spreading its toxic substance through the liquid? Or had Adam already scraped some off the stone and added it to her glass? I would never know.
But Adam knew. That’s why he’d become interested in gemstones. Why he’d taken so long to propose. Why he got Suzy to make a will. While he planned to inherit her gemstones.
Adam had murdered Suzy. That’s why he’d wanted the gemstone book. He’d been frightened I would find out.
Ice-cold anger flowed through my veins.
I’d go to the police. I’d tell them what I’d found out. He wouldn’t get away with it.
But deep down I knew what they’d say. Jealous older sister.
And I had no proof. Adam had probably conveniently lost the ring anyhow.
That’s when I made my plans.
It involved a lot of reading. And I became quite a collector. Like Suzy. It was my way of remembering her. When everyone else had forgotten.
That’s how a year passed.
Adam moved on. Everyone sympathised with him. They said it was right when he sold his small apartment on the seamier side of town and moved into a penthouse apartment downtown. And he had a new partner. Not live-in. But going that way. A fresh start for him, everyone said. No old memories. no one questioned how he’d funded it. But I knew. He’d sold some of Suzy’s gem collection.
And me. Everyone felt sorry for me. Said I’d never got over the death of my sister. Wasn’t it sad how I became a bit of a recluse and hoarded things?
It was especially hard on the anniversary of Suzy’s death.
That’s when I decided I had to get out more. It was my time to move on.
I offered to design Adam’s apartment for him.
He looked surprised initially at my offer. I guess he thought I’d be upset over his new partner. But then I think he realised my desire to move on so he agreed.
Adam and his new partner did not have too many stipulations. She was a compliant, young, inexperienced girl from a well-to-do background used to getting things done for her. It crossed my mind that Adam might————————————.
Should I warn her?
I laughed. I could almost hear her reaction. Deranged. Jealous. Vengeful. And would she take any notice?
I buried myself in the plans for the new apartment. Adam and his new partner had few stipulations.
“Apart from pink in the bathroom,” he said. “No way.”
I’d thought more in the regions of green.
The painters were surprised at my hands-on approach. They were used to designers standing back and supervising. Not me.
I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted Adam to appreciate the effort I was putting in.
“No, not that shade of green,” I said, when they showed me the colour for the bathroom. “I’ll mix it myself. I know what I want.”
I picked well. Adam and his new partner were delighted with the colour and the rest of the apartment.
“I just needed a little push in the right direction,” I said when Adam and the girl expressed their thanks.
I didn’t see Adam again. But I saw the girl. She turned up unexpectedly at my house some little time after.
I was surprised to see her.
I hadn’t expected to see either of them again.
She looked upset. Her face pale. Old even.
She knew I was surprised.
“I just thought I’d better tell you,” she said. “in case you don’t see the announcement in the paper.”
“Announcement?” I queried.
A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and trickled reluctantly down her face.
“Adam died yesterday!” she said in a strangled sob.
“Died!” I repeated, suitably shocked.
“In the shower!” she said. Like no one should die there. “The day they told him he had cancer. There were traces of arsenic in his blood. They found insecticide under the sink in his apartment. They think he ingested some because he couldn’t deal with the fact he had cancer.”
“In the shower!” I repeated.
The girl nodded.
“Do you think Adam might have wanted to die there? I guess you know how vain he was. He used to spend hours in there.”
Oh, I knew all right. I’d depended on it. When I mixed the green paint. The paint that had copious amounts of malachite in it. Malachite. I’d spent nights grinding the gem stone down to a fine powder and mixing it into the paint. I knew the copper aceto arsenite in the paint on the bathroom wall of Adam’s apartment would interact with the constantly damp walls from Adam’s extended showers. And Adam would inhale the toxic arsenic. And I had been the one who had left the insecticide under the sink telling Adam it would keep the insects away. Constant exposure to the arsenic would have caused the cancer. And his death.
It was what I’d planned.
“Adam might,” I said. “We all want to die happy.”
“He was always happy in the shower,” she said. “But particularly since you redesigned his bathroom. You could hear his happiness in his singing.”
I felt guilty.
She paused and looked up.
“You’ll be at the funeral on Saturday,” she said.
“Of course,” I said.
I wouldn’t miss it.
“I’d like to give you something. For Adam. Something he really wanted,” I said.
“Depending what it is, maybe we could arrange for it to go into the coffin,” said the girl. “Particularly if it was something he really wanted.”
I reached down the side of the sofa and pulled it out.
“We had a bit of a disagreement about it and I feel really bad about it. He always wanted this. You know how he loved gemstones.”
“Oh, yes. He’s still got quite a collection. He always joked he’d leave them to me.”
I’m sure he had. Along with the apartment.
“But I’d feel really bad if he had,” she added. “After all they were your sister’s collection. If I did inherit them, I’d want you to have them.”
She’d surprised me. But then people have a habit of doing that. I even surprise myself sometimes.
“That’s so thoughtful of you,” I said, grasping the girl’s hand warmly, resisting the impulse to hug her.
The girl smiled.
“If you do that, I’m going to do something for you,” I said.
“No, no, I won’t hear of it,” said the girl.
“I insist,” I said. “I’m sure Adam will have left you his apartment. But you won’t want it as it is. Old memories, you know. I’ll re-design the entire thing for you. I know Suzy would approve.”
“Do you think Adam might?” said the girl, a tear in her eye.
I felt sorry for the girl. I knew she’d been spared but she’d obviously been fond of him.
I handed her Suzy’s gem book. Suzy’s engagement ring on my right hand shone lustrously.
“Adam Mite,” I said.
|
Bus Pass
Lisa Gray
Carla pulled the plastic popcorn beaded cord of the louvred blinds and looked out. The yellow bus was halfway round the roundabout in front of her house. Carla caught a glimpse of the elderly faces on the passenger side of the bus. They weren’t clones. They were too old.
But they weren’t happy.
She couldn’t think why not.
They had every reason to be cheerful. They’d all retired and were collecting their reward. Free bus travel.
Don’t these people appreciate what they have? she thought angrily, making her way towards the kitchen. I’m not going to be like them, when I get old.
Who’s kidding who? she thought, passing the dining room mirror. I am old.
Her eye went to the bus pass form and the two photographs lying on the dining room table.
She hadn’t filled the form in. She knew why. She hadn’t wanted to admit she’d joined the club. The over sixty-five club.
Not if it means I end up like those sour, old faces on that bus, she thought.
She picked up one of the two small passport-sized photos and studied it. She didn’t look her age.
It was something she’d always been grateful for.
She filled the kettle with water, opened the window to get some fresh air and wrinkled her nose. That unpleasant smell filled the air again. She wondered where it was coming from. She picked up the night before’s newspaper and scoured the headline.
“Crippling Council Cuts. Council Facing Bankruptcy. Five Million to be Cut Over Five Years.”
Five million, thought Carla. Cuts. There was bound to be some. There’d been nothing but cuts since 2030. She wondered if they’d cut the free bus for the elderly.
She read on.
“Council to come up with Action Plan.”
That’s what I need, she thought. An action plan. It’s time I owned up to my age. I’d better fill in the form and take advantage of the free bus travel why I still have the chance.
She was lucky she had the form. She’d never have gone for it herself. It was Joanne who’d got it for her. Joanne, her next door neighbour. Her only friend since she’d come to this small town.
Joanne. Whom she’d not seen any sight of lately.
But then you never see much of anybody here, she thought.
It was the queerest place she’d ever lived – and the quietest.
“Maybe it’s a government experiment,” her daughter Leanne had laughed, the one day in the year she’d visited her.
She had laughed back. There’d been enough of them. But it was true. You never saw anyone. Despite the fact there were several blocks of apartments right opposite her, you rarely saw anyone entering or leaving. At the beginning she’d seen several elderly couples and a few young people coming and going but lately all she had seen were new, strange, young faces entering the blocks. Clones she suspected. She could always tell.
“Maybe the elderly people have moved into a home,” Leanne had said. “And those clones have replaced them.”
A home, thought Carla. That’s where elderly people used to end up but there were fewer and fewer of them. The old ones were being pulled down and no new ones seemed to be being built. She couldn’t understand it. Weren’t there more elderly people than ever? She’d always thought a home was where she would end up and she’d saved all her money towards that.
Wasn’t that what the government wanted everyone to do? Save their money. So they wouldn’t be a drain on the state. And she always had. So it had been a shock when she’d made that trip to the bank.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to fill in a form if you want to access your money,” said the bank teller, handing Carla a large two page, A4 document.
“A form?” she’d been ignorant enough to enquire.
“You haven’t been putting any money in recently.”
Carla had almost burst out, “I’m retired.”
But she hadn’t wanted to admit her age.
Instead she’d said feebly.
“I know but what difference does that make?”
“New government regulations,” said the bank teller, coldly. “If you don’t put any money in for two months, the government can claim the money.”
Two months! thought Carla. First it was ten years, then five years, then one year and now two months. Claim all she’d been saving these years! What was the world coming to? she thought. Next thing they’ll be taking your house!
She’d filled in the form, carefully leaving out her age and handed the teller the little money she’d managed to save. The bank teller hadn’t seemed to notice her error. For the first time Carla was glad she’d been served by a clone.
That’s when she had decided she had to get away. To somewhere quieter. And here was certainly quiet. Too quiet.
“Maybe that’s where I should be,” Carla had said to Leanne.
“Where?”
Leanne had never been one for concentration. But then none was expected now.
“A home,” said Carla.
Leanne had out a hoop of laughter.
“You’re not old enough for that!” she had said.
“Old enough for a bus pass,” said Carla, in a depressed voice.
“You need to get out more and meet new friends,” said Leanne. “You’re becoming a misery.”
Like those faces in the bus, thought Carla, but said nothing.
Meet new friends? That was harder than she’d thought it would be here. Unless she admitted her age.
She’d spoken to one elderly lady from the flats when she’d first arrived.
“Morning! You keeping well,” she’d said.
“Never better,” the grey haired lady had said, with a big smile on her face. “I’m starting dancing. Afternoon tea dancing. Tea and dancing. What more could you ask for? Going to get the yellow bus. The free one. I just ring them and along it comes. It takes you away.”
That’s what I should do, Carla had thought and she’d looked out for the old lady to ask her what the number was.
But she’d never seen her again.
“I’ve got Joanne,” she’d said to Leanne. “Joanne’s my friend.”
“And where is she when you need her?” Leanne had retorted.
It was true. She hadn’t seen anything of Joanne recently. She couldn’t understand it. They’d been inseparable. Ever since that first day she’d brought a chocolate cake to Carla’s door.
“Just a little welcome to your new home,” she’d said.
Carla had smiled.
I did the right thing moving here, she thought. A fresh start with friendly people. Just what she needed.
And Joanne had been a true friend. The only one. They’d taken day trips together, shopped till they dropped and spent quiet evenings discussing the future.
“I can’t wait till I’m sixty-five!” Joanne had surprised her with one of those nights.
Not that it should have been a surprise. Joanne was full of surprises.
“You must be joking!” Carla had said, knowing how much she was dreading it.
“Why would I joke about that?” Joanne had said.
“What’s to celebrate about turning sixty-five?”
“The free bus pass if nothing else,” Joanne had replied. “Imagine. You just dial the bus and it takes you anywhere. For free. We can go wherever we like. Nothing can stop us.”
“I don’t think I’m going to bother,” Carla had said.
Joanne had looked horrified.
“Not going to bother! Don’t be daft!”
She looked at Carla suspiciously.
“I get it,” she had said after a long pause. “You don’t want to admit you’re sixty five! Even to yourself.”
“Why should I?” retorted Carla. “I don’t feel any different. Why should I have to admit I am? Besides which I don’t want to join a bus load of sour, old people.”
“But it’s free!” Joanne had almost screamed at her. “And if you don’t fill in the form, I’ll have no one to go with.”
So it was that Joanne had gone down and got Carla the bus pass form at the same time as her own. The day of Joanne’s sixty-fifth birthday.
But a few weeks later Carla still hadn’t filled hers in.
“I’ve handed mine in,” Joanne had boasted, the last time she’d seen her.
They’d been going for coffee to the local museum cafeteria. Joanne had flashed her pass at the clone behind the counter.
“Senior Citizen’s discount?” Joanne had said cheekily. The clone behind the counter had stared at the pass and smiled too sweetly. Carla hadn’t liked the look of him. She didn’t like any of them. She knew they were employed by the government and couldn’t be trusted. And there seemed to be more and more of them. Especially in this town.
“Of course,” he said. “And your friend?”
Carla shook her head.
They paid for their coffees and made their way to the only spare table in the restaurant.
“You should have had yours!” said Joanne, clearing a space on the table for her tray.
“Mine?” said Carla absent-mindedly, too intent on watching the clone watching them.
“Your bus pass.”
Joanne’s voice seemed unnecessarily loud. Carla hoped no one would hear.
“You would have got it cheaper,” her friend went on. “no one can afford to waste money nowadays.”
Joanne’s right, thought Carla, looking at the form she hadn’t filled in. I’ll fill it in and take it round to show her I’ve done it.
She should have done it long ago.
But Joanne wasn’t in. A young, strange face opened the door.
Carla felt apprehensive. Clones always made her feel like that.
“Mrs. Jarvis has moved away,” the clone said coldly when Carla had enquired about her friend.
Moved away? thought Carla. Joanne would never do that without telling me.
“You a friend?” said the clone suspiciously.
“A neighbour,” stated Carla, somehow glad she’d slipped the bus pass form into her bag.
The clone seemed satisfied and closed the door. But Carla wasn’t. There was something in the wind.
A clone living in Joanne’s house, she thought when she’d returned to her own home. Something was wrong.
She opened her bag and took out the bus pass form, noticing as she did so her mobile phone.
Maybe Joanne has left me a message, she thought.
“Couldn’t wait around for you to fill in form,” said the text. “Have decided to try out free bus before the cuts.”
The yellow bus was halfway round the roundabout in front of her house the next morning when Carla started up the car. She was careful to follow at a discreet distance. The free bus was the last link with her friend.
Maybe the bus will lead me to her, she thought.
The first stop was outside a church hall. Carla heard the sound of music from within.
Two old ladies got off.
“I’ll pick you up later,” she heard the bus driver say, as he pulled off again.
Carla wondered if that was where the dancing took place. Maybe Joanne was there. Maybe she’d met a man! It wasn’t impossible. Even at her age. Maybe that was why she had moved away.
But why didn’t she tell me? thought Carla. It was so unlike her.
The bus headed out of town and turned left and up a winding country road that Carla had never been up before. It stopped at the back of a low, dark coloured modern building and all the occupants got out and entered the building. Carla parked the car in the cover of some shrubbery and waited. Thirty minutes later the bus driver appeared, got into the bus and drove away. He must have gone for the others, thought Carla. This must be where they get their tea. She wondered what to do. Follow the bus or enter the low building.
The bus would be coming back for the others so she decided to take the latter course. Maybe some of the others could tell her about Joanne.
She got out of the car and ran across to the shelter of the building. A strong, sickly aroma was carried to her in the wind. Something’s burning, thought Carla. Maybe it’s the afternoon scones to go with the tea.
She was passing a low window when she heard the two male voices.
“There’s five million to be cut, you know.”
“I know. I don’t know how we’re going to manage.”
It looks like no one is immune from the council bankruptcy, thought Carla. Those elderly people had better make the most of their free afternoon tea. It obviously wasn’t going to be around for much longer.
It seemed no one was immune from the cuts.
She was about to look in the window when she spied a plastic cup on the ground.
Someone didn’t like their tea, thought Carla. They’d thrown it out the window. Some old people don’t even appreciate a free cup of tea, she thought angrily.
She picked up the cup. The cup reminded her of Joanne. Even the lipstick stain on the side looked like Joanne’s favourite shade. Carla picked it up to examine it and caught the faintest whiff of something in the wind.
She walked round the front of the building. She’d wait for Joanne here. Suddenly she saw the plaque on the wall of the building.
“Inverdeen Crematorium.”
Carla felt ashamed of herself. Those elderly people were all attending a funeral. She couldn’t disturb them. Maybe that’s where Joanne was too. Not that she could see a sign of anybody. It was quiet and queer no one was around.
She smiled, thinking of Leanne’s words.
“Maybe it’s a government experiment.”
no one coming or going.
They must all be inside.
She thought of the clone’s words.
“Five million to be cut.”
Were they going to cut funerals? Where were people going to go when they died? Whatever next? she thought.
That’s when she decided.
She’d go straight home and fill in her bus pass form. She’d better take advantage of it while she still had the chance. Before the cuts.
And she would have done. If she hadn’t seen the bus pass.
It must be bringing the others from the church hall, she thought. She waited for it to stop at the front door of the building but it drove to the rear.
Strange I was told funerals were at the front, she thought. Maybe I could catch those people before they go in and ask them if Joanne is there, she thought, in an instant. But by the time reached the back door it was firmly closed.
I’ll wait outside for them, she thought. But half an hour passed and no one came out. They must be having tea, thought Carla.
She was about to give up and go home when she heard a man’s voice. Must be the bus driver, she thought.
He was laughing.
Had the man no respect for the dead? thought Carla.
“Five million to be cut. A lot less funerals!” she heard him say.
Clones, thought Carla. Completely insensitive. Didn’t they realise they would be cut if there were no funerals?
“What do you want done with these?” he carried on.
“Put them on that table there,” said the clone’s voice.
Must be the tea, thought Carla.
She wouldn’t have much longer to wait.
And then she would see Joanne.
The cold wind whipped at her and the same, sickly smell scented the wind. She tried the handle of the door. It gave way under her hand.
I’ll wait in here, she thought, away from that smell. She was in some sort of ante-room. There was no sign of the bus driver or the clones. A door on the opposite wall was ajar. The tables would be set for tea, thought Carla. Joanne would have her own table, I expect, she thought.
She couldn’t help herself. She had to look.
Joanne had her own table. And so did all the other bodies. She didn’t recognise Joanne at first. Among all the others. But she knew it was Joanne. The bus pass was still in her hand. There’d been cuts all right. When her hand had been removed from the body. The same hand that must have thrown the tea-cup with the cyanide out the window.
“Five million to be cut!”
The words echoed in her ears. It wasn’t the free bus that had been cut or the funerals. It was the elderly. But one cut led to another. And this was only the start. She backed away in fear into the anteroom.
The door beside her opened and a voice, carrying a tea tray, said sharply,
“You got your pass?”
Carla turned and looked startled.
“My pass?” she said slowly.
“Your bus pass.”
The clone’s voice was cold, curt.
“No.”
Carla began to shake her head, her blonde curls dancing, softening her youthful face.
The clone studied her.
Would he guess? thought Carla.
The clone studied her carefully.
“No. You’re not old enough.”
There was the roar of an engine. And Carla saw the bus pass.
She didn’t look her age. The clone had said so.
It was something she’d always be grateful for.
|
24 Hour Surrender
Doug Draime
There are those days,
those bastardly
blood dripping days,
when you know
more than
on other
days, that the world
is totally insane. Insane
with greed, insane with
over population,
insane with warring butchery,
insane with ego mania, insane
raving devil
insane. Mad and insane with
corporate fangs of inhumanity and
death and
you just want
to crawl up
under the house
on those days,
crawl up under
the house
and pull the
earth up over
you.
|
barbed
Janet Kuypers
haiku 3/10/14
they talk of mercy
but they still keep broken glass,
barbed wire on roofs
|
(Click here to read Janet Kuypers’ bio.)
What Color is the Sky
A.J. Huffman
in the world you live in? I think
these words to myself, sometimes slipping,
actually letting them articulate from my tongue.
I look around at the bubble-headed baboons
milling around me and cannot believe they made it
through the morning, let alone half a lifetime
in any type of tangible reality.
The poor dimwitted cashier who looks at me
with deer-in-headlights terror when I hand her
$20.10 for my $9.60 total. Her fingers shaking
as I soothe her, reinforce in child-like tones that
it’s okay, just punch it in, you’ll see.
My niece who calls me, all excited. She just got
a great deal on a car from a dealership. The grown-up
version I’ve been telling her it’s time she buys. It just needs
a small filter. Her boyfriend is going to change it tomorrow.
The car is being towed to her house now. It doesn’t run
without the filter. She wants me to come
and see it, thinks I will be proud.
How do they get themselves dressed each day, let alone hold
down jobs, raise children? I wonder, shaking my head
to relieve the pressure or maybe to knock something loose
that will explain it all, make me understand.
I go to the flea market, buy dozens of pairs
of sunglasses, all in varying shades of rose.
Putting them on, my eyes still see
a sky of variegated blue, gray
creeping in from the south. How appropriate,
I think, it’s going to rain.
|
Car Sitter
Eric Burbridge
“The road to hell is paved with good intention.”
That was what the cops said when I told them I took the Aston-Martin DB9 around the corner to circulate the oil for the owner. They frowned at the sarcasm. They actually stopped me for being Black with a beautiful blonde sitting next to me. I pulled over to drop her, a friend of the owner, at the Gold Coast Whole Food Store. They searched me, the car, and charged me with DUI. Those arrogant bastards got off on cuffing in front of the gathering crowd. And, of course, the younger of the two drove the long way to impound the vehicle. What did they do that for? A few hours later I walked out the First District station with the family lawyer. Those cops cleaned the shithouses of the nastiest stations in the city every day for six months with the threat of termination hanging over their heads.
The moral of that story: Don’t fuck with politically connected billionaires.
How did I get in that position?
For twenty years I delivered mail on the Gold Coast and what is now known as “River North.” With seniority came the opportunity to bid on the better routes. Several years prior to retiring a block on billionaire row became available. Hallelujah!
A mixture of small high rises, brown and gray stone mansions line the four blocks I deliver. I was never overbearing in my interactions with the customers, rich or poor. But, in time I got well acquainted with several of the more influential billionaires. When I first started working the area I saw a guy sweeping the street and curb in front of a mansion. You’d swear he didn’t have a dime, but he owns an international hotel chain. They’re like everybody else, but with more money. I asked, for the hell of it, a real estate mogul for a part time doorman job at the 1435 Building on the corner of South Ave. and Lake Shore Drive. He called my bluff. “OK, Adam Kellerman, since you retire next month you’re hired if you are still interested.” The short chubby guy with the bright smile was dead serious.
“OK...I’ll take it.” Being the new kid on the block certain long term employees resented, with a smile, my cordial relationship with several tenants. Like I said before, I’m not overbearing. Nobody likes a phony, even a paid one. A few years later what got my coworkers really pissed, or envious, one tenant gave me a set of keys to his Aston-Martin DB9. Who told them I’ll never know.
Who doesn’t love exotic sports cars?
We’d talk for hours about the era of the supercars. Being Old School we had a lot in common. Everybody addressed him as Mr. Cavanaugh, but we were on a first name basis. Both of us are tall and lanky, slight guts and gray balding heads. He rarely drives the car. It’s covered in the corner of the underground garage. I only had the one incident I mentioned earlier. Over time other people trusted me with their vehicles. My guess, his recommendation, now I had the keys to a Ferrari F430 and a Rolls Royce Phantom, flattering to say the least. The owners were abroad for several months and I decided to play rich on my off days. Why not? The stares and long glances would be fun. I planned my vacation with that in mind. Diane agreed, but bad luck raised its ugly head; her brother had a heart attack. The red eye flight to the west coast carried Diane, her sisters and my best wishes for his speedy recovery.
A week off and no distractions. Now what do I do? I ran through the gears of the Ferrari F430 to increase my tab at the one per center’s watering hole.
*
The parking lot of the North Shore Sports Club said it all; prestigious cars everywhere. Huge trees spaced evenly blocked sections of the reflective glass panels of the bi-level structure. Security cameras were disguised and the personnel around the entrance were not intimidating. But, if you want a good beating, screw up.
I cruised past the front to be seen by the gold diggers before giving the car to the valet. A medium well porterhouse and baked potato later, I parked myself at a strategic spot at the chrome and mirrored circular bar. My eyes were pulled toward a lady sitting across from me. I didn’t want to look just yet. I thought about that, see and don’t see, for a second. Why not look? I haven’t played the game at a bar, or anywhere else for that matter, in decades. But, whatever the play it ends up in the bed in most cases. She lifted her glass and wrapped a glossy set of perfect sculptured lips around a straw. A small sip, she winked and she placed the Daiquiri on the napkin. I winked back. Her hair was gray, cut short and in a roaring twenties waves with medium sized hooped earrings. Her frameless glasses accented her high cheek bones. My money said Eastern European. She eased the stem of her glass gracefully between her fingers and excused herself from a guy’s conversation on her right. Now I get to see all of her. For forty plus she moved like a swan. No full figure and no girdle. A lot of time went into that work of art. She wore a turquoise blouse that went well with loose fitting wide leg pants.
She smiled and sat. The way her lips hit that straw was hypnotic. “Hello, I’m Cinnamon and, no, that’s not a nickname.” Her soothing tone could calm a snake.
“I’m Adam.” We shook. Her hand was pillow soft and smooth. “You are gorgeous, Cinnamon, can I...”
“Shhhh.” She put a finger near my lips. “Don’t say it, Adam.” She beckoned the young redheaded barmaid. “Replenish my friend’s beer please.” She reached under the bar and produced my favorite brand.
“Well, thanks, Cinnamon.”
“No...thank you, I’m glad you made it. They told me to look for you. I didn’t expect you this soon.”
“What?”She had to come in after I ordered my food.
She looked puzzled, leaned over and whispered. “I heard there’s some of that homemade oxy out there that’s laced with heroin. I don’t mean to be insulting, but you don’t do that, right?” She asked with a smile on her thin angular face.
Damn, she thinks I’m a dealer. “Uh...Cinnamon, you’ve made a mistake, I don’t have any oxy.” She turned white as snow.
“I’m so sorry, I...I.” She downed her drink. “Nice meeting you, Adam.” She hurried back to the other side.
Oh, well, too good to be true. I should’ve known. Time to go; no drugs, no kind of way. I finished the beer and turned to leave. A brother in a green shirt and tie, my height and build, but twenty years younger, paused at the entrance. When he set eyes on Cinnamon he went straight at her. She cut her eyes my way. If she was smart she wouldn’t mention her mistake.
I tipped the valet, headed for Route 41 and tuned on the only jazz station in town. When I hit Lake Shore Drive I exited at Clark Ave. Next stop The Jazz Showcase.
*
I parked the F430 in front of the club on a two hour parking meter courtesy of our illustrious mayor. You had to feed the damn things on Sunday too. But, late afternoon on Saturday had its advantages. The club wasn’t full, no live ensemble. Previous taped performances were good and sometimes better. The showcase was a converted coffee shop with high ceilings, quaint turn of the century wood workings, radiators, a small bar and wooden tables and chairs. The older less moody waitresses worked afternoons. They poured a better drink and kept the popcorn warm. I wasn’t there ten minutes when a former co worker pulled up a chair. “If you’re waiting for somebody they’ll have to get their own chair.” Gwen said and laughed. She was the last person I expected to see. Short, shapely and thin, she could drink the average guy under the table. For a drunk she had a ton of sex appeal; a loose fitted summer orange shirt and tan top accented her large breasts. Her skin had the glow and texture of a teenager. In the twenty years I’d known her she got fired seven times and got seven reinstatements. Hooray for Gwen!
She was drunk, but in control. “How’s retirement, Adam?”
“Good and how have you been?”
She shrugged. “Could be better, but you know how it is.” That didn’t sound right, but a couple of hours later our area was full of laughter and joy. One thing about Gwen she attracted a crowd and loved being the life of the party. It got late and she didn’t want to catch a cab. If she went to sleep, and that was guaranteed, she didn’t know where she’d end up. She asked for a ride and the little voice in my head said no. But, I ignored it and rationalized I could get in and out of the hood without incident. I’ll take the Ferrari back and get Cavanaugh’s Aston Martin; not as noticeable. I told her to wait I’d be back in a half hour or so. I needed to return my friend’s car and get the other. If she couldn’t wait I understood.
“The other?” She asked.
I nodded. The DB9 will have her panties off in a flash. People told me, “Don’t listen to alcohol, he’s one stupid motherfucker.”
What do they know?
I double parked the DB9 and ran in. Gwen sat in the corner and her face lit up. When we pulled off her hand made its way in my lap. I returned the favor. My cell kept ringing. Damn, Diane, I’d forgotten about her. “Gwen, I got to get this, be quiet. Hey beautiful, how are you?”
She sighed, loud, that negative loudness. “I’m OK, but Tommy’s in and out of consciousness. We’ve been praying hard and I’m tired. You could’ve called.”
“I’m sorry. I got bored watching TV and hit the street. I thought about you.”
“Yeah right.” She didn’t believe me. “Which one you rolling in?”
“The DB9 and I’m headed back.” I lied.
“Well, we’re on our way out to dinner; I’ll talk to you later.”
I hated that disconnect; it felt bad. I should’ve called, but that’s that. “Wake up, Gwen.” I shook her and her hand found its spot. My tail started wagging. “Anybody at your place?”
She cleared her throat. “No, my man moved out. I suggested he build his dreams elsewhere, the lazy bastard. I can do badly alone and fuck myself.”
“Sounds good to me.” Something told me she lied, but alcohol said different.
*
We pulled in front of a gated newly renovated six flat building. “Circle the block, Adam, I want to see something.”
Here we go; drama. Do I really want to screw her or what? Hell yeah.
“OK, what or who are you looking for?” I got silence while she stared out the window. This part of the hood wasn’t bad, but they still put up speed bumps. Another reason why I didn’t drive the Ferrari. We circled the block and a spot opened up in the front.
“Let me check something.” She got out and staggered a minute and rambled through her purse. I lowered the window.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, baby.” She leaned against the wrought iron gate to the court way.
“Who’s that with you?” A guy’s voice blasted from the intercom.
“What you doing here, you ain’t supposed to have a key? And, that’s my man, motherfucker.” Gwen screamed. What? Your man, I’m not your man.
“Your man? Get your drunk ass in here,” the anger voice shouted.
“Hey Gwen, I’m gone.” Before the last syllable left my tongue a fat guy in his shorts and under shirt pushed her aside and ran out the gate with a pistol. I couldn’t pull out fast enough. I experienced the awesome acceleration of the DB9 and its breaking power when I reached the speed bump. I heard a shot; I ducked and zigzagged. I glanced in the mirror. That asshole stood in the middle of the street and took aim. Another shot. Did he miss or what? I took the corner like a Formula One driver.
If the Cavanaugh’s see bullet holes in their car I’m fucked!
I pulled in the nearest gas station, dug in the console and got a penlight and screw driver. I checked the rear of the vehicle.
Shit! Two holes in the trunk. I stomped and checked the chassis. I didn’t see or smell any gas leaking. Thank God. The bullets didn’t pierce the double sheet metal and the fragments popped right out. Now what? That was the second incident with the car. Don’t freak out, Adam...think. Jose can help, but would he be available?
*
Jose was wide as a tank and at only 5'4" he looked like an NFL fullback not a CPA and attorney. But, he had a reputation for being one of the best body and fender man around. That passion paid his way through school. The problem; he did minor repairs out of his garage and he lived next door. I didn’t bring the cars home; envious neighbors. Who needs that drama? The rules of our cul-de-sac were clear. No working on car on the attached garage aprons. Everybody has a three car garage. Jose’s answer to the rule; he’d bring the car home and shut the door, no parking vehicles on the street. Wise man. The association tried to pressure the village to pass an ordinance to ban Jose from working on any car other than his own. Talking about a waste of time. They forgot he was a top notch attorney. I didn’t oppose him. That made me real popular, but that extreme was foolish.
My cell rang. Damn, Cavanaugh. “Hello.”
“Hey, Adam, you out and about?”
“Yeah, how’s the vacation?” My voice trembled. Please don’t be home.
“Great, I’ll be back in a day or so, have the boys in the garage detail the DB9 for me.”
“Got it.”
“Good, see you then.”
*
Darkness covered my entrance into Jose’s driveway. Light and a faint grinding sound came from under the garage door. I rang the bell. He peeked out the tinted window. “Adam, what’s up?”
“I got a serious problem, Jose, I need your help.” He hesitated and studied the desperation on my face. I explained the situation and offered him five hundred bucks to plug the holes and whatever else it took.
“OK, relax, Adam you stood up for me so I’ll work my magic.” We swapped cars, and I put his repair in my garage. He walked around the DB9. “This is a real work of art.” He examined the holes like surgeon. “A rush job like this will crown my ability as a B&F guy. I’ll work on this baby...I’ll call you when I’m finished.”
Three hours later the holes were gone and the lamps were drying the paint. “Matching that shade of blue was the challenge.” Jose said, with a bright smile on his face. I hugged him with the five hundreds in hand.
I didn’t know how to give Cavanaugh his keys back. He might get offended, but I’ll figure a way. No more driving that car; car sitting might not be for me. I love my Camry and with two hundred thousand miles on it, it still purred like a kitten.
I bumped into another former coworker. An ex fan of Gwen’s she rejected; too old and too fat, she didn’t like. He beamed when he said they fired Gwen several months prior to our encounter. “This time she will not get back.” Too bad, but I still feel she used me to make her man jealous. I could’ve been killed. But, what are friends for?
|
A La Carte
Joseph Grant
“Hello, dear. Just you?” The hostess asked.
“Oh no, it’ll be three of us. I’m going to be joined by my grandparents.” The young girl smiled sweetly. “They coming from out of town.”
“How nice.” The hostess feigned a smile and nodded to her. “Sit wherever you’d like.” She said, gathering three menus as the young woman carefully decided upon a booth. At first, she went to the right and then decided that she would like a table that afforded her a view of the parking lot so that she could see exactly when her grandparents arrived. The hostess dutifully followed the anxious girl as she stopped at three tables before deciding upon the one she liked best. The first booth was battered and the cushions torn and the next, the Formica table was scratched with gang insignia and the third was filthy, she sniffed aloud. The hostess dropped off the menus, ignoring the comment.
“Your waitress Marisol will be with you.” The hostess said and went back to the front counter where a new influx of customers kept her busy for the next few minutes.
The young girl took out her phone and texted her grandmother. She didn’t know why she would text her, as she knew her grandmother had little use for the phone other than missing calls. She shrugged at the memory and dutifully texted the word: “Here.” and awaited the response that would never come.
A girl approximately the same age as she came over to the table. “Hello, I’m Marisol. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Um, maybe just a water for now.”
“Do you know what you want?”
“I haven’t even looked at the menu yet.” The young girl smiled in an embarrassed manner. “Sorry.”
“I’ll give you a few minutes and come back.” The girl smiled back.
“I’m waiting for my grandma and grandpa.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet. Okay, I’ll wait until I see them seated.”
“Thank you. If an older couple ask for Caitlyn, that’s me.” The girl smiled.
“Will do.” Marisol said cheerfully and went about checking on the other tables in her station.
Caitlyn passed the time texting her boyfriend, Brad. She smiled nervously as fiancé was still too new a term to her, she said to herself with a nervous shake of her head. Her boyfriend, although many decades younger than her grandmother, possessed the same annoying habit of disregarding texts.
After the fifth text without any reply, Caitlyn put the phone down and looked towards the parking lot. Through the shade, she espied her grandparents slowly emerging from the large powder blue Cadillac.
Caitlyn’s heart warmed at the sight of her elderly grandparents and she beamed as she watched them. She hadn’t seen them in so long, having been away at school most of the time but now that college was over with, she could reestablish all of her old ties and hang out with friends she hadn’t seen since high school. She heard herself express an audible: “Aw!” as she could see how her grandparents had aged since the last time she saw them at graduation a few months previous. They were so cute, she said to herself.
Her phone buzzed. It was a text; but it was not from Brad but an old boyfriend with whom she was still friendly. Many of her family members thought she would end up with Drew, as he had been her first boyfriend and the first one who had made her a woman, but she would never consider marrying a guy just cos he popped her cherry.
Besides, there had been other issues. She thought about Drew and how he had badly messed things up with her, having another girlfriend at his college and how he tried to get back with Caitlyn, telling her how he had changed and grown up since they had last been a real couple nearly five years ago. She felt like texting him the truth, but what if things didn’t work out with Brad? Caitlyn typed out the line, “Before, you could have had me anytime you wanted. Now, you couldn’t have me if you tried.” but stopped before hitting send and just deleted the sentence.
When Caitlyn looked up, her grandparents were slowly making their way through the door and traipsing past the hostess who called out to them but they continued on unheeded and the hostess, unheard.
Her grandmother used a walker to get along these days while her grandfather, though arthritic and hard of hearing like every husband at that age confesses they are, was in pretty good health considering. He smiled as his dentures popped down in his mouth as her grandmother waved, which made Caitlyn nervous, as she didn’t want her to lose her balance and fall.
Her grandfather, Clarence and his wife Estelle, were both in their 80’s but yet strangers often mistook them for persons in their 60’s, much to their delight. Ever the gentleman, Clarence guided Estelle around the walker and assisted her as she slid slowly into the booth. He folded up the walker and put it up against the unused booth behind Caitlyn and then sat with a sound erupting from the seat leather. Caitlyn hoped it was the seat, she said to herself.
“How are you doing, dear?” Her grandmother asked and clasped her hands over Caitlyn’s own. “Oh, let me look!” She said, referring to the gem on her granddaughter’s finger.
“Wow, that’s a real beaut.” Her grandfather beamed. “Cost Brock a lot?”
“Brad.” Caitlyn corrected him.
“Oh behave yourself, Clarence!” Estelle gently smacked at her husband’s hand. “We don’t want to upset the poor thing.”
“Brock had better get a second job.”
“It’s Brad, Grandpa, Brad.” She stressed.
“Oh, he’s just kidding.” Her grandmother reassured.
“Can I get you some drinks?” The waitress interjected.
“Yes, you can young lady. I’ll have a coffee.”
Estelle shook her head and mouthed: “Tea.” as she pointed to her husband. “And I’ll have coffee, decaf.”
“I’ll just have water.” Caitlyn smiled.
“Oh dear, you can’t just have water. Get yourself an iced tea.”
Caitlyn looked at her grandmother and then nodded at the waitress. “Ice tea.”
Marisol looked at the three of them. “Are you ready to order?”
“Miss, we just got here!” Clarence bellowed.
“No need to get all in a huff. The young lady is just asking you.” Estelle said.
“I know she’s just asking me but we just got here for crissakes! Give me time at least to look at the menu!” Clarence gruffly waved her off. “That’s the problem with these kids these days, everybody wants something now, now, now!”
Caitlyn mouthed an “I’m so sorry.” to Marisol, who nodded and then turned on her heel to another table.
“Grandpa, you don’t have to be like that.”
“She probably habla no Englaise, anyway.” The old man sniffed as the girl walked to another table. “Back in my day, they taught English in school. You had to speak it to get a job anywhere, like the war. Now they pay them not to teach it in school. Say it’s against their rights to force it on ‘em. Well I ain’t for that. They oughta teach English, but they’re afraid. They should but they don’t do that no more.”
“Pipe down, Clarence, people are looking at you.”
“Aw, nuts.” He chimed back at her and waved his floppy old man hand. “Remember we used to have a Japanese gardener back years ago? Everyone had one. It was a status symbol to have one, boy I tell ya. They wore those big Javanese hats. They spoke perfect English. Now you got all the Mexicans cutting the lawns wearing hats made in China but you have to speak Spanish to get them to cut your Norwegian hedges the way you want ‘em.”
“Now, Clarence, that’s enough! We’re not here for your world views, but to celebrate our beautiful granddaughter’s nuptials!”
“Aw, thank you, Grandma!” Caitlyn said, somewhat relieved. She could feel the eyes at the different tables staring at her. “So Grandpa, tell me about your trip!” She said to distract him.
“It was a nice trip.”
“How’s the motor home? You took it, right? You and Grandma still have it?”
“The old girl’s holding up pretty well...so’s the motor home.” Her grandfather laughed with his mouth open as his dentures fell, causing the old man to close his mouth in a frown.
“Oh, Clarence!” Estelle hit her husband’s hand. “What about you? Tell us about your fiancé. We don’t know a thing about the young man.”
Caitlyn fumbled for a minute. The table behind her grandparents erupted into a heated discussion.
“Abraham was a true messenger of God.” A man in a white, short-sleeved dress shirt and black tie sputtered.
“You’re missing the point of God’s factual message. Abraham was not a messenger but a prophet.” A man in similar uniform protested.
“I think Abraham-”
“Fellas, please! I’m trying to have a goddamned quiet conversation with my granddaughter! I don’t need you guys shouting at each other.”
“We will pray for you, sir.” One of the men said, concerned for him.
“Save yourself. I don’t need any Sunday school. Been through all that bullshit.”
“Then turn your hearing aid down, Clarence.” Estelle shushed him.
“Then I won’t be able to hear my lovely granddaughter.” The old man smiled with a wrinkly countenance.
“You’re so sweet, Grandpa.” Caitlyn smiled, trying to forget the old man’s prickly outburst.
“So this new beau, who is he?” Her grandmother asked.
“Oh, he’s great. I think you’ll really like him.”
“What is he?” The grandfather asked.
“What is he? What do you mean?”
“What is he?” The old man repeated in a gruff manner and gestured in a circular motion. “What is he? What does he do?”
“Oh.” Caitlyn blurted. “He’s a doctor. Well, he’s an intern, you know, a medical apprentice.”
“A dentist?” The old man asked, turning up his hearing aid until it whistled.
“No, he’s an intern, Grandpa.”
“He’s a nurse?” The old asked in a confused manner.
“No, he’s a doctor, well, he’s going to be.”
“Oh, how nice!” Caitlyn’s grandmother said in a delighted way. “Isn’t that nice? Our granddaughter’s going to marry a doctor!”
“Good, then he can look at me and tell me what’s wrong with me.”
“He won’t be able to, Grandpa. He’s studying to be a pediatrician.”
“A what?”
“A baby doctor.” Caitlyn said and leaned towards him.
“How can a baby be a doctor?” He smiled and started to chuckle at his own joke.
“You’re hopeless. Now you see what I’ve had to put up with all of these years?” Her grandmother sighed. “Just make sure he’s the right one.” She said and tugged playfully at her husband’s folded arm. “Marriage is not easy, believe me.”
“I’m sure it isn’t.” Caitlyn smiled. “He’s the right one.”
“It takes a lot of hard work to make things work.” Her grandmother continued. “Are you sure he’s the one?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“What does your mother think about him?”
“Oh, I haven’t really said anything to her about him much.”
“Are you two still not talking?”
“No, we’re talking. Well, more than we used to, let’s say.”
“Look, I won’t get in the middle now as you know me, I like to stay on the sidelines.” Her grandmother held up her hand. “But your mother is a very proud woman. Very fussy, has to have things her way. I should know, I raised her. That’s why she moved out as soon as she could.” Her grandmother hissed. “She wasn’t always the most reasonable person. Doesn’t get that from my side.” She said and looked at her oblivious husband. “I would always wonder how this person came out of my womb being so stubborn. It’s the old adage: ‘By the time a woman realizes her mother was right bout everything, she’s got a daughter who already thinks she’s wrong.’ She’s got her faults but she’s still your Mother and she only wants the best for you.”
“I know.” Caitlyn sighed and changed the subject. “Have you decided yet what you both want to order?”
“Yes, I’ll have a tuna sandwich.” Her grandmother said. “They don’t let you smoke in this restaurant, do they?” She asked as she began to pull out a pack of cigarettes from her purse.
“No, Grandma.”
“I think I’ll have a bowl of chili and some crackers.” Clarence said, not listening. “Where’s the waitress? Figures. Waitress? Waitress?” He shouted and then flagged down the hostess who was nearby.
“Yes, how may I help you?”
“You can take our order!”
“I’m the hostess, sir. I can find your waitress and send her over immediately.” The woman said and went to find their waitress.
“That’s the problem these days.” Clarence snapped. “Nobody wants to roll up their sleeves and pitch in. You see that?”
“It’s not her job, Clarence and it’s not yours either to criticize.”
“It sure as hell is!” He exclaimed loud enough for the two religious men to hear him, snapping them out of the identical debate for a brief second. “I’m the customer. I’m always right!”
“That’s what you think.” Estelle smiled in a sly aside to her granddaughter. “He’s only right when I let him be.”
“But Drew is nice boy. I think you’ll both like him.”
“I thought his name was Brad, dear.” Estelle asked, now confused.
“Ugh!” Caitlyn growled and grabbed the sides of her head. “I can’t believe I did that. Yes, Brad is a nice guy. I’m sure you’ll like him.”
“What happened to Drew?” The grandfather asked. “He was polite. He had a good job and liked sports.”
“He just wasn’t right.” Caitlyn waved him off. She didn’t feel like explaining that after three years of seeing each other and going to bed that one time, the guy never made another move on her after that. She wondered if she had been that bad. They barely kissed or held hands, even less than most married couples. She would never tell them about how she practically threw herself at him and all he did was want to watch cartoons and sci-fi movies. He was practically a virgin and would die that way, she mused, but not for the lack of her trying.” Uh yeah, he just, well...I don’t want to get into it.” She moped.
“Alright, pumpkin, you don’t need to make a federal case out of it.” Clarence said and then peered up over his glasses to find their waitress Marisol standing beside the table. “We thought you quit.” He sniffed.
“Oh my God...Grandpa!” Caitlyn guffawed in an embarrassed manner.
“Sorry, a large party came in and I had to cover for a waitress that went home sick.” Marisol explained. “It’s been crazy.”
“Alright, alright, I didn’t ask for your life story, honey.” He said as the three of them began to order.
Marisol bit her tongue and perfunctorily wrote down what each ordered as she thought about the upcoming weekend. She knew that whatever she would say would not have gone over well with his type. Besides, what she would tell her boyfriend who was also the cook would take care of the old man’s attitude when he finally got his order. Her boyfriend would make certain that the old man’s food would have extra added ingredients if he kept up his behavior, she smiled.
“See that?” Clarence pointed out in disgust as the waitress walked away. “She smiled but didn’t even thank us for our order.”
“So, is Brad excited about the wedding?” Estelle sidetracked her husband’s comment.
“He is.” She said with a large pearly smile that would have been standard issue and somewhat unceremonious on a beauty pageant contestant but portrayed rather radiant with Caitlyn’s girl-next-door looks. Her perfect smile belied many ugly truths that were hiding only beneath the skin-deep surface.
“Will Sara help you with the wedding?”
“Who?” Caitlyn chirped.
“Sara, your old college roommate.” Her grandmother explained.
Caitlyn blushed. “No, Grandma. I haven’t spoken to her in a while.” was all Caitlyn would say on the subject. She did not go into details, nor did she explain to her grandmother how Sara hated Brad and thought Brad was a tool.
“But you two were so close!” Her grandmother pressed on. “I thought for sure she’d be in your wedding party, probably even your maid-of-honor. You two even dressed alike.”
“No, Grandma, no. She moved out of state.” She felt her face flush again. It was all a lie.
She could never explain to her grandmother how she had been in a short, but passionate on-and-off-again relationship with Sara. She recalled how Sara kept hitting on her and telling her how beautiful she was and how she had always put her off. She remembered how one night after a decidedly vicious fight with Drew she confessed to Sara that she was through with guys over many bottles of Löwenbräu.
Sara persisted once again that night, telling her how gorgeous she was and how wrong she had been treated. Sara treated her tenderly that night and kissed her with real passion and made her feel alive. It was nothing like Drew, where there had been little to no attention or warmth. That very night they slept together and while it was awkward at first, at least it was something, Caitlyn told herself; something to augment this unloved existence and that it was real and it was meaningful and how good it felt to be wanted and to be cherished. For a long while afterwards they became quite the item around campus. She had loved Sara or at least thought she had at one point. She had always been confused with guys but even more so with Sara and with graduation approaching, she felt a pressure to break things off. It wasn’t quite familial, but something within her life. She and Sara remained uneasy friends until Brad showed up at some end of term party. Sara saw right through him and couldn’t stand Brad. She threatened to reveal all of Caitlyn’s dirty little secrets to this “Mr. Perfect” as Caitlyn called him. Sara said she was settling. He was a doctor for crissakes, argued Sara. How more formulaic white-picket-fence marriage could she get? It wasn’t so much what Sara said, Caitlyn thought, for she was right. The overhanging threat was what truly broke up their companionship. It hurt Sara how Brad came into the picture so suddenly and had completely replaced her in Caitlyn’s life. The love she had for Sara had turned back into an uncomfortable friendship. Caitlyn recalled how she didn’t ever intend to hurt Sara, even though she knew she had and as a result, lost a dear friend. Was she doing the right thing by agreeing to marry Brad, she wondered? Sadness filled her eyes and she dabbed at them with the napkin on her lap.
“Is everything alright, child?” Her grandmother asked, somewhat concerned.
“No, I’m okay. It’s just allergies, Grammy.” Caitlyn flubbed.
“Oh.” Her grandmother smiled in a loving way, but remembered how lost and fragile Caitlyn had seemed only a short year or two ago. Caitlyn’s family had grown concerned she had possibly started doing drugs or had turned bulimic, as she had become so skinny. Her stunning blue eyes had become lifeless with dark circles beneath them and had gone frosty and distant. Her grandmother recalled how she had cut her beautiful long blonde tresses until she had what amounted to a boy’s butchered haircut, then abruptly broke it off with Drew and had become something of a shadow of her former ebullient self and did nothing but wear black and hang out with her roommate all of the time. At least now the dark circles had ebbed and her weight was now back to a more healthy size.
“I’m fine, really.” Caitlyn reassured her grandmother as the food arrived.
“I didn’t order this.” Her grandfather protested.
“Yes, you did.” Estelle corrected him as the old man dug into his plate. Food sputtered out of his mouth as he began to talk, littering his shirt.
“Marriage is a bond between two people.” Estelle said. “It must not be broken or gone into flippantly. It is a sacred thing the Bible tells us.”
“Yes, Grammy. It’s a holy union, you’ve said.” Caitlyn nodded and picked at her salad. “I’m just worried, that’s all. You both have, like, the perfect marriage. You’ve been married for more than 50 years. I’m afraid I won’t be able to measure up, y’know, meet that milestone.” She said with a sigh, hoping that what Sara said wasn’t true, that she was, in fact, settling.
“Oh, you will, sweetie. With lots of patience and perseverance, you’ll do just fine. It’s something you learn to live with. Don’t ever go to bed mad.”
“You know, they have all sorts of marriages today.” Clarence chimed in. “But the best mirage is between a man and a woman.”
“You mean marriage, Grandpa.”
“That’s what I said.” He said indignantly.
“No, you said mirage, dear.” Estelle told him.
“Damn it! Don’t tell me what I said. I know what I said. I said marriage!” He snarled. “You two are nuts. You don’t hear well.”
“Whatever you say, dear.” Estelle said, knowing full well the wrath her husband was capable of and tried to calm him. She wanted to forget the nights he came home loaded, smacked her around just for good measure while their daughter was still little, too young for it to have any effect on her, thank the Good Lord for that, Estelle said to herself.
“What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.” Clarence uttered and raised his finger aloft. “Til death do us part. There’s a reason for that.”
“That’s what worries me.” Estelle said aloud in a nervous manner and patted her granddaughter’s hand. “Oh, you’ll do fine, dear, you’ll do fine. Then you’ll have little ones. You’ll see.” She smiled as the waitress dropped off the check while the two men at the table behind them bantered back and forth relentlessly over God and Abraham.
Marisol chuckled to herself as she passed by the tables, remembering the old man’s equally frivolous words: “The customer is always right.”
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About Joseph Gray
As a Pushcart Prize nominee, Joseph Gray’s short stories have been published in 243 literary reviews such as Byline, New Authors Journal, Underground Voices, Midwest Literary Magazine, Inwood Indiana Literary Review, Hack Writers, Six Sentences, Literary Mary, NexGenPulp, Is This Reality Zine , Darkest Before Dawn, strangeroad.com, FarAway Journal, Full of Crow, Heroin Love Songs, Bewildering Stories, Writing Raw, Unheard Magazine, Absent Willow Literary Review. Joseph Gray also has a boxing novel published by Fight Card Productions, “The Last Round of Archie Mannis”.
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untitled (cat)
Donald Gaither
the cat’s eyes
follow one ghost,
her ears another
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Metal Fatigue
Bill Kirby
The street seemed especially long and steep to Adam as he walked slowly toward the old house. He achingly remembered that he had had this thought every trip up the hill for the past twelve years, too. Each weary step he took jarred his old knees with the dull pain of arthritis.
How many times had he climbed this hill? Traversed every single inch of its surface? How many times had he complained to himself about the ache of a limb he no longer possessed? Too damn many. The landscape never changes for someone always relegated to walking. Adam could see the eaves of Ruthie’s house where they were beginning to peel, the wooden-framed screens at the windows starting to pucker up from age and countless coats of paint. Across the sun-soaked street sat the Turners’ house, squat and stoic like May Turner herself, imposing and withdrawn. Up near the stop sign at the top of the hill, where the intersection was, there the Augusta Women’s Clubhouse waited, usually in vain, for some chance to host an “important” organizational meeting, or to serve as field headquarters for some new and doomed plan of “improvement” for the little town. Most times it remained empty, like most things in Augusta. Adam knew every blade of grass, every wilting azalea between downtown and the house. He was surprised on setting out each time for town that he had not worn a groove in the pavement like an animal trail to water.
Finally the old man reached the level plane of the front yard. He caught his breath under the oak that toed the sidewalk leading to the front porch, then crept up the front steps and into one of the ancient metallic chairs sitting sentry-like by the front door. It felt good to finally be at rest. His body continued to resonate, like that feeling that’s left in a body when a freight train passes over a trestle bridge, vibrating like a tuning fork. He willed his arms and legs to relax, to go gently with the natural rhythm of the metal chair. The chair always amazed him. The idea that the S of the metal would still have enough tension left within itself to enable a body to rock back and forth upon it, with no apparent effort, was beyond his reasoning. Adam could barely gather his sinews and synapses together tightly enough to propel himself the three blocks to Revette’s store, yet the old rusted chair was always here, waiting patiently to spring and rock back upon its haunches.
Looking across the street at a diagonal, Adam could see little Tom McIlhenny stirring around his family’s carport. Adam knew the routine— half with dread, half with relish, he knew that eventually Tom would worm his way to the porch, and their ritual would be played out once again. Maybe this time Adam would give Tom benediction.
Yes, he was right. Tom poked around and through the minutiae ringing the carport walls for a moment, cast a surreptitious peek over his shoulder at Adam on the porch, then nonchalantly mounted the bicycle he shared with his twin sister and pedaled carelessly up the hill. Tom scutted to a stop on the asphalt above the sidewalk leading to the porch, then launched himself down onto the sidewalk, across it, and finally bumped solidly into the bottom step of the porch. Adam hated the dull sound Tom’s tire always made when it slapped against the wood.
“How are you today, Mr. Adam?”
“All right, sonny boy, how about you?”Adam wondered if perhaps Tom was retarded.
He certainly looked the part, what with his melon-sized head and his dull, scaly eyes. Hard to tell; his twin sister and his other siblings seemed normal enough. It would stand to reason that his twin sister would look retarded as well, if Tom were retarded. Hard to figure, though.
“What are you doing riding a girl’s bike, sonny?”
Tom flushed, his nine-year old face turning red immediately, mouth carving an inverted U that covered both sides of his chin. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Mr. Adam, it’s not really a girl’s bike. My folks bought the bike for me and Lucy, and girls always grow faster. Momma says that our next bike’ll be one of those with a bar ‘cross it.”
“You mean a boy’s bike?”
“Well, I’m riding this bike, and I’m a boy,” Tom stood defiantly in the center of the bike now, legs planted firmly to each side, his lips pooched out. Adam had thrown the bait, and as always, Tom rose greedily to it.
“Well, if you say so, boy.”
“I do.” Tom got quieter, smaller. He cast his eyes down for a moment, and Adam readied himself for the question he knew would come.
“Mr. Adam,” Tom raised his eyes slightly, his idea of guile. “Did it hurt terribly when the train came? I mean, did you want to die?”
“Boy it’s been so long ago I can’t remember.” A total lie. Adam could remember every nugget of railroad gravel, every grain of wood in each crosstie, the all-pervasive, stomach-wrenching smell of creosote. He could remember the phantom pains that lasted more years than then he had the leg.
“Well, did it look horrible? I mean, when you knew it wasn’t still on you?” Tom was straining forward into the handlebars, caught up in visions of blood and gore.
“It was clean gone, Tom, and somebody from the railroad came later on and wrapped it up in an old croaker sack. Didn’t nobody, not even my folks, know what was done with it after that.”
“Gross.” Tom shivered with the thought of a bloody leg unaccounted for, and he involuntarily reached to his leg.
“Does it feel funny, I mean, does it feel really weird to have a piece of a leg, Mr. Adam?
You walk pretty good, I mean for your age and all.”
Little asshole. Adam could enjoy this little tete-a-tete they regularly had only so much before he was ready to pinch Tom’s head off. The whole McIlhenny family was full of retards, and the vilest and foulest of the genetic juices pooled around Tom. “Do you want to see what’s left, sonny boy?”
The boy’s eyes swelled until Adam thought the very borders of them would dissolve. Tom’s mouth slowly opened until it looked as if the jaw had become unhinged.
“Well, boy, do you?”
Adam was offering what Tom had secretly desired for years, ever since his older brother and sister had told him that Mr. Jessie had a wooden leg. He wanted to see it first, rub the fact in Lucy’s face, frighten her with the bizarreness of it. But now, well, push had come to shove, and he was hesitant.
“You mean really see it?”
“Boy, are you deaf and dumb? I asked you if you wanted to see the leg you been quizzing me about for forty forevers.”
“Well, yessir, I. . .I. . .I would. Yeah.” He knew if he didn’t ride this to the end, he could never come to the porch again and question the old man.
Adam thrust his leg out, heel down and toes up, the kind of stiff-legged motion a man makes when he’s about to struggle with getting a stubborn boot on. Tom stood galvanized, eyes drawing a bead on the sole of Adam’s shoe.
“Does it hurt your toes when you take it off?”
My God, Adam thought, the boy was retarded. “Sonny, the damn toes was connected to the leg that was thrown away.”
Tom recoiled from the curse. He realized that he had wandered near some strange briar patch of Mr. Adam’s emotions that he had never walked near before, like that briar patch of Brer
Rabbit’s his momma had read about to him and Lucy.
“Right. Right.” Tom had leaned precariously over the thorns for too long not to jump down among them now. “What kind of wood is it, Mr. Adam?”
“Wood? Wood??” Adam sneered. The shit people let their kids hear. “Boy, it ain’t wood.” He grabbed the cuff of his Ruf Stuf khakis and walked the pants leg slowly up to his knee. The prosthesis was all polymers and chrome, and through the cross braces Tom could see the white metallic bow of the chair.
“Man.” Tom could think of nothing else to say; he just rolled around in the patch with a mouthful of briars.
“Here, sonny boy, I’ll take it off and you can try it on.”
It was more than he wanted, more than he had bargained for. Tom flung himself back over the patch’s edge, casting off tendrils and thorny grasps as he went.
“I gotta go, Mr. Adam. See you later.” Tom jumped upon the bike, and began pedaling like mad, and soon he was two blocks down the street, bobbing at the handlebars like an old fire engine pump.
Adam was laughing so hard he didn’t hear the front door open, nor hear the screen door being unlatched. He glanced to the side of the porch where it looked down into the flower bed, and beyond it, into the green of the lawn. Suspended over the grass, just above eye level, hung a bird, he couldn’t decide what kind. The bird’s wings were pressed to its body, and the creature swam easily through the summer thickness, much like those scuba divers Adam had seen on TV, their bodies nosing for the plane of the surface. The bird kicked upward, ever upward, until it came directly under a flying insect. The bird fluttered momentarily, squeezed the last bit of air between them, then engulfed the bug. The bird hung for a breath’s length, then dove hawklike into the shadows of a camellia bush.
With a squeaking yawn, the screen door swung out a few inches, and Adam felt a sudden kinship with Mr. Bug.
“Adam, you’re going to have Bob McIlhenny on your back if you don’t straighten up.”
Surely, thought Adam, this was the voice Hansel heard that day in the oven.
“Hell, I just gave the boy what he’s been asking for.”
“We all got to be careful of what we ask for, don’t we, Pee Wee.”
God, how he hated that name. His sisters had tagged him with that nickname as a child, and he had gotten more diminutive ever since.
“What is it you want, Ruth?”
The old woman looked at the man’s bony shoulder blades where they almost met in a V at the apex of his old polyester knit shirt, and she thought of the dying sparrow she had found sitting in the dirt of her garden once, its frame shaking and quivering, folded upon itself like an old Japanese fan. “I want you to get your stuff and get out of my house. I’m tired of your mess.”
Adam straightened himself in the chair, swung his shoulders and eyes to the screen door over his left shoulder. He could just make out the woman’s silhouette through the heavy woven mesh, but he could see, rather feel, the arrogant hard jut of her lower lip.
“Where would I go, Ruthie? Back to Colorado? Maybe to Nelda’s house?”
“I don’t know, Adam, and I don’t really give a damn. You can’t go to Durango, you know that’s out. Didn’t the union tell you that you had worn that welcome out? You know Nelda’s won’t do. Sally told you that.”
There was a pause, a quiet gathering of energy. “But whatever you do, you do it away from my house from now on.” The screen door snapped shut, and the heartbreaking sound of the latch flying home put a finality to everything.
Adam twisted around in the chair, ready to recite his litany of reasons why he should be allowed to stay, but he was cut short by the slamming of the front door. He turned back to face the street, and for a while he watched the waves of heat course across the pavement, like little rivulets in a half-empty stream. The shade from the oak canopied unto the street, and the sunlight danced around its edge like angel fire. Adam thought about knocking on the door, try to get Ruth to talk to him, but he knew her moods, and he knew that knocking would not do, not at all. Best to leave it alone, try to play up to her in a day or two when the venom had dissipated. She was a wicked thing on a good day, but by God, when she was on a tear, well, it was best to just leave it alone.
Adam looked at his watch, one of those cheap Cascio jobs they sell in every Pic-a-Pac in America. But it kept good time, and it did give the date. Looking at it closely, Adam saw that it was four o’clock. The date read: 18. He was mildly surprised by that; he had lost track of the time, thought it was still around the ninth. It wasn’t like him to lose track of the date; maybe the time, but the date, no.
Perhaps it was time to walk down to Revette’s, Adam thought. Maybe old Bobby Ott was feeling expansive, feeling generous. It was always worth a try. You never know till you try; you won’t know the answer until you ask the question.
Adam eased himself out of the metal chair much like the unfolding of one of those portable easels, joint by joint, length by length, until he was complete. Before starting down the steps of the porch he orientated his body to the task, shifting his weight first to his bad leg, then to his good, ultimately working his way down the steps, where he again readied his body, accentuating his gait to fit the roll of the street. He set out for Revette’s brimming with goodwill and high ambitions.
“Goddamn,” Adam muttered to himself as he worked his way down the street, sweat soaking the belt line of his pants. “It gets hotter the older I get.” He couldn’t remember this much heat as a kid. He couldn’t remember the oppressiveness of it, the total control it exercised over every breath he took. Revette better be in a giving mood, he thought, or else he was suffering for nothing.
Adam coursed his way down through the neighborhood. Not his neighborhood; he wouldn’t choose to live among these assholes. Perfect place for his sister Ruthie, though. They thought she was some sweet old lady, one of those women who have endured. Endured, my ass, he fumed. The bitch lived to torment him, to dog him with his faults and fears.
He took a reckoning, as he passed through the Thames’s front yard, careful not to step in any of those awful piles Toby the dog left (certainly didn’t want to give Revette any reason to deny him, not after all of this walking!), and he figured, roughly, that Ruthie had thrown him out of her house at least four times a year; that meant forty-eight times since he had moved in with her. Endured, hell. He was the one who had endured.
Soon he was at the Paces’ house, and the lay of the land was friendlier to his legs and lungs. He knew that it would only be a little more of the heat, and he would be in the cool of Revette’s store, an oasis of air conditioning and possibilities.
A few more minutes, and he could see the corner of Revette’s. It was the typical small town convenience store, plastered to the gunwales with Marlboro Men and Joe Camels, those ubiquitous price signs, the Seven-Up posters. Inside it was crammed with everything from clothespins and motor oil to tequila and Tampax.
Adam reached for the front door, maneuvering his weight where he could pull it open, when it abruptly sprang out, followed by the bilious body of Tammy Norris.
“Why, Mr. Jessie, I didn’t see your poor little body through all these advertisements stuck to the door,” she whined through her nose. Adam envisioned Roy Rogers rearing up on Trigger. What a bitch.
“No harm done, Tammy.” He bobbed back from the door, a small pleasure craft bouncing upon the wake of a great ocean-going vessel. “I was just going in to shoot the breeze with Bobby Ott.”
“You’re not going to buy a train ticket, are you, Adam? Are you going traveling again?”
She snickered and Adam could see the mounds of flesh between her arm and chest through the open yoke of her sun dress, a pale pink flesh that he imagined looked bad in any light. Why was it that the fattest, ugliest women always showed the most? Perhaps they had the least to lose.
“You might think you’re funny, Tammy, but I bet if you could find that old man of yours, he’s probably riding that old ‘train,’ too.”
“Robert Earl died working offshore, Jessie, and you and everybody in this town know it. He wouldn’t dream of doing the shit you do.” She pulled her packages of Doritos and Corn Buddies closer to her heaving bosom and stormed off. Adam pulled the door open and stepped into the tight confines of Revette’s.
A thin, morose-looking man stood behind the counter in the far right-hand corner of the store, counting receipts and making entries in a red spiral notebook. Adam put a smile on his face, hitched himself up, then hopped Gabby Hayes-style toward the counter and the man.
“Hey, sonny boy, what’s up?”
Bobby Ott Revette looked up regretfully from his notebook, a look of annoyance blossoming in his face until he saw that it was Adam.
“Mr. Adam Jessie,” he cooed. “Long time no see. What’s it been, three days, four days, possibly a whole week?” Adam could hear coils of laughter spring out from the direction of the doorway behind Bobby Ott.
“Sonny Boy, I ain’t been in here since the seventh. That’s well over a week, maybe even a week and a half.” He stood perfectly still now, directly in front of the register that Bobby stood behind, much like Oliver in the gruel line.
“Hell, Adam, been that long? Seems just like yesterday.” And he laughed from his toes, the guffaws rising up through his stomach, along his lungs, out of his mouth, finally crashing around Adam like waves on a beach. Adam shuttered.
“Now, Sonny Boy, don’t treat an old man rough. I really ain’t been in here for over a week.” He looked at Bobby Ott imploringly. “I’m good for it, Bobby Ott. You know I am.”
The smile dried up on the younger man’s face. He pulled himself up to his full height, then leaned menacingly over the counter, looming over the older man’s sparse frame. Adam shrank back. “I ain’t running the goddamn Salvation Army, old man, and you know that’s the truth. I’m tired of being your damn accountant!” Another peal of laughter filtered out from the back room, and Adam flushed.
“Sonny boy, you know I’m good for it. You know I am.” He twisted the front of his shirt in both of his gnarled hands, pivoting a private ceremony of intent upon his good leg.
“You want me to call Miss Ruth, ask her if she can spot you some money, old man?”
Goddamn you, you asshole, Adam thought. “Lord, no, Bobby, don’t call her. She’s on a real tear today. She’s liable to come down here and whip both our asses.” Adam was sweating now, oblivious to the air conditioning.
“We don’t want that, no sir. That woman is bad news when the mood strikes her.” Bobby Ott relaxed, and the smile returned to his face. “Well, old man, if I carry your ass today, it’s gonna cost you.”
“I know, Bobby, and I ‘preciate it. I ‘preciate all you do for me, sonny boy.”
“What you want, Adam, Old Granddad? Mad Dog 20/20? It’s your money.” He burst out laughing again, then said, “Well, actually it’s my money right now, but it’ll be your money on the thirtieth, right, old man?”
“You’re right, sonny boy, and it’s a bargain at twice the price.” Both men laughed at this, and Bobby Ott turned to the rows of liquor behind the register. He reached for a bottle of Taaka vodka, but was stopped by the plaintive voice behind him.
“Bobby Ott, how about a bottle of that Beefeater. I think I would like it better, don’t you think.”
Bobby looked over his shoulder, a cloud gathering in his eyes. “Now, Mr. Jessie, you remember what happened the last time you and Mr. Beefeater shook hands. Your little train ride cost your nephew a nice pocket of change.”
Adam gulped hard, then stuck his pigeon breast out. “I’m better with it now, Bobby. I really am. And I’ve had a rough day. I deserve a little something special.”
Bobby Ott grunted, then pulled a fifth of Beefeater gin off the shelf, turned, put it on the counter, and reached under the counter for a bag. “This bottle’s twelve-fifty, Adam, so you’re gonna owe me another twenty-five. You’re up to one-oh-six, old man, so make this last. Gotta make it to the thirtieth when that old eagle flies.”
“I ‘preciate it, Bobby. I ‘preciate all you do for me. If I could, I’d have the gubernment send my checks straight here.”
“And I’d let you, old man. Save me the trouble of hunting you down. Here’s Mr. Beefeater. You want this ole conductor to punch your ticket for you? Ha!Ha!”
“I ain’t gonna ride today, boy, really I ain’t.”
Bobby Ott grinned as he walked around the open end of the counter to the back door of the store. “Sure thing there, Adam. I know you just gonna sit in the depot and watch the cars slide by. But by and by, you’ll get that hankering, and off you’ll go.” He popped the deadbolt on the steel door and held it open for Adam.
“No, I ain’t riding today. Just sitting and enjoying the sun.” He drew the heavy bag to him and shuffled out the door into the patch of dirt and grass and trash behind the store.
“All abooaarrddd!!!See ya, old man.” Bobby Ott Revette pulled the door shut with a thud. Adam stared at it for a moment, and then turned to the open-ended half of the refrigerator box pushed up against the back wall of the store. Its floor was covered with dirty newspapers; the walls smelled of sweat, urine, and desperation. Adam gingerly eased himself down unto the newspapers and settled against the back of the box. His legs splayed out in front of him, an indentation forming in his pants where his lower left leg used to be.
Adam smiled to himself, drew a deep breath, and opened the bottle of Beefeater. As he sipped, he could see the twin strips of steel beyond the shade of his box, and he glanced at his watch. Four-fifty. He wondered if the six-fifteen freight to Laurel was on time.
Adam lay there quietly drinking his gin, wondering if Ruthie really meant to throw him out this time. She never did; of course, it didn’t really matter. Her declaration of intent always had the desired effect. It always put him at the mercy of fear and the unknown. It seemed to him now, in what he hoped was the sunset of his life, that his whole existence since the accident had been one soaked to the bone with anxiety. When was he going to be fired for his drinking? How long until his landlord or landlady or sister or niece or whoever threw him out into the street? How long until someone told him he was useless?
It was clear to him now, finally, that the loss of his leg was the only finite moment in his life. It had fruition, a natural chain of events that nothing since had. Train comes along, boys scamper out of the way, one boy falls, one leg taken. Simple and to the point. And what a point it had. PeeWee is in the wrong place at the wrong time, doing the wrong thing. Zap. Cost: one leg, thank you, and come again. We are here to serve you. Nothing in Adam’s life after that moment had so much possibility, so much delivery on demand. A promise made true.
Adam reflected upon all these things, as he was wont to do when the gin was on him, and he came to the same conclusion as always: there is no conclusion. Same old shit, day after day. Conclusions tended to leave things loped off, bloodied. Better to avoid conclusions. Even leaving wasn’t a conclusion. If you left, that meant that you were showing up somewhere else, and that wasn’t a conclusion, just another turn of the wheel, just another spoke on the same rim.
Adam heard the sound of the six-fifteen down the track towards Brackman’s Economy Supply. They must be off-loading plywood, he thought. He glanced at his watch: six o’clock on the dot. As he did so, he noticed a different pattern of light upon his good pants leg, a dappled coolness where starched sunlight usually lay. He had not spent endless days in the box not to know every nuance of the scene. It puzzled him until he realized that something was casting dark upon his leg, and he turned to his left to the corner of the back wall of Revette’s.
Adam was startled and surprised to see Tom McIlhenny and his sister Lucy standing there, like security at a demonstration, tight-lipped and noncommittal. Adam never had company back here, not even Bobby Ott, not even railroad security or the local police. It made him mad, aggravated him that these two kids had not only invaded his place, but hadn’t even signaled their arrival.
“What you kids want?” Adam slurred. He struggled to sit upright, straightening his legs as best he could. Lucy’s eyes ran immediately to The Leg. Adam saw her look, and resented it like hell. “Well, what is it? I ain’t got all day. Can’t a man have a moment of peace?”
“Mr. Adam, I’m sorry, but I just wanted to see you for a minute. Lucy don’t believe I saw your leg. She said I was a liar. Tell it ain’t so, Mr. Adam.”Lucy remained silent through the explanation, intent on watching every twitch and adjustment Adam made of his body.
“Goddamn it, Boy, I ain’t part of a display case for Red Cross or Amtrak. You kids get the hell out of here.” Adam wrestled himself to a standing position, placing the bottle of gin carefully in the corner of the box as he did so. Tom and Lucy backed away from him, but otherwise stood their ground.
“But Mr. Adam, she doesn’t believe us, I mean me; she thinks I’m lying.”
Off in the near distance a loud horn could be heard, and the deep rumble of thousands of pounds of cold steel being put into motion could be felt. “You are lying, Boy, through your teeth.”
Tom turned beseechingly to his sister, whose face now bore a mask of total disdain and superiority. She cocked her head at Tom and threw her hands to her hip. “I knew you were lying, Thomas William. You don’t know a thing about anything. You’re so stupid.” She turned on her heel and began to walk in the direction of the McIlhenny house, her path parallel to the railroad tracks.
Her brother turned back to Adam, despair and anguish etched in his face. Adam screwed his nose up and glared at Tom. Over Adam’s shoulder Tom could just see the snout of the Burlington diesel poking around the far fence of Brackman’s, and a few seconds later all the engine rolled into view. A man with a weathered face hung out of the engineer’s window as if he were trying to determine how much of himself he could expose outside of the window without falling out.
Adam stared at Tom for a while, then stared beyond him at the sullen, smug dipping of Lucy’s back as she strolled down the dirt path along the track. He heeled slowly back to look at the six-fifteen as it approached the back of Revette’s.
The noise of the freight was not altogether unpleasant. It was much like the sound you might expect a passenger train to make while it warmed up at the depot, waiting patiently to whisk families off to far-away vacations or lovers to secret rendezvouses. Adam stood as straight as he could, then turned again, and yelled past Tom to Lucy’s back. “Hey, Girlie, hey, Lucy.” Lucy easily heard her name over the drone of the train, knew it was not Tom’s voice, stopped, and turned automatically. She looked back at Adam expectantly, waiting for an adult confirmation of Tom’s duplicity.
“Hey, Girlie,” Adam yelled even higher, the liquor giving depth to his voice. “Tom says you want to see the leg. Then see the leg you will.” Adam reached down to pull his pants leg up, and had to struggle with fingers confused by gin. The six-fifteen slowly crept up the track, now just before Revette’s, now even with it, the engine passing, then one or two of the boxcars. Adam began to sweat, and as he continued to pull at the reluctant khakis, he began to trot stiff-legged beside the train. Tom stood transfixed, unable to move as Adam hopped by him. Ultimately, the digging motion of Adam’s jog helped the pants leg slide over the chrome braces and plastic joints. Lucy gaped at the sight of Adam coming towards her, his leg seemingly to disappear as he got closer. She screamed once, and bolted across the tracks in front of the train and into and down the street at the end of the vacant lot opposite Revette’s back door. The train honked belatedly at Lucy’s receding figure. In a second, all that remained of her was the echo of her hoarse shout, “Momma!”
Adam pulled up, exhausted now. Tom quietly walked around the corner of Revette’s, his shoulders hunched, and headed toward the post office. Adam turned to watch the flats and refrigerator cars roll past him. His pants leg unfurled down his brace of its own accord. He could feel the bearings of the cars as they rotated upon their axles, an endless rumbling of metal upon metal, baggage and cargo buoyed by steel springs and ramrod supports. He looked at his watch and noticed with satisfaction that the six-fifteen was on schedule.
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Exhibitionism
William Masters
The two men sat waiting impatiently in the outer office of the Edgar Haddlestrom Gallery located in the South of Market District (SOMA) of San Francisco. Both men had a 2:00 p.m. appointment with Edgar Haddlestrom whose secretary double-booked appointments like airline ticket agents and doctor’s receptionists.
Jacob Lindstrom, who had arrived at 1:45 p.m., came to rent enough canvasses to cover seventeen spaces in his newly completed 3700 square foot house.
The city’s third newspaper, The San Francisco Span, had sent its art critic, Delworth Harrington III, (who had casually walked through the door at 2:10 p.m., and now coughed preposterously, to remind the receptionist that he waited) to write an updated catalogue for the gallery’s collection, currently in danger of liquidation due to recent changes in the tax codes making donations less beneficial. The City (desperate to find new sources of additional revenue since the 07/08 financial banking and real estate debacle), had imposed new municipal fees on the sale and rental of any art exhibited or rented from the gallery, moving its balance sheet into the red.
Neither the gallery’s modest admission fee1, its occasional sale of a new artist’s work, nor the outrageous fees it charged for the rental of the various pieces of art currently hanging on the walls of some of the city’s richest art patrons, produced sufficient profit to replace the reduction in the gallery’s income.
Rising maintenance costs: an enhanced security array; a new filtration and temperature control system recently installed2, had begun the erosion of Edgar’s retirement nest egg. For this reason Edgar eagerly walked through the waiting room door and smiled past the outstretched hand of Delworth to embrace Jacob.
“Forgive me for keeping you waiting. One of our artists arrived and actually threatened to remove his paintings because he didn’t like the way we hung his work and accused me of over charging him for the cost of framing his pieces. Can you believe it?”
“I can,” replied Jacob, immune to the false denial. “I am here because you promised I could choose from the permanent collection and the new artist section. Evidently, I should start immediately before your artists begin removing their pieces.”
Instead of Edgar’s nose growing longer, his shoes tightened around his feet. As Jacob prepared to begin his tour of the collection, he removed a notebook and ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket.
Edgar grabbed the pen. “Oh! Use this pencil instead.”
Just like a piece on a board game, Jacob moved himself to the start position of the collection, at painting number one (below each painting was a number followed by the painting’s name, if any, and identification of the artist, as labeled for catalog purposes) and assumed a look of studious concentration as he began to evaluate each painting for potential use in his new house.
“Too blue. Too red. Too big. Too small,” he said aloud as he wrote in his notebook, rejecting paintings numbered one through four. “Too complicated. Too abstract. Too primitive. Too messy,” he noted for paintings numbered five through eight. “Too many colors. Too dark. Too dull. Too many lines,” he noted for nine through twelve. Then, just after a “Too redundant.” notation for painting #13 (an eight by fourteen foot installation on white plasterboard with eleven blue moons, each behind the other, in a gradually diminishing horizon), he espied canvass No. 14, a 12x16 inch picture of a red wine bottle shaped vase, with a single white calla lily. The vase stood on a white doily, supported by a round mahogany end table. “Perfect.” he said to himself and wrote “hang behind easy chair next to French doors in library. The colors look perfect for the wall paper.”
Continuing his classifications, he wrote, “Too thick,” of a 4x8 foot oil on Masonite. “Too Orange,” for a neon orange colored Popsicle, “It looks like something waiting to be used as a traffic signal,” he jotted in his notebook. And so it went as Jacob continued his inventory of the collection.
Edgar retreated from Jacob’s presence and returned to Delworth in an effort to mitigate whatever damage to his ego the critic had sustained.
“Please, follow me to the second floor and look at the collection beginning from the end.” Both men climbed the staircase to the second floor since a city inspector had temporarily closed the elevator for service during its unscheduled inspection.3
Peeved, but consolable, Delworth, began to opine: “Look at that painting (number eight-one) pretending to be abstract expressionism; its flamboyant plasticity and high-spirited improvisation are nowhere to be found. The painter seems to have intentionally emptied his work of sensuous appeal: his surfaces are dull and scabrous, often antagonistic to light.”
Delworth moved to painting number eighty. “Just look at this!” he shouted to Edgar, “It’s obvious that spontaneity for this painter was less a technique for mining the unconscious than a means of direct expression unhampered by intellect.” And so on and so forth continued Delworth, now alone since Edgar could no longer listen to another syllable of art critic-speak and had deserted Delworth for the sanctity of his office.
After Jacob finished viewing the art on the first floor, he began to climb the staircase, passing Delworth on his way down.
“If you’re a tax assessor with any common sense, you will give Edgar a break on these overpriced oil smears,” said Jacob looking Delworth in the eye.
“I’ve never heard it said that you had any taste in painting, unless it was choosing a color for your bathroom,” said Delworth.
As soon as Edgar returned to his office, he called the maintenance department to request the on duty person to raise the level of air conditioning in the exhibition areas due to a temporary surge of hot air.
Edgar’s career as a gallery/museum magnate began accidentally in 1974, after he purchased the two story warehouse building on Folsom Street for speculation purposes. Following the advice of his mistress, an Academy of Art University dropout, Edgar intended to use the first floor of the building to display his recently deceased older brother’s private art collection of 37 paintings (mostly minor works by major masters) to potential buyers before he rehabbed and sold the building for a profit.
Gloria, his mistress during his Entrepreneurial Period, (1968-1974), and at the beginning of her 2nd year of law school at Golden Gate College, pointed out to Edgar that any paintings sold at an estate sale would invite significantly reduced bids, while the same paintings, well hung, lighted and displayed on walls in a building, would double the amounts bid for the paintings, especially the minor works by Picasso, Monet, Manet, etc. Although she had never graduated from the Academy, Gloria had not taken two classes (six units) in the merchandising of art for nothing.
An announcement in each of the city’s three newspapers trumpeted the sale, exhibition date, time and address, including a catalogue of the paintings intended for sale. A charity exhibition, for the benefit of the Academy of Art University, was planned two days prior to the sale.
To Edgar’s surprise, several art critics arrived for the charity exhibition. These critics expanded the surprise of their presence and wrote reviews of the collection. The reviews caused a minor sensation among art collectors, pseudo collectors, art speculators plus other museum and gallery owners and black market art dealers always eager to find new minor works by old masters to forge for future off shore sales.
Delworth Harrington III, art critic for the San Francisco Span (the masthead of which featured pictures of the various bridges connecting the multiple Bay Area Communities (BAC), wrote glowingly of the little known minor art works by major masters on display.
A partial list and rapturous appreciation (excluding the French names for purposes of space conservation) of the rediscovered paintings included Monet’s The Dandelions, obviously intended as a companion piece to his landscape, Wild Poppies (1873, oil on canvas); Weeds in the Monet Garden, surely meant as a humorous antidote to Irises in the Monet Garden (1900, oil on canvas) and finally and triumphantly, Woman Without A Corset, a stinging, self reappraisal of Monet’s Women With a Parasol, (oil on canvass, 1875) aka, study of a figure outdoors. Mr. Harrington’s article included further examples of paintings by Picasso, Manet and other artists represented in the exhibition.
Art critics from the other two San Francisco newspapers, (the morning paper which chronicled the news of the day and the evening paper which examined the news more closely) acknowledged and welcomed the seldom seen paintings, but opined that their existence and future display would prove more significant for documentary purposes than as a valuable addition to the catalogue of the artist’s oeuvre.
Nevertheless, after publication of the critics’ reviews, on the rainy day of the exhibition opening, more than 200 people stood in line, beneath a river of black silk umbrellas stretching a block and a half long, waiting impatiently to flow into the gallery.
Making use of her legal education, (Gloria wasn’t a law student for nothing), she hung another sign: During current rehab and retrofit of building per city permits, all guests must sign a liability waiver. Document, available after payment of admission, must be signed before guests leave the foyer area to enter the exhibition space.
Steady crowds continued throughout the day. Word of mouth spread the word regarding the heretofore unseen paintings and additional media coverage, especially by local universities, junior colleges, and overblown editorials and puff pieces by various art critics, perpetuated and sustained the paying crowds.
A week later Gloria suggested to Edgar that after making such a big splash in the art world, he should keep the warehouse and turn it into a gallery/museum using his brother’s paintings as a core collection to maintain his museum status (for tax purposes) and add additional works by new artists for rental and sale (for profit).
“But I don’t know anything about art,” said Edgar.
“So what?” said Gloria. “More people know even less about art, than they know about anything else. Knowing less has never stopped anyone from having an opinion on a subject of which they are ignorant. Those consumers, who can afford to buy art, use it like furniture. To them the most important features of a painting are its size, color and shape needed to hang in a certain space as an accent color on the wall in some room of their house. These people don’t know any more about art than they do about the sofas or lamps or coffee tables they buy to furnish their houses. They bandy terms like Impressionist Period or Post Impressionist Period or Neo Impressionist, Neo Classicism, Renaissance, Surrealism, Post Modern, or Pre Columbian, just like they discuss styles of furniture like French Provincial, Early American, Shaker, Pennsylvania Dutch, Modern, Arts & Crafts, or even Chippendale.”
The last named style provoked a tiny, lewd laugh from Gloria as she fondly remembered her recent encounter with a six foot, two inch hunk of Chippendale on a king sized mattress, fitted to a Scandinavian bed frame during a weekend of marathon sex at the Madonna Inn.
“Most critics are worse,” Gloria continued, “sympathizing with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor and a general want of understanding supported by a well anchored, cold-hearted arrogance which mutually attracts them to each other. The successful art critic writes clever, witty copy, (usually at the expense of the artist) but is detestable, while the other critics, (talking themselves into dithering incoherence), are merely grotesque.”
Two weeks later (and five months prior to completion of her law degree), Gloria dropped out of the Golden Gate law school to elope with a rich, handsome Brazilian cattle rancher she had met at the gallery, (but not before taking a tiny Picasso sketch with her as a wedding present for her groom).
Edgar recovered from the loss. Feeling the sexiness of risk, he waved good-bye to Gloria, but still followed her suggestion. He wrote Dear John letters to the art collectors who had made offers to buy the various originals on display explaining his decision to retain the various pieces. Instead of rehabbing and selling the warehouse for profit, he invited city inspectors to advise him what structural modifications he needed to make to the building for use as a museum and gallery4.
Convinced that his ignorance of art no longer presented a barrier, Edgar commenced his Galleria Period (1974-1976) by hiring various art professors and graduate students to act as curator or assistant curator, advising him about future purchases of old and new paintings. Throughout the years of such employment, Edgar helped pay for the education of many art students while they completed their advance degrees and made possible the down payments for the houses of several art history professors.
For over thirty years, during his Profitable Managerial Period5, (1977-2009), Edgar enjoyed a steady income until the financial debacle of 07/08 significantly reduced gallery admissions, and the rentals and sales of art.
Insurance companies developed new guidelines that raised insurance premiums. Auctions of various masterpieces at inflated prices, by a single artist, served as documentation to raise the value of entire oeuvre. When the Japanese purchased Claude Monet’s Rouen Cathedral, Afternoon Effect for twelve million dollars, insurance premiums for all museums whose collections included more than five Monet paintings as part of their core collection, rose by 3.2%.
In addition, companies specializing in insurance for museums and galleries hired a special cadre of art critics6 and sent them to make reappraisals of the art collections in various museums, secretly encouraging them to find a higher value for the collection than currently used (for documentary purposes) to supply the insurance companies with a basis for raising premiums.
Edgar sat upright in his chair and reexamined his plan to save himself from the impending fiscalamity.7
First, Edgar hired an IT professional, specializing in the coping of art, who used a high pixel density flat scanner to make copies of each painting, photo shopping the pieces together, whenever necessary, for use in a digital projector, aimed at a movie sized screen, that reproduced brilliant, high definition projections of the original paintings.8
Second, in order to bankroll his plan, he intended to sell all the art work from the gallery’s collections to individual collectors, rather than to other galleries or museums. With only a few exceptions, Edgar could expect to sell the paintings, all of which had signed contracts with the living artists (always confidential), for permission to sell, (at various percentage splits) for higher prices to individual collectors rather than to other museums.
Third, simultaneous with his announcement to sell the gallery’s complete inventory of artwork, Edgar would send a form letter to the gallery’s members:
Dear (Member) Mr. Lindstrom,
It is with great sadness that I announce the closure of the Edgar Haddelstrom Gallery. Unfortunately, due to tax code changes and the general economic downturn, the gallery is forced to sell its complete inventory of paintings including the permanent collection. Since you have rented pieces from me in the past [indicate here the names and number of pieces].Enclosed please find a price list for the paintings you now rent. Should you wish to purchase any of these paintings*, the gallery will subtract whatever rental fees you have already paid or, currently owe, from the purchase price. Please let me know within the next ten days if you wish to make any purchases before return of the paintings. All unsold paintings will be returned to the artists.
Regretfully,
Edgar Haddlestrom, III
* Purchaser of any paintings does not retain any rights or receive any remuneration from reproductions of the originals as postcards, reprints as posters, slides or any other form of exhibitionism.
Fourth, Edgar would examine and confirm the accuracy of Delworth Harrington’s catalogue and revise the information for each painting, adding it to the digitalized reproductions of each picture, like subtitles to foreign films.
Fifth, Edgar had accepted an offer to sell his building to a retail giant that only recently, after years of futile efforts, had secured a location in downtown San Francisco for a new store.9
Sixth, Edgar had already targeted several closed, former single screen movie theaters that had been put out of business by the rise of the ugly, but profitable, and ubiquitous film multiplexes, to use as exhibition venues for the digitalized copies and had already paid for estimates for the cost of rehabbing one of these former buildings with new seats, updated bathrooms, paint, etc. and the special technical equipment and screens on which Edgar would exhibit digitalized copies of the art.
Why should patrons have to fight weekend crowds to see a painting? Why pay extra for the listening devices rented by museums to hear the history of each painting when such information could be included in the price of a ticket?
While seeing the painting projected on a movie sized screen, the audience would listen to a prerecorded soundtrack including information formerly found only on listening devices rented by the museums. After the information appeared on the screen, a drop down box would appear underneath the picture with bibliographical information.
For example, painting 13, an eight by fourteen foot installation on white plasterboard titled Moons over Miami: eleven blue moons, each behind the other, in a gradually diminishing horizon (painted by that has-been, song and dance, plane flying, but still beloved actor, Juan Zavolta) would read: slide no. 13, Moons Over Miami; 8 x 14 foot white plasterboard; 1996 by Juan Zavolta, etc.
Not only could each patron sit comfortably, but could also purchase coffee, tea or bottled mineral water to wash down the moderately priced food also available from the snack bars installed at each location.
Without the burden of inflated insurance premiums for original art, Edgar charged the lowest museum admission prices in the City.
Wistfully, Edgar imagined a line of patrons purchasing copies of various paintings in poster form on sale in the lobby. Like music to his ears, Edgar imagined he could hear the snap of titanium credit cards on the counter and the sound of the Visa and MasterCard plastic passing through the card reader as the patron requested, “I’d like a number 13, please.”
The composition of the collection at the Edgar Haddelstrom Gallery consisted of more Celebrity Art than might be found in a traditional gallery or museum. Years ago, while attending a succession of parties in Los Angeles for the opening of the Getty Museum, Edgar overheard some lubricated partygoer chatting about actor Gene Hackman’s oil paintings, painted by Mr. Hackman in his own backyard, on display in the Fitzgerald Gallery, located on the trendy section of Melrose Street in West Hollywood, known (among other things) for its good taste in exhibiting the work of contemporary artists.
The gallery had also accepted for exhibition a black and white charcoal drawing by the infamous, convicted serial killer, known professionally as Noodles, currently serving a ten year sentence in the lock-me-tight, for the murders of a succession of stray dogs. (As a child, Noodles had been frightened by the painting of a group of dogs playing poker).
Edgar adopted and expanded the Fitzgerald Gallery’s exhibition of Celebrity Art. After the successful display (and increased, fan based attendance to the gallery) of Juan Zavolta’s installation, Edgar hung other paintings by actors from various popular evening television programs.
The opening of the first “digital museum/gallery” in San Francisco, at the old Metro Theater on Union Street (converted and rehabbed by the handsome Property Brothers of the famous T.V. show) drew a curious, but only moderately sized audience, plus critics from the newspapers. Foster Grant, the art critic for the morning paper, failed to see the value of such a venue. Gilbert Slider, art critic for the evening paper, complained this new kind of exhibition was a disguised arena for sales, rather than a temple of art.
Both papers slammed the gallery as a “philistine attempt to mass market the world’s great art to the poor and ignorant.” and “How could the audience appreciate the real painting by viewing a digitalized reproduction on a giant movie screen?”
“This was,” proclaimed Gilbert Slider “...an example of commerce overcoming art.”
Foster Grant accused Edgar of “committing an esthetic crime” and wondered where the audience would come from. “Surely, regular museum goers and the cognoscenti of the art world would skip such a contemptuous, supermarket display of art.”
Only Peter Selby10, the newly hired art critic for The San Francisco Span, gave the new gallery a positive review noting that for a single, modest admission fee, everyone, especially patrons of a certain age already accustomed to viewing films, T.V. programs, text messages and art on the screens of various electronic devices, would see only an improvement from the increased size of the reproduction, receive a free program and, on a prerecorded sound tract, hear the same kind of information found only on the listening devices for rent at museums.
From Mr. Selby’s perspective, one need no longer suffer from typical overcrowded weekend traffic often impeding one’s view of the paintings, nor suffer crowd noise, once everyone was seated and the projection began.
He felt especially pleased to view the paintings while ensconced in a comfortable, ergonomically designed chair in a temperature controlled auditorium.
Mr. Selby invoked the memory of a former impressionist exhibition that had been disastrously, but profitably displayed at the Legion of Honor Museum. The special event had been stuffed into the cramped spaces of the multiple tiny rooms in the basement portion of museum.
Too many paintings, hung punishingly close together, made it impossible to view a single painting without simultaneously seeing part of another. No amount of complaints from disgruntled patrons, frustrated with the overcrowded and overheated rooms, resulted in any improvement, despite repeated Fire Department written warnings to limit the maximum amount of occupants allowed in each room at one time.11
Despite the repeated complaints of the regular museum patrons and inflated ticket prices for the always popular impressionist exhibits, media hype for the special event resulted in blockbuster ticket sales, breaking all previous attendance records.12
From the perspective of the younger, electronically savvy, the Haddlestrom Gallery proved a tremendous success. This younger audience had grown up viewing the world’s famous art collections on line (having taken virtual tours of the Louvre and the Prado), and failed to agree that the gallery diminished the appearance of art by its method of exhibitionism as digitalized reproductions projected on a giant movie screen. The same audience gratefully listened to the history of each painting from a prerecorded sound tract and took home a free program including the bibliographical information for each painting.
The concept proved so successful, that Edgar opened a
second gallery in San Jose, Ca, another in San Luis Obispo and finally opened a half dozen more galleries in midsized American cities like Omaha, Nebraska and Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, which provided abundant audiences. Such audiences generally ignored the critics who branded Edgar as a Philistine and warned the audience that it was missing the real thrill of seeing the actual paintings professionally hung in museums with the correct lighting13.
Still, the profit margins remained small. Sales of reproductions of the paintings as posters boosted profits to a barely moderate level, but it wasn’t until Susan, Jacob’s current mistress and former Broadway gypsy14, suggested to him that he send his show on the road like Broadway musicals touring from city to city.
“Listen, honey. Just pack up your apples, a supply of posters, and a small team. Send the team to small cities and little towns. Rent high school auditoriums at bargain rates or for a percentage of the take.”
Jacob ran the concept past a Stanford MBA who produced a spreadsheet predicting costs and profits, based variable cost items (travel, hotel, rental of auditorium, size of audience, sale of posters etc.) and projections of audience size, predicted a significant increase in profitability over the current methods.15
After the initial excitement, moderately successful start-up and continued success, Jacob purchased, and then retired to a modest 3 bed, 3 bath, 1869 square foot beachside residence on Maui. And thanks to Susan, his trustworthy partners and his integrity ridden accountants, not to mention the public’s voracious appetite for Celebrity Art, he got richer and richer and richer.
1 The only gallery in San Francisco to charge such a fee because its core collection of minor works by old masters entitled it to claim museum status.
2 To keep his insurance premiums from rising Edgar had to adopt the latest improvements in security and environmental control, referred to as the best management practices for his industry.
3 Recently an elevator in the 491 Post St. medical building malfunctioned, temporarily trapping someone inside. An emergency inspection uncovered serious deficiencies leading to an emergency inspection of all the elevators in the City.
4 City Building Inspectors (jokingly referred to as the “CBI” by fans of the T.V. show), initially advised Edgar that he would have to shut his doors to the public until he completed various structural modifications, but after modest amounts of money changed hands, Edgar received permits allowing him to keep the gallery’s first floor open during the rehab. Edgar had the same relationship with the Fire Dept. inspectors.
5 It took Edgar two years before he reached and maintained profitability.
6 Mostly minor critics, (always with PhDs in art History), whose opinions only infrequently found publication, accepted big bucks to supply the documentation needed by insurance companies to raise annual premiums for museums insured by the company.
7 Current slang used for fiscal calamity since the 07/08 financial debacle.
8 Simultaneously loading the images into the Iphoto application of a Mac for projection on smaller screens.
9 This giant discount retailer intended to demolish the gallery, replacing it with a three story parking garage and offer free parking to its customers while moving them and their merchandise via golf carts in the two block distance between the parking garage and the store.
10 Peter Selby replaced former San Francisco Span art critic, Delbert Harrington, III after his recent conflict of interest termination for acceptance of money from a certain insurance company for supplying it with reappraisals of museum art collections.
11 Copies of the FOIA request made to the SF Fire department, containing complaints made by museum patrons re overcrowded rooms and inadequate ventilation, plus letters to the editors of all three SF newspapers re the same complaints, remain in the documentary story files of the San Francisco Span, open to public inspection (by appointment only).
12 Rumors circulated, insisting that money had changed hands to secure the venue for the Legion of Honor similar to the intense politicking by cities vying for the Olympic Games. For years afterward, the Legion of Honor museum was known to a select group of artists as the Legion of Disgrace.
13 Seen as digitalized copies projected in a dark auditorium against a backlit white screen offered the paintings some protection from the negative effects of incandescent light (which dulls the colors) or from any sunlight sneaking in to ignite the blues.
14 Term used to describe dancers who made a career of dancing in Broadway musical chorus lines.
15 This new merchandising method worked particularly well for small towns in rural areas in which inhabitants had neither the time nor money to drive 50 or 60 miles to a city for the exhibition, but would sit in the auditorium of the local high school.
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Play it Again Des
Don Massenzio
The pain in Desmond Brown’s back and shoulders was nearly unbearable. His arms, and especially his fingers, were those of a young man. His fingers flew over the keyboard with speed and dexterity unmatched by any other jazz pianist in New Orleans, the United States, and probably the world.
The pain. The pain in the rest of his body made him wish he was dead, but the sound coming out of the Steinway over which his fingers moved expertly almost made him forget the cause of the pain. They say that death and taxes are the only sure things. Apparently the suffering that three quarters of his body was experiencing because of an arrangement long ago added a third item to that list.
Again, the questions came into his mind. Was it worth it? Would he do it again? Did the price match what he received? For the past three decades he had been able to answer yes. The fame, fortune, and fulfillment of his dream outweighed the price he gradually began to pay. As the years flew past, the answers to these questions took longer to frame in the affirmative. Instead, he began to ask himself other questions. What good is fame and fortune when you are too sick and crippled to enjoy them? What good is a dream fulfilled when it cannot be enjoyed or shared with others? These questions became more relevant to him as he descended further into a debilitation that could not be explained by doctors. He came to accept the explanation, but he could not share it with anyone or they would add mental illness to his list of ailments.
He was coming to the end of this triumphant concert at Carnegie Hall in New York. It was time to call it a night and go back to his hotel where his doctor would carefully put him into a sedative induced sleep. The sedatives were the only thing that could get him close to sleep and force the pain and nausea just below the surface of consciousness. He wasn’t sure if it was the drugs or his mind. For the last five years his pseudo-sleep was balanced by the most vivid dream that was a recollection of his past. This was one dream, not dreams. It was the same dream over and over each night on a continuous loop. It reminded him how he got to this point, and each time a new detail seemed to be added to make the recollection more vivid. Whether he was on the road, or at home in New Orleans, he silently prayed that the dream would not come. Each night, as the sedative took him into quasi-sleep, he was disappointed. Somewhere, as he prayed, the person, or whatever he was, that got him to this current state, laughed.
1970
New Orleans is known for music. Just as California is known for beaches and earthquakes, music is an indigenous product of The Big Easy. Everyone knows about the music pouring out of the doors of every smelly bar on Bourbon Street. The list of famous musicians from this area is endless from Pete Fountain and Al Hirt to Harry Connick, Jr. There are entire families of musicians. You can’t throw a stone in New Orleans without hitting a Neville or a Marsalis. Musicians from all over the world traveled to this Mecca to learn from the masters and try to break into the business. There were plenty of places to listen to good music. If you were a good player, you could sit in for a song or two and begin to get some recognition. Recognition led to gigs, money, and in rare cases, stardom and even immortality.
Desmond Brown came to New Orleans in 1970 as a bright-eyed 16 -year old aspiring jazz pianist from a working class family in Pennsylvania. Instead of playing football, he listened to jazz records. Instead of working toward college, coal mining, or the steel plants, he lived and breathed music. His idols included Oscar Peterson, Thelonious Monk, and other notable musicians that the average teenager would not be aware of. His father worked in the steel mill. His mother was a cashier at the local super market. Any aspirations of college would only be acceptable if he got there through athletic or academic ability. There was no recognition of his musical ability even though his parents had been told repeatedly by Desmond’s middle school and high school teachers that he had a gift that should be cultivated. His parents didn’t view music as a viable career and wouldn’t even consider scrimping and scraping to send him to college for a vocation that, in their view, had no future.
Desmond had no intention of either going to school for business, whatever that was, or working at the steel mill like his dad. He wanted to be a musician and nothing would divert him from that dream. That is what caused the argument that drove him away from Pennsylvania to New Orleans.
One Thursday night, his last night in his parents home, Desmond came home from school at about 6:30 to find his mother cooking dinner. The garbage was already out by the driveway of their small one-story home. This was not a good sign because putting out the garbage was his job. One of his parents had done it and that he would likely get lectured about responsibility and helping out. To top it off, he was late coming home because he had stayed after school to hang out with the high school band director. His high school had a regional reputation for assembling a decent jazz band each year and the band director, a somewhat accomplished jazz pianist in his own right, had recognized Desmond’s talent and had spent time after school with him providing tutoring. They listened to all of the great jazz piano players and Desmond learned how to emulate their styles. This particular night, after listening to Oscar Peterson, Desmond was later than normal and his father was already home from the mill. This would not be pretty. He cautiously walked into the kitchen.
“Hey mom, sorry I’m late. Mr. Pritchard was showing me some cool new chord inversions.”
“Desi, I’m glad you are learning and enjoying this music stuff, but you’re pretty late. You’re dad is watching the news in the living room and he wants to talk to you,” Desmond’s mother said as she gave him a look that warned him to listen and not talk.
Desmond crossed the small kitchen and walked through the archway where his father watched John Chancellor and David Brinkley deliver the NBC Nightly News.
“Hey Dad,” Desmond said cautiously. “Mom said you wanted to talk to me.”
“That’s right,” his dad growled. This would not be pleasant. “Where the hell were you tonight?”
“I stayed after to learn some piano chord inversions.”
“Chord what? I don’t even know what you’re talking about. What I do know is that I came home after working a 10 hour day and found your mother heaving those heavy trash cans out to the road. If I wasn’t here to help her, she might’ve thrown out her back or worse. And do you know whose job haulin’ the trash out on a Thursday night is?”
“Mine?”
“You mean you’re not sure? That’s probably true because you are only here to do it once or twice a month if we’re lucky.”
Desmond could feel the lecture train starting to pull away from the station.
“When I was your age, I already had a job that I went to before and after school. My parents didn’t give me a free ride like you’re gettin’ from us. I don’t get it Des. You’re 16 years old, almost a man. You need to start acting like one and put this stupid music thing aside. It’s not gonna get you anywhere.”
“But Dad, I’m gonna be a jazz pianist.”
“A what? You mean like Liberace or something? I don’t see no diamond rings on your fingers. You’re chasing somethin’ that just isn’t gonna happen. You need to either get your grades up so you can be a business man or start toughenin’ up so you can work at the mill this summer.”
“I’m not doin’ either one Dad. I’m gonna be a piano player. It’s not up to you what I do with my life.”
“As long as you live under this roof, it certainly is up to me. You’re not going to live here and be some long-haired, filthy musician that can’t carry his own weight.”
Desmond’s temper started to flare up. He knew this day would come, but he didn’t think it would be this soon. Finally, the words he couldn’t take back escaped from his mouth.
“Fine. Then as of right now I don’t live under this roof. I’m outa here.”
Desmond turned to head to his room. His father exploded.
“If you leave this house, there’s no comin’ back. You’re done.”
Desmond’s mother had about enough and she emerged from the kitchen.
“The two of you need to settle down before someone says something they will regret.”
“It’s too late,” Desmond’s father snapped turning toward her. “The boy’s made his choice.”
Desmond came out of his room with a bulging backpack and headed for the door. His mother tried to stop him.
“Desi, this is crazy. You can’t just walk out. What will you do? Where will you go?”
Desmond knew the answer to both of these questions. He had known for quite some time that when this day came, there was only one destination on his mind. He hugged his mother and left his family home for the last time.
Desmond hitchhiked from Scranton to New Orleans in just two days. He had enough cash to get truck stop food along the way and landed in The Big Easy with twenty dollars in his pocket. He only carried a backpack and was not concerned about room and board. He had one thing on his mind, music. He immediately headed for Bourbon Street and into the first bar with live music that he found. The name of the place was The Devil’s Dew and it had a large picture of the dark one himself painted on the sign that hung perpendicular to the street above the door. The evil one was painted as a bright red silhouette complete with horns, a tail, and an ominous looking pitchfork.
The bar had a heavy, seemingly permanent, cloud of cigarette smoke and smelled of stale beer and perspiration. Desmond noticed none of this. His only focus was on the age-worn stage and the musicians that occupied it. He heard magic and was immediately absorbed by it.
He soon learned that the composition of these musical ensembles that played for tips in French Quarter bars consisted of whatever musicians showed up. There was no set instrumentation with a rhythm and horn section and rehearsed arrangements. You might have a piano, banjo, washboard, and tuba backing up various saxophone, trumpet, clarinet, or trombone players that wandered from bar to bar looking to sit in for a couple of songs and score some tips and some connections with other musicians. Everyone seemed to know the standard repertoire of Dixieland, blues, and jazz standards with some Cajun-influenced Zydeco thrown in for variety. Desmond immediately felt at home but also intimidated by what he saw. Of the fifteen to twenty songs Desmond heard, he knew about four well enough to play and could play another four or five by ear. He had some work to do before he could even approach a piano in one of these places. He continued to listen while he moved closer to the grizzled piano player hunched over the ancient Baldwin upright. Desmond watched as his gnarled fingers flew over the yellowed keys with amazing speed. The old man used chord substitutions and inversions of chords that Desmond had never seen before. They were well beyond what Mr. Pritchard had shown him.
Desmond watched for another couple of sets before the realization hit him that he didn’t have a place to sleep and it was getting late. He left ‘The Dew’ as he would come to call it and wandered around Bourbon Street taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of the area. Not all of them were pleasant. After about an hour of wandering, he glanced down an alley and saw a sign that said ‘Rooms - Five Dollars’. That was within his current budget, so he ventured down the dark corridor to see if accommodations were available. He walked past trash and heard the rustling of living things as he made his way to the door near the sign. When he rang the bell, he heard a slow, shuffling movement from inside. After what seemed like an eternity in this dark alley, the door creaked open and a face older than the earth itself peered out.
“Who’s there?” came the question in an ancient Cajun growl.
“My name’s Desmond,” Des said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“What you want?”
“I’d like a room. I’m new in town...”
“You must be. You tell too many people that, you won’t be old in town.”
Desmond then heard a dry cackle that was either a laugh or a lung trying to jump out of the speaker’s throat. Then the chain on the door rattled and it briefly closed before reopening more fully.
“Well Desmond, get yourself in here before you get hurt.”
Desmond cautiously entered and was immediately greeted by the smell of incense and delicious food of a variety that he had never encountered before. It was a saucy, spicy cornucopia of smells that would be amazing if they tasted as good as they smelled.
“Where you from, Mr. Desmond?”
“I’m from Pennsylvania. Desmond’s my first name. My last name’s Brown.”
“Well Mr. Desmond, you’re in the South now and we call everyone Mr. this or Miss that along with their first name. It’s our way.”
“Oh. OK. I’m sorry Miss...um Miss...”
“Ramona, sugar.”
“Ramona Sugar. That’s a nice name.”
Another dry cackle, this one longer and louder than the first, erupted from the old woman’s body which could only be described as a leathery bag of bones.
“My name’s not Ramona Sugar. Sugar’s one of those terms of endearment. My last name is Deveraux, but you can call me Miss Ramona. Now come and sit down so we can decide if I’m gonna take your five dollars or not.”
Des was confused, but did as he was told and followed Miss Ramona into a small, but well appointed living room that looked like it had been furnished in the 1940’s except that everything looked brand new. As he looked around the room, his eye was drawn to several posters that advertised a band called “The Alley Catz”. A few of them had a tag line after the name of the band. He had to look at it for a while before he realized that the tagline read “Featuring the vocal styling of Ramona Deveraux.
“That’s you,” Des blurted out.
Ramona saw him eyeing the posters.
“That’s me alright. Only 40 years ago. That was another lifetime.”
Desmond settled into an ancient leather wingback chair that was remarkably comfortable. Ramona settled into an identical chair across from him. She seemed to disappear into it due to her diminutive size.
“What brings a young man such as yourself to a scary place like Nawlins?”
Desmond struggled with the question at first and then realized she had said New Orleans.
“I’m a musician. I’ve wanted to be here since I learned how to play.”
“Well I figured you was a musician. Nobody else shows up at my place unless they play. My question is what made you run away from home to be here, of all places? You look like you come from a good family. You got clean clothes that are not bad quality. You must be a runaway.”
“My dad won’t let me play music. I had to get away. This was the only place I wanted to be.”
“It’s a big step to come here from family life. Lot’s of people come here to play, but only some got the skills. You got the skills, Mr. Desmond?”
“I thought I did, but after hearing those guys at ‘The Devil’s Dew’, I’m not so sure.”
“You must have seen old Horace Boudreaux. He’s known as HoBo. He’s been playin’ there since I was a little girl. I’m not sure how he gets those old crooked fingers to move like they do. He played out on the road a lot in his younger days with a lot of big names, but always ended up back here when the money ran out. I think his road days are over now. He’s ninety if he’s a day.”
“Well, he can sure play.”
“What about you, Mr. Desmond? Can you play?”
Ramona pointed to the ancient Steinway upright against one of her walls.
“Right now? I’m not sure...I mean; it’s been a long day.”
“Oh, Mr. Desmond. One thing you gotta learn quick is when the chance comes, you gotta take it no matter how tired or sick you are. The chance might not come again. Besides, it’s just me, a harmless old lady.”
The smile that crossed her face was the opposite of harmless and somehow made her look younger. This had been a crazy day and Desmond was where he wanted to be, so he decided to take the chance. He got up slowly from the ancient chair and tentatively walked to the piano. It was an old model and he expected it to be out of tune and difficult to play. What he found was that the keys and innards of the piano were in premium shape and it sounded both well-worn and brand new simultaneously if that were possible. He warmed up a little bit and then went into a stride piano version of All of Me. He could feel Ramona’s eyes on his back as he played and he was more nervous playing for her than he had been for anyone in his life. After the first time through, he relaxed a bit and did some improvising over the second time. As he jumped back into the melody for the third and final time through the song, he heard a quiet, but confident voice singing the lyrics. It was Ramona. Her voice was in tune and played with the melody just enough to reveal the considerable talent that she once had and, to a good degree, still possessed. As they got to the last four bars, Desmond did a standard turnaround and Ramona followed him flawlessly. When they finished, she put her hands on his shoulders and stood silently for a minute that seemed endless to Des as he waited for a reaction.
“Well Mr. Desmond, the potential is there. You’ve got the rhythm and the chops. What you lack is the soul. You have to live the music.”
“That sounds like a long process. Is there any hope?”
“Maybe. Maybe there is. Why don’t you settle in for the night? Tomorrow we’ll go see HoBo. That’s one man who’s lived the music enough for two people. Maybe he’ll show you a thing or two.”
Desmond’s face lit up.
“You’d do that for me? You just met me. That’s great.”
“Settle down now. I told you we’d go see HoBo. The rest is up to you. He may tell you to get lost. I can’t control what that man thinks. You need to understand that goin’ in.”
“I understand. Thank you for doing this.”
“Don’t thank me. You got music in you. That makes you family. I always believe in helpin’ family. But then you got to help yourself.”
“I will. So, can I have a room here tonight?”
“You can. First you need to eat. You got to put some food in that skinny body so you don’t keel over.”
Ramona brought Desmond into her kitchen and dished him out some of the best food that he had ever tasted. He assumed it was traditional New Orleans fare, but was so hungry, he didn’t ask what any of it was. He discovered later that he had eaten shrimp gumbo and muffuletta sandwiches. Ramona then directed him to one of the two empty rooms she currently had. She had four others that were occupied by musicians that had not come home yet. She always made sure she had food ready for their arrival as they often came home hungry or full of enough alcohol that they needed some heavy food to soak it up.
The room was furnished with heavy furniture from the same time period of what was downstairs. It was also in pristine shape and the linens were of good quality and felt as if they were freshly laundered. He shared a bathroom with the room next to his, which was vacant, so he decided to take a shower before he crawled into bed. It was only when he stretched out in bed that he realized just how tired he was and fell quickly into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning Desmond awoke feeling refreshed. He was apparently the first one in the house awake so he got dressed and ventured out into the bright New Orleans early morning. He walked around a bit and then decided to return to Ramona’s. He entered to the sound of loud conversation coming from the kitchen. He found Ramona serving breakfast to four men of various ages and races sitting around the table. The smell, like dinner the night before, was incredible. Ramona introduced him to the four others. They were Stu, Moses, Gabriel, and Paolo. They played trumpet, alto sax, drums and guitar. They were from Chicago, Detroit, Italy, and South America, respectively. They all greeted Des and he sat down and was given a plate of grits, eggs, and sausage and a cup of strong coffee with chicory. The coffee was bitter and only slightly less so with cream and sugar. Ramona saw his face and told him it was an acquired taste.
They sat around and talked about who and what they saw the night before, who they played with, who had played well, and who had an off night. They also talked about the talent they saw, meaning the attractive women. That was when Ramona jumped in and reminded them that this was a reputable house and that they couldn’t bring any of those hussies back to their rooms. If they broke her rules, they were out. Stu asked Des where he was from and where he played the night before.
“I’m from Pennsylvania. I just got in yesterday and I haven’t played anywhere yet except for Miss Ramona. I only had time to listen to three sets at The Devil’s Dew last night.”
“What did you think of HoBo?” Moses asked.
“He’s amazing for someone his age, or any age for that matter.”
“He can play,” Stu agreed and the others nodded their heads in agreement around the table.
“Ramona is going to take me to meet him today.”
Eyebrows around the table were immediately raised with this revelation from Des.
“What?” Desmond asked wondering if he said something wrong.
“It’s just that you must play pretty good. Ms. Ramona doesn’t take just anybody to meet HoBo,” Stu said. “He’s the one that gave her a start when she was a struggling singer. You must have made quite an impression on her.”
“You stop that drama Mr. Stu. The boy’s got something and I think HoBo can help him bring it out. It’s up to him to convince that old man to spend some of the little time he has left on him,” Ramona said sternly.
The conversation continued and Des felt right at home with these strangers who had all arrived on a pilgrimage to this mecca of jazz just as the religious traveled to the Holy Land. Breakfast then stretched into a jam session in Ramona’s living room. Des discovered this was a frequent event, especially when a new guest arrived. It was a great way of getting to know someone new and helped to establish the pecking order in the house. Des was impressed with the caliber of all of the musicians, especially Moses on the alto sax. He had command of his instrument and played a rousing recreation of Charlie Parker’s Donna Lee that capped off the jam session and took them up to the time when Des and Ramona had to venture over to The Devil’s Dew to see HoBo.
The Devil’s Dew had been around since the early 1900s in different incarnations. During prohibition it was a combination restaurant and speak-easy. Many things about the place had not changed since that time. One of the remaining fixtures was Horace Boudreaux. He had played piano in The Dew since the early 20s. His actual age was always a subject of debate. Not many people knew that he was part owner of the place. He lived in an apartment over the bar.
Ramona and Des walked in at about one in the afternoon. The place was empty if you didn’t count the few locals that came in for a simple lunch or to start their drinking early. They found HoBo at a table in the back eating a bowl of gumbo and drinking some strong coffee.
“Well, if it ain’t the prettiest magnolia in all of Nawlins,” HoBo said as Ramona and Desmond approached.
“Your eyesight must be failin’ you, you old buzzard,” Ramona said with a smile in her voice.
Desmond could swear that the each looked younger by 20 years as they joked with each other with a deeply comfortable familiarity.
“Who’s this young man you brought in here? Your new boy toy?”
“Come on now, you ole goat. He’s just a baby. I brought him here to meet you. He’s got the gift, but he needs some refinin’. I thought you could show him some of your tricks.”
HoBo seemed to consider this for a while as he spooned some gumbo into his ancient mouth and wiped his snow white goatee with a napkin.
“Comin’ from you, that’s somethin’, Ramona. I’m too old to be a music teacher, though.”
“He don’t need no teacher. He just needs some guidance.”
“Well, before we talk about what he needs, how about we hear him play?”
Desmond suddenly became nervous. Here he was, living out his dream, but he felt like he was going to revisit today’s breakfast.
“Go play him what you played for me last night, Mr. Desmond. Remember the things I told you.”
Desmond slowly walked over to the ancient piano and sat down. He felt like he was driving a classic car or sitting on a valuable piece of furniture in a museum. The piano cabinet was as old as The Dew. The insides, however, were pristine and the old thing sounded like a concert grand. Des played a stride piano version of “On the Sunny Side of the Street” and after a couple of times through went to more of a Dixieland Jazz version of “All of Me”. When he finished, the silence in the old bar was daunting. Finally HoBo spoke.
“Not too bad for a white Yankee boy. You need to relax and let the music take you. You don’t drive the song; the song needs to drive you.”
The confusion Des felt must have shown on his face. HoBo suddenly got up from his chair and motioned for Des to give up the old circular piano bench. HoBo sat down and started playing the same rendition of the same songs, but they sounded different to Des. When HoBo finished, he turned to Des.
“What did you hear, Mr. Desmond?”
Desmond hesitated at first.
“I heard the same songs, in the same key, and the same style, but they sounded totally different.”
HoBo cackled with what Desmond guessed was a laugh, but sounded like ancient gears that were stripped and badly in need of oil.
“What was different besides mine was right and yours was wrong?”
“Well...for one thing, your baseline was stronger and just a little bit behind the beat. For another, you were able to make the melody stand out more. Those were the two biggest things I noticed.”
HoBo looked at Ramona.
“The boy has a fine ear. Now we’ve got to get what’s in his ear to travel to his fingers.”
“How can we do that?” Des asked.
“It takes two things, listenin’ and time.”
“Where do I start?”
“You start by takin’ a bus boy job here at The Dew. You can listen while you work. Your payment will be food, board at Ms. Ramona’s, and gettin’ to listen for free. After a while, when you sit in and play, you will get some tip money.”
Des couldn’t believe his ears. On his second day in New Orleans, he had a job, a place to live, and a chance to listen to, and eventually, play the music he loved.
Des worked at the Dew every night and on Sunday mornings when they had the gospel brunch. He was amazed at the array of talented musicians that stopped in to play a set each night. They were local legends, and even some national names trying out new techniques before recording them or taking them on the road.
After about a month, HoBo came up to him before a set that was midway through the night.
“Des, I need a break for a little while. Why don’t you sit in for me? The band is hot tonight and even you can’t screw up the sound,” HoBo said with a devilish smile.
“Do you think I’m ready?”
“You’re as ready as you’re gonna be. It’s time for you to give it a shot and let the people tell you if they like it.”
Des felt a mix of excitement and anxiety. He strolled over to the piano and sat down. Tonight’s lineup was a frequent one in the Dew. Tom Taylor, from the Midwest, was on acoustic bass, Bob Davidson, from Atlanta, was on drums, Slim Boudreaux, a local, was on the washboard, jelly jars, and other homemade percussion. Phil “Mad Man” Miller was on the trombone. They looked at Des as he sat down. It was the piano player’s call what they would play in the Dew.
Des decided to start out with the “Basin Street Blues” to get warmed up. Each of the musicians took a verse and chorus as a solo and then ended with the melody and Miller’s tasteful tailgate trombone licks. The growing crowd applauded each of the solos, including the one that Des played, and they ended the tune to strong, but polite applause.
They played their way through a number of other standards and the crowd seemed engaged, if not overwhelmed. Des played everything flawlessly, but as he listened to his own playing as it blended with the more seasoned musicians, he felt like something was off. It was almost time to end the set and he looked forward to HoBo’s take on his playing.
Des decided they needed to end on something upbeat, but he also wanted something comfortable. He decided that “All of Me” would be the last tune. Bob Davidson started the tune with a marching band street cadence on his snare and bass drums followed by a roll off to launch the tune. They flew along at breakneck speed and Des felt like he was in heaven as he played the familiar melody and chord changes. After extended and four bar traded solos, they launched back into the melody and played the song out. The applause at the end of this tune was significantly stronger. Des felt a sense of accomplishment that he had made it through, but he still felt that something was missing.
As the group took a break, Des made his way to the back of the bar where HoBo sat holding court.
“Not bad Mr. Desmond,” HoBo’s scratchy voice said as Desmond approached him.
“Not bad, but not quite there either,” he continued. “You sounded like an actor doing a play for the first time. The lines were all there, but you don’t feel the story yet.”
Desmond understood what HoBo meant.
“So how do I get there?”
“Keep listenin’ and keep playin’. It ain’t gonna happen overnight. It’s gonna take years.”
That’s when it began to sink in for Des. He didn’t want it to take years. He wanted to reach his dream now while he was young enough to enjoy it. For now, though, he had no choice but to follow HoBo’s advice. And he did. For the next five years he bussed tables and sat in for HoBo. He became more confident and began playing more sets. There were even nights when HoBo took the night off and let Des play when his health began to take a toll.
Des was 21 now and he had been patient, but inside he wanted to fast-forward and reach his dream, but that didn’t seem to be in the cards...until one cold New Years Eve.
The Sugar Bowl always brought rowdy college crowds to New Orleans which only multiplied the craziness from the usual New Year’s Eve crowd. The Dew was crowded to overflowing with Alabama and Penn State fans and a larger group of musicians gathered to play. New Year’s Eve was a great night for tips from the large drunken crowd, and the musicians knew it. This particular night would be one that would change Desmond’s life forever. HoBo was suffering from the unusually cold weather and told Des he would be playing the whole night. Des had never played a big holiday like this on his own before, but his repertoire and confidence had grown to a level that would meet the challenge. The usual suspects were playing with the group along with some familiar additions on saxophone and guitar. Just as the group was about to start their first set, an unfamiliar musician walked into the Dew. He wore a dark suit and a fedora and carried a trumpet case under his arm. A trumpet would round out the group nicely, but taking a gamble on an unfamiliar musician on a night like this was risky. This musician, however, had the bearing and look of confidence that dispelled all doubt. When he took out his flawless silver horn with mother-of-pearl valve caps and began to play, all doubt vanished. He had the ability to mimic famous trumpet players or play with a confident style of his own. His improvised riffs and extended solos were exact replicas of complicated solos by Miles Davis, Al Hirt, Louis Armstrong and others. He appeared to have no difficulties with keys and obscure tunes. He could make his standard trumpet sound like a flugelhorn, cornet, or piccolo trumpet. The members of the group were blown away by his abilities and by the fact that they had never heard of him before. When he introduced himself, he said his name was Lou. He also said his last name was too intimidating for most, so he just went by Lou. Des thought this was pretentious, but after hearing him play, the pretentiousness was well earned.
As is often the case with superior performers, they can raise the performance level of those around them. This is true in music, sports, and many other professions. This was definitely true when Lou joined the regular musicians at the Dew for that New Year’s Eve. The crowd felt it as well and reflected it through their applause and tips. As with all great performances, the time flew by and the crowd was left wanting more. Lou the trumpet player elevated and enhanced the talents of each member of the group, Des included, and they didn’t want this to be a one time thing. Des approached Lou at the end of the night as their unofficial spokesman.
“Lou, I just wanted to tell you how much we enjoyed playing with you tonight. Where do you usually play?”
Lou laughed to himself and turned to face Desmond. In the harsh, closing time light, Desmond couldn’t help noticing the intensity and unusual color of Lou’s eyes. They seemed to alternate between hazel, brown, and an intense shade of burnt orange with bright flecks of light that almost looked like burning coals.
“I don’t usually play in any one place. I travel all over the world and play where I’m needed.”
Desmond bristled at the unusual response and felt uneasy for some reason.
“What do you mean, where you’re needed?”
Lou’s face broke into a disconcerting smile.
“You’re group needed a trumpet tonight, so I showed up.”
Again, Lou’s response did little to answer Desmond’s questions. But it didn’t matter, because Lou took over the conversation.
“So, you’ve got some talent and some potential on the piano. Right now you’re ten years away from being extremely competent to play in this lovely bar. Is that what your dream is?”
Desmond was a bit flustered by the backhanded compliment and the fact that Lou had mirrored his thoughts and his frustration. He didn’t say anything in reply. Lou continued.
“If I were a young man with potential like yours, I would want some kind of shortcut. Is that something you’re interested in?”
Desmond knew in his heart he should say no and end this conversation, but something about Lou’s eyes and the hypnotic tone of his voice had Desmond’s full attention.
“You can make it happen Desmond; all you have to do is want it bad enough. Do you want it bad enough, Desmond?”
All Desmond could do was stare blankly and nod. Lou just had to reel him in.
“Desmond, it can happen if you want it bad enough. You just need to tell me what that dream is.”
Internal alarms were going off like a five-alarm fire, but Desmond could not protest. He was too far gone.
“Tell me your dream.”
Desmond mumbled something that sounded like a phrase in a foreign language.
“What was that Desmond?”
“To have the best hands.”
“Hmm, that’s an interesting way to put it, but I think I understand exactly what you’re saying. You want the best hands on the piano. You want to match that great technique that you already have with the missing ingredient to set you apart. Is that right Desmond?”
Again, Desmond could only stupidly nod his head.
“I’ll take that as a yes. All it takes, Desmond, is soul. Do you know what I mean? That’s what will provide the missing piece.”
Desmond thought this made sense in his current state. “Soul” was the missing ingredient that HoBo was talking about. Lou was saying the same thing, he thought to himself.
“It will come to you Desmond. You will have the best hands. Of course, you will pay a small price now and a larger price over tine. It’s like buying a house; a down payment now and gradual payment of the larger price over time.”
“But I don’t have any money,” Desmond was able to blurt out.
Lou laughed at this.
“And I don’t need money. The price will be automatically exacted over time. In fact, you will not see me or need to pay in person. It’s that easy. All you have to do is say that you agree.”
Desmond again felt that internal turmoil, but he could also see his dream within his grasp. He also had the feeling that he was about to do something he would regret. Still, he looked into Lou’s molten orange-brown eyes and said, “I agree”. And he felt...nothing. Had he been the butt of a joke? Was he being exploited as a fool by this slick operator? He watched Lou turn and go out the door and said nothing. Desmond sulked his way back to Ramona’s and went to bed.
Desmond slept late into New Year’s Day. The Dew was closed and he didn’t roll out of bed until 1PM. He felt hung-over even though he didn’t take a single drink. He slunk down the stairs and immediately smelled Ramona’s jambalaya cooking in the kitchen. Instead of making him hungry as it usually did, he felt sick to his stomach. He went into the kitchen long enough to pour a glass of sugary sweet iced tea hoping it would settle his stomach and reduce his headache. He trudged back up the stairs and fell into bed. He didn’t wake up until the early morning hours of the following day.
He stayed in bed until the sun came up. Then he got up, took a shower, and went down to Ramona’s kitchen for some breakfast and strong coffee. He felt only marginally better but decided he better eat something. Ramona poured herself some coffee and sat down across from Desmond.
“That musta been some New Year’s Eve. If I didn’t hear you movin’ around yesterday, I might’ve thought you were dead.”
“I just felt awful. I came home from the Dew and felt like I had been up for two days straight. Guess I needed the sleep.”
“Well it sure wasn’t beauty sleep.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You look like you’ve been up for four days straight. What happened? Did someone give you some bad drug to take?”
“No. I didn’t even drink. Maybe I’ve got the flu.”
“Maybe. You might want to call in sick today and get some more sleep.”
“No. I need to go in. I need to play tonight. HoBo might not be up to it yet.”
“That old cat has at least nine lives. He’ll be fine.”
“Well I’m not sick. I’ll be better once I get there.”
“Whatever you say Mr. Desmond. There’s just something about you today.”
“What do you mean?”
“You look...different. Not in a good way.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Desmond helped Ramona clean up the kitchen and then left for the short walk to the Dew. He had to admit that he felt a little achy, but he didn’t feel ill. When he got to the Dew, he saw HoBo sitting at the piano looking much better. He was playing some old rag time style tunes and Desmond went over to listen.
“Hey HoBo,” Desmond said as he finished up. “How are you feeling?”
“Mr. Desmond, I feel so much better. The rest did me some good. I’ll be back playin’ tonight, but only for a set or two. I don’t want to end up in bed again for a while.”
“Why is that?”
“A man my age doesn’t need to be alone with his thoughts. It gives me too much time to think about what I didn’t do with this life.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“It sounds like I wasn’t missed too much. It was a profitable New Year’s Eve without me. That Sugar Bowl crowd filled this place up.”
“Well, you were missed. We had a great crowd and the group sounded hot.”
“So I hear. Sounds like you had a great horn player sitting in, although I must admit, I thought I knew everyone that plays in this town, but I can’t place this guy from his description.”
“He was good. Really good. It made the rest of us sound better than usual.”
Desmond helped the kitchen crew get ready for the night’s dinner rush. It took longer than usual because of the day off. Before he knew it, dinner was over and the combo out in the bar was starting their first set. It was the same core group that had played New Year’s Eve, minus the trumpeter, of course. Although the band didn’t reach the heights of the sound from New Year’s Eve, they did sound good, especially HoBo on the piano. He was back with a vengeance. He went on to play a second set with the band and sounded better than he had in a very long time. Desmond thought that the rest had rejuvenated HoBo. When the second set was over, he went to compliment HoBo and found the ancient pianist smiling from ear-to-ear.
“You sound great tonight. That rest did wonders for you.”
“It’s not just the rest. My fingers feel like they belong to a young man tonight. I hate to stop.”
“You don’t have to. I don’t need to play tonight.”
“No. One thing I’ve learned with this old body, if I push too hard when I feel good, I pay the price later. You take the next set. I’ll get some dinner.”
“It’s going to be hard to follow you, but I’ll play if that’s what you want.”
“It’s not what I want,” HoBo said with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s what I need.”
Desmond sat at the piano for the third set thinking about what they were going to play. They had an alto sax player from New York sitting in who was itching to play some Charlie Parker tunes. To shut him up, Desmond decided they would start with Donna Lee, which was essentially an improvised solo that Parker had played over the old song, Back Home in Indiana. It was a challenging melody that Des and the group would make more challenging by kicking up the tempo. Des decided to warm up a little bit since he hadn’t touched the piano since New Year’s Eve. All thoughts of that bizarre night and his encounter with Lou the trumpeter were out of his head...until he put his fingers on the keys. It was a sensation like touching a live wire. He felt voltage pass up through his fingertips and through his whole body but could not remove his fingers from the keys. The sensation lasted for about five scary seconds and then was gone. Desmond felt fine.
The other members of the group had assembled and they kicked off the song by playing Back Home in Indiana as a slow dirge. When they finished, Des nodded to Bob Davidson on the drums and he kicked into a very fast street roll off and Donna Lee began with reckless abandon. The alto sax player held on for dear life and made it through the melody and a breakneck solo without any casualties. Then it was the guitarist’s turn. Finally, the solo came to Desmond. That was the moment when everything changed. The solo that came from the piano was being played by his fingers, but the technique, speed, and musicality was unbelievably foreign to his brain. He felt the music rather than thought it. When he made it through the chord changes for one turn, everyone nodded to him to take another. He flew around the changes again making complex substitutions with his left hand and playing runs with his right that seemed to flow like electricity from his fingers as they blurred across the keys. After this run through the changes, they were back into the melody and ended the song, keeping up the high speed with which it started.
When they finished, the silence in the bar was eerie. Then, one by one, bar patrons jumped to their feet and began applauding and shouting Desmond’s name. Tips began filling the bucket on the stage like never before. Desmond looked to the band members who also were standing, applauding, and pointing at him. The situation was surreal. The rest of the set was similar. Desmond played one amazing solo after another taking familiar tunes to places they had never been before. It was like a repeat of the New Year’s Eve performance only Desmond was the star instead of the mysterious trumpeter that no one had seen before. When the set was over, Desmond found himself mobbed by the patrons in the bar, slapping his back, shaking his hand, and even asking for autographs. There was only one person in the Dew whose opinion mattered to Desmond at that moment and that was HoBo. He made his way back to the old man’s usual table and found him asleep. The two sets must have worn him out. Even though he was not conscious, a slight smile seemed to be frozen on his face. Desmond went to gently wake him up so that he could help him to bed in his apartment above the bar. He gently nudged HoBo’s shoulder and the old man slumped to the table. He was not asleep. He had died sitting in the place that was his life. Desmond’s first thought was whether or not he had heard Desmond play this amazing set. His second thought went back to the words that Lou had told him regarding a “down payment” for realizing his dream. He quickly dismissed the thought. He then snapped back to reality. Other Dew employees were ushering patrons out of the bar so they could deal with HoBo’s death discreetly without causing a panic. The local undertaker had already been dispatched and, within thirty minutes, HoBo’s body was taken away. The bar was closed for the night and Desmond decided to walk around and clear his head. After about an hour, he returned to Miss Ramona’s place and found her and a group of current boarding musicians solemnly sitting around the table. Desmond poured a cup of strong coffee and joined them. They were sitting around reminiscing about HoBo. Most of the stories that Miss Ramona was telling were about his younger days when she was a singer in his band. HoBo was a mentor and a father figure to her just as he was to many other musicians, Desmond included. Eventually, the stories turned to how well HoBo had played earlier that evening and how full of life he was. Miss Ramona addressed this.
“The Lord wanted him to have one more moment of joy on this Earth before he called him home. From what I hear, it almost sounds like HoBo passed his gift on to you somehow Mr. Desmond. These gentlemen just got done talking about how your playing was amazing tonight. Maybe HoBo figured his work with you was done and he passed fulfilled.”
“I don’t know about that,” Desmond said, looking down at the floor. I just wish he was around to hear it and tell me what he thought.
The stories went on for a bit longer and the musicians began to leave one by one. Finally it was just Desmond and Ramona that remained.
“You look like something heavy is weighin’ on you, Mr. Desmond. What is it?”
“I’m just sad about HoBo’s death.”
“That man had a long and happy life. There’s no reason to sulk. In New Orleans, we celebrate the life a whole lot more than we mourn the death. I think there’s more to it than that.”
Desmond decided to tell Ramona about what happened on New Year’s Eve. When he was through, she had an amused look on her face.
“You sure you weren’t drinkin’ some of the special moonshine that night?”
“I didn’t drink at all. Why do you say that?”
“Well, for one thing, the Devil’s Dew was founded by a trumpet player named Lou who used to hang out with King Oliver and Jelly Roll Morton back in the early 1920’s. He’s been dead for nearly 50 years. His picture is hangin’ in the back of the bar at the Dew. Somebody’s been messin’ with you.”
Desmond described Lou and Ramona opened her eyes wide.
“That sure sounds like somebody who looks like him, but they could have seen the picture and dressed up like him for the holiday.”
“You’re sure about that?” Desmond asked. “How did he die?”
“There was a terrible fire at the Dew. The upstairs burned out totally. He lived in the apartment HoBo lived in. All they found was some burned up bones. The place got rebuilt with bootleg whiskey money.”
Desmond didn’t know what to think. He knew he saw ‘his’ Lou and he knew what happened when he sat down to play. It was a strange night.
The Devil’s Dew was shut down for a few days out of respect to HoBo. In pure New Orleans style, his death would be marked by a funeral procession beginning at the undertakers and passing by the Dew to the cemetery where HoBo would be laid to rest in a mausoleum. Underground burials were not possible in New Orleans due to the elevation of the city which was actually below sea level. The water table was so high, that digging a hole to bury a body would result in a hole filled with water.
A marching band of all types of instruments formed along and marched down Bourbon Street to accompany HoBo’s body. Musicians and other mourners came from far and wide to celebrate his life. The band played a mournful rendition of “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” as the body was carried toward the cemetery. Once HoBo was laid to rest, the procession went back the way it came to finish it’s parade at the Devil’s Dew for a reception/celebration. As was the custom, the trip back started with a lively drum cadence and then a roll off that began a true Dixieland version of the same old Christian spiritual, but with a beat that encouraged those not playing instruments to dance and strut toward the bar. It was not disrespectful, quite the opposite was true. They were honoring HoBo in true New Orleans style.
Once back at the Dew, a who’s-who of musicians assembled to play HoBo’s favorite tunes. Food was put out in a buffet, and a party like no other was thrown to honor him. Other piano players sat down and played for the first couple of sets while Desmond helped manage the party and greeted guests. As the band assembled to play the third and final set, one of the trombone players, Phil Miller, stepped up to the microphone to make an announcement.
“You know, HoBo was a legend in this bar. He played here for nearly 70 years and taught many of us to appreciate the music and culture of this great city. To show that his teaching spirit was there to the end, we want to call up his latest, and last, protégé, Desmond Brown, to play the next set. Desmond, come on up here and show us what you learned.”
Desmond walked up to the piano. His legs and back seemed a bit sore for someone in his 20’s, but he figured the parade had taken its toll on him. He sat down and the band launched into a medley of classic Dixieland jazz standards. Like the last time he played, minus the electric shock, Desmond’s fingers danced across the keys with reckless abandon as he redefined the chord changes and melodies of each tune. The band and the crowd were awestruck by his technique and his fusion of old and modern jazz textures. The crowd was on their feet applauding and shouting after every solo in every song. Desmond had never felt so alive while playing the piano. When he finished, the applause, back slaps, handshakes, and requests for autographs were numerous. He made his way to the back and slid into the booth where HoBo had sat and passed away so recently. As he sat there, the admirers continued to approach him and shower him with compliments. He simultaneously felt uneasy, but he was also enjoying it. As the crowd thinned, a man in a very expensive suit approached him. He asked Desmond if he could sit down.
“Sure. I’m about to go help in the kitchen,” Desmond responded.
“Well, actually I’d like to talk to you first, if you don’t mind.”
“OK. What do you want?”
The man folded his well-manicured hands.
“My name is Howard Ballantine. I represent Blue Note and I have a proposition for you.”
“Blue Note, as in The Blue Note record label?” Desmond asked in disbelief.
“The very same. I’ll get right to it. I don’t know where you came from, or where you’ve been, but I want to sign you to an exclusive deal with our label. I’m prepared to give you $25,000 up front to sign you to a three album deal and then cut you in for a substantial piece of the profit. I have the contract with me. You can have your agent and your lawyer look it over and then sign it. I’m not leaving New Orleans until I have your signature.”
“What? A lawyer? I don’t have a lawyer or an agent.”
“Well I suggest that you get both. You’re going to need them. Here’s my card. If I don’t hear from you within three days, I’ll come and find you to get your signature. Blue Note wants your talent on its label.”
“This is unbelievable. Thank you. I’ll call you.”
“I’m counting on it,” Ballantine said as he got up to leave.
“Mr. Ballantine,” Desmond said as the man turned to go. He turned back and looked at Desmond.
“Please call me Howard.”
“OK. Howard. How did you know to come here? Were you a friend of HoBo’s?”
“No. I never knew the man. I’m here, strangely enough, because of a phone call that came in to my private office line. No one has that number except for our company executives and the agents of certain artists or the artists themselves. The voice on the phone told me I needed to get to New Orleans with a contract and sign up one of the best new talents on piano since Thelonious Monk or Oscar Peterson. I was about to hang up, but the voice on the phone was very convincing and I felt compelled to come here. I sat through the first two sets and was about to leave when they called you up to play. You are a unique talent and you need to be heard. I want you on Blue Note so that your gift can be shared on a large scale.”
Desmond was feeling strange as he heard Ballantine’s story. He knew he had to ask the next question, but also knew the answer beforehand.
“What was his name? The guy who called you, did he say his name?”
“He didn’t tell me his full name. He just said to tell you that Lou said good luck. Does that mean anything to you?”
Desmond hesitated and then said “No it doesn’t.” He wanted to avoid more questions. When Ballantine left, Desmond got up from his seat and left the Devil’s Dew for the last time. He could not resist a look over the bar at the pictures that hung there. Among the pictures of notables that had visited the bar was a previously unnoticed black and white photo in a dusty frame. The picture was of Lou. It was the same man from the New Year’s Eve party and, as Desmond started to look away, he could swear that the eyes of the man in the picture flashed a brief brownish-orange at him.
2014
Now, as a nearly sixty year old Desmond Brown lay in his luxury suite in the Waldorf Astoria in New York City, he was a mass of pain. The pain had started in his legs and spine in his 20’s. As he progressed through his 30’s and 40’s, the pain got progressively worse and spread to his chest. He had been to the top orthopedists, neurologists, internists, and, later, acupuncturists, chiropractors, and holistic healers. No one could explain the pain. He began to take pain medication in ever increasing amounts. They would just dull the pain, but could not make it stop.
Amazingly, as the rest of Desmond’s body withered away from the effects of the pain and lack of use, his arms, from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers, remained pain free and toned as if he were in his 20’s. The doctors were baffled that these appendages that he used to create classic jazz piano music had been spared while the rest of his body had been so cruelly punished. Desmond knew the reason, however, he just couldn’t share it with anyone or insanity would be added to his list of afflictions. So now, on this night after a triumphant concert at New York’s Carnegie Hall, Desmond Brown lay in his luxury suite wondering if the price he had paid for his gift was truly worth it. He wondered if the suffering that he experienced was worth the fame, adulation, and immortality of the music he had created. He used to answer ‘yes’ unequivocally to this question, but now, he wasn’t so sure. He had taken the short cut. He had skipped paying his dues for the easy way. But he also knew that, even with several years of hard work, the alternate path may not have landed him here. He might still be playing at The Devil’s Dew and bussing tables. At this low point in his life, he would gladly trade his health for his abilities. After all, the fame he had achieved and the body of work he had produced was enough to fill several lifetimes. He had plenty of money. He was still relatively young. He wondered to himself if there was a way out. As he drifted into another wave of sedative induced pseudo-sleep, Desmond thought about this as he was suddenly brought back from the edge of sleep by a presence in his room.
“Ron, is that you?”
Desmond’s doctor was Ron Perrino, and he, as always, had the adjoining room so that he could monitor Desmond’s condition through the night and take action as needed. No one answered, however, but Desmond could still feel a presence.
“Who’s there? What do you want?”
Desmond wondered if he was hallucinating or hearing voices as new symptoms. But finally, a voice spoke quietly.
“Well hello old friend.”
A face emerged from the shadows and Desmond wondered if he was dreaming.
“No you’re not dreaming. It’s me, your old pal.”
“Lou. How did you get in here? Why are you here?”
“One question at a time. The first question is silly, don’t you think. I have been alive for a very long time. I gave you the talent needed to become the greatest jazz piano player of all time, and you question how I could get into your hotel room.”
Lou let out a laugh that was chilling yet made the temperature of the room increase noticeably. He was wearing the same outfit that he wore that New Year’s Eve so long ago. It also was the same outfit he wore in the photo behind the bar at the Devil’s Dew. His face had not changed and his intense eyes seemed to glow like the ends of twin cigarettes in Desmond’s darkened room.
“As for the second question, you asked for me?”
“No. I didn’t. I’d never ask for you.”
“I’m sorry Desmond, but you’re mistaken. I clearly heard you ask for an amendment to our agreement. If nothing else, I am a forthright businessman and when a customer is unhappy with an arrangement, I like to find a way to give them what they ask for, or ‘wish’ for. You distinctly expressed the desire to make your body whole again. To have the same feeling throughout your body at the expense of your piano playing, am I correct?”
“I was only thinking about it. I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Well I am here to offer help if you want it, Desmond. All you have to do is agree that you want this to come to pass. Your body will be whole, but you will not be able to play a note, not even Chopsticks.”
Lou moved his face close to Desmond’s as he continued.
“Is this what you want, Desmond?”
Desmond squeezed his eyes shut and said, “It is”.
When he opened his eyes, Lou was gone. Desmond was suddenly exhausted and concluded that the whole episode was just another dream and a result of the chemicals circulating through his body. He drifted off to a dreamless sleep for the first time in many years.
He was awoken by the sound of voices and activity in his room.
“He’s opening his eyes.”
It was Dr. Perrino that Desmond saw first as he began to wake up.
“Desmond can you hear me? Blink if you can. Desmond tried to speak, but his vocal chords would not respond. He then realized there was an intubation tube in his throat that prevented speech. He blinked.
“Good. You’re responsive. Something happened during the night. Your condition has changed. Can you squeeze my hand?”
Desmond tried to squeeze with both hands but found no feeling in his body at all. The pain was gone, but with it, so was his ability to move. He was paralyzed.
“Desmond, we think you might have had a stroke that is affecting your movement. You are having trouble breathing on your own as well. We’re going to have to move you to a hospital.”
Desmond’s next memory was of more activity and of somber faces surrounding his bed. They were the faces of people accepting that the end was near for him. Desmond’s immediate reaction was anger. He was angry at himself. He was angry at Lou. Lou, in his dream (or was it a dream) had promised to make his body whole at the price of his piano playing ability. Suddenly, Desmond’s anger turned to amusement and understanding. Lou had delivered on his promise. His body was whole again. None of it functioned. Instead of amazing hands that flew across the keyboard with unreal dexterity, his arms and hands now matched the rest of his body. His lungs and heart were catching up as well. His final thoughts as his body finally gave up were of being careful what you ask for and how you ask for it.
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addiction
Janet Kuypers
haiku 2/14/14
I look at the clock.
It’s time. I always need to
take another pill.
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(Click here to read Janet Kuypers’ bio.)
One for You
Norm Hudson
I’ve never been sensitive. Sensitivity isn’t part of my job. That’s what made the job easy. That and my experience. And this job was going to be easy. It was silent and quick and there was no way they could trace it back to me. I dropped the letter I was holding and started towards the kitchen. Each footstep made my head pound. I hadn’t had much sleep. Not for weeks. I walked towards the sink, stood to one side and tilted the slats of the shutter slightly so I could see out. The light outside was blinding but I could still see him. He was there like I knew he would be. I’d been watching him for weeks. There was a distant crack of a rifle. And he reacted like I knew he would. The hunting season was in full swing. I smiled.
Not that way, mate, I thought. You’ll not die that way. I’ve got something better in store for you. But the hunters would be useful. They’d get the blame. It couldn’t work out better.
I put on the rubber gloves and opened the fridge door. The minced lamb meatballs I’d cooked for our evening meal the night before were sitting on the foil in the almost empty refrigerator. I pulled them out and laced them with the Lanate I’d bought. I was glad the agricultural pesticide was so readily available on the island. No questions asked. It made my job easier.
Welcome to Cyprus, I thought, Island of Love, as I wrapped the meatballs in the foil and carefully placed them in a plastic bag. A traditional Cyprus offering. The gift of food. He’d accept it like he’d accepted other gifts from locals. My vigil had not been for nothing. I imagined him eating my offering, shivering and falling down. An agonising death. But no more agony than he and his kind had inflicted on me. My eyes returned to the letter that I’d dropped among the pile of others on the desk as I left the flat with my minced meat offering wrapped in a plastic carrier bag. Soon it would all be over. One for me.
The flat was silent on my return. I crossed to the desk and picked up the letter I’d dropped. I wondered briefly what made normally law-abiding people go to such terrible lengths to rid themselves of a nuisance. But I already knew. It had all started the day Jenny left. Leaving me with Lucy. And sleepless nights. One for you, Jenny. That’s when he’d started bothering me. A selfish, insensitive, racist, male chauvinist workaholic Jenny had called me that final day. Male chauvinist because I’d wanted her to stay at home and look after our eight year old daughter. Racist because she said I couldn’t understand her British culture, so different from my Greek Cypriot one. And insensitive because I didn’t show any feelings. Workaholic? I looked down angrily at the piles of paper on my desk. Stress. Stress had finally signalled the end of my marriage. And left me with a nuisance. Lucy. A nuisance and an inconvenience. How could I do the job with her around?
I pulled off the rubber gloves and bent under the desk to throw them in the bin. Something blue lay on the floor. I picked it up. The blue Smartie Lucy had given me that morning before she left for school.
“One for you. one for me,” she’d said shyly, placing the blue one tentatively on top of the mound of paperwork on my desk as if she was unsure of my reaction..
An unexpected wave of love had engulfed me. I’d snorted. I was getting soft. I couldn’t afford to let sentiment cloud my job.
Kids! I’d never had much time for them. And no experience of them. Noisy. Messy. Best kept in their place or got rid of. Like animals.
The door banged. I started. Years of training. Ears alert.
She walked into the room. A small, carbon copy of her mother. Maybe that’s why I was so tough on her.
“You’re late!” I said gruffly.
She looked wounded at my stern voice. I didn’t let it get to me.
“I’m sorry. I went round to a friend’s.”
“Don’t make it a habit!” I said.
I didn’t want her making friends. It would make my job tougher. And being a policeman was tough enough. I smiled. That’s why they wouldn’t suspect me.
He deserved it anyway. Him and his kind. For all the sleepless weeks he’d given me.
The smile made Lucy braver.
“Did you get my Smartie?” she said.
“Yes, thanks,” I said curtly.
She looked crestfallen and lowered those dark sweeping lashes so like her mother’s.
“It was nice of you,” I heard myself say.
Was I getting soft?
Her eyes lit up.
“You always tell me to share everything,” she said excitedly.
“That’s right,” I said.
At least she’s learning something off me, I thought. More than her mother ever did.
She never learnt I had my job to do. And for years it had been easy. Until she and her kind descended on us. Foreigners. They had no understanding of the Cypriot way of life. All these stupid reports about suspected deliberate dog poisoning. And they expected me and my officers to investigate them. With our scarce resources! Didn’t they know how expensive and time-consuming forensic analysis was? And they were to blame themselves. Abandoning dogs and leaving them to roam the streets when they returned to their native country, unaware what the summer heat can do to some dogs. No wonder the dogs attacked people. Not that my own people were blameless. Chaining animals up in yards or locking them in cages with little exercise resulted in aggressive animals that barked incessantly and terrorised neighbourhoods. No wonder some local Cypriots had taken to deliberately poisoning dogs in parks, outside schools and even by throwing poisoned food into private gardens. You couldn’t blame them. Things like that could drive normally law-abiding people to terrible lengths to rid themselves of a nuisance. I knew.
There was the distant crack of a rifle. I waited for the incessant sound of barking that had kept me awake for weeks. There was nothing. I smiled. One for me.
“Oh, don’t smile!” Lucy said. “Those hunters are horrible people!”
Not so horrible, I thought. They’d get the blame for the death of next door’s dog. That would take the pressure off me.
Some people didn’t want the hunters and their dogs on their property. Some people even wanted to sell new dogs to the hunters so they poisoned their old ones. Not that that was my idea. I just wanted to get rid of a nuisance. And those letters – those things that had caused me all the stress - had given me the idea.
“Why?” I said, playing along.
“Because they’re cruel to animals,” she said.
“Sometimes we have to be cruel,” I said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Sometimes we have to get rid of things that annoy us.”
Her eyes narrowed knowingly.
“You mean like mummy?”
“No, that’s not quite what I meant,” I said slowly.
“But she annoyed you, didn’t she?”
Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, I thought, but all I said was,
“Sometimes.”
“Is that why you got rid of her?”
She was annoying me. Kids are annoying. Probing into what doesn’t concern them.
“I didn’t get rid of her,” I said solemnly. “She left.”
It was brutal. I could have softened the blow. Maybe that’s why she was brutal back.
“Do I annoy you?” she said
I looked down at the clone of my wife.
It was just as well she didn’t give me a chance to reply. I might have regretted what I said. I told you. Kids are annoying.
“Like that dog next door barking does,” she continued.
“Sometimes,” I said a little too swiftly. She was irritating me. Like her mother.
“Maybe he’s trying to tell you something,” she said.
“Who?” I replied, quite losing the thread of the conversation.
“The dog next door. Maybe he’s trying to tell you there are bad people about.”
I thought of the pile of letters. And I thought of the Lanate. And the likes. And those that sold it. And those that let them. And then I dismissed the thought. I couldn’t afford to be soft. Not in my job.
“Can we lay off the dog?” I said.
I’d had enough.
“Why?” she said. “Is it annoying you?”
No longer, I thought. No longer. No more endless barking. No more weeks of sleepless nights. One for me.
“Yes. And you’re annoying me. Asking all these questions and coming home late.”
“Maybe I’m like the dog,” she said.
She was really annoying me now.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Maybe I’ve been trying to tell you something.”
“And just what is it you’re trying to tell me?”
My tone was patronising. Sarcastic even. Bed. That would get rid of her. And tomorrow? Boarding school might be an option. That would take another problem off my hands.
She bit her lip.
“I’ve been to see him.”
“See who?” I said absent-mindedly.
I was already thinking of all those letters on my desk. And that problem.
“Next door’s dog,” she said.
My blood ran like ice through my veins.
“Next door’s dog?” I repeated.
“Yes. That’s why I was late.”
She couldn’t have, I thought. Next door’s dog was dead.
I tried to keep my voice even.
“You’ve been next door,” I said slowly.
“Yes,” she said. “I go there every day to ask him what he’s trying to tell me.”
“What he’s trying to tell you?” I repeated, my voice a curdled croak.
She nodded.
“Yes. Though he wasn’t able to tell me today. He was a bit poorly. But some kind person had left him meatballs to cheer him up. He wouldn’t eat them at first. But I played that game with him.”
“Game?” I heard myself say as if from afar.
“That game you taught me. One for you. One for me. We had one each. It was fun. You know how I like meatballs. And he did too. He really wolfed them down.”
“Wolfed them down,” I repeated in a daze.
The pack was howling.
“Yes. You see it’s all about understanding,” she said in her little still voice.
“Understanding,” I repeated like a robot.
I’d never understood Jenny. I’d never understood foreigners. I’d never understood my own people. And I’d never understood animals.
But now I understood. Lucy had eaten the meatballs I’d laced with Lanate.
There’d be no bed. There’d be no boarding school. No nuisance. No inconvenience. There’d only be a slow, agonising death.
I looked at her. For the first time.
“I knew you’d understand,” she said. “That’s why I kept this for you.”
She brought the hand she’d kept hidden from behind her back and opened it like a flower coming into full bloom. Sitting in the palm of her hand was a folded piece of silver foil. She carefully peeled away the edges. In the middle sat one solitary meatball.
She extended her hand in offering.
That’s what made it easy. It was silent and quick and there was no way they could trace it back to me.
“One for me,” I said, raising the meatball slowly to my lips.
I’ve never been sensitive. Like I said sensitivity isn’t part of my job. But experience can change you.
That’s why I smiled as I bit into the meatball. My eyes met hers. Complete understanding.
“One for you,” she said.
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The Knock
David R Miller
The sounds of the whistles and the high-pitched trills of the ululations had recommenced. It had been almost a fortnight since they had been heard around our neighbourhood. These sounds and that of sticks colliding were heard. The vibrations of feet pounding the earthen road were felt. It was a portent of the strident group of young men that were encroaching, long before they came into view. I peered discreetly from behind our tattered blind as this throng of committed, driven men slowly began to edge past our house.
They were moving slowly enough to allow me the opportunity to locate Samuel. I soon spotted him, middle of the group, three rows from the front. He blasted his whistle with an enthusiasm that mirrored the conviction of those around him.
Samuel and I have shared a long history. We were the best of friends through all of our schooling. Even in university we found ourselves studying together in a number of classes. The period of time spent in the education system ran parallel with our country’s surge toward economic ruin. A generation of highly educated youth emerged, only to be confronted by 80% unemployment. As food, medicine and housing became scarce or unaffordable, a pervasive frustration set in.
It was during our time at university that Samuel’s involvement in politics intensified. It was something that I had always consciously avoided. I would feign disinterest. I knew right from wrong; I didn’t require to be instructed. Besides, being involved in politics in this country had inherent dangers. Samuel gradually became more immersed, almost to the point of zealotry. He was no longer the Samuel that I once knew.
Three weeks earlier I was startled by a knock at the door. I was now alone in the house with my mother who languished in the back room with a chronic illness. My father who had lost his job while I was at university had crossed the border with my brother in search of employment. He had hoped to send money back home, to obtain medicine for my mother. They were now destitute in another country unable to return. His last words to me were, ‘These are dangerous times. Do not open the door to anyone.’ It was advice that was not easily followed. The message it sent to looters was that no one was home. The police, the military, the gangs, would simply kick the door in.
Tentatively I walked to the door and opened.
‘Ah, Jamon. How are things?’
It was Samuel.
‘Things are ok. How are things with you?’
‘Things are good. Very good. How is your mother?’
‘She is not so well.’
‘Hmmm. I am sorry to hear that.’
All along I knew where this small talk was heading. It was not long before the purpose of his visit was made clear.
‘The election will be coming very soon Jamon.’
‘Yes.’
‘I am making an offer to you, to join our brigade.’
I was familiar with the role of the brigades. The rumours and the eye-witness reports of the assaults, the rapes, the looting and the terror inflicted on opposition sympathisers were too strong to ignore, and there had been a number of unexplained disappearances.
‘I don’t think I can Samuel. My mother is ill, and I don’t know enough about politics to get mixed up in it,’ I lied.
‘Yes, I see. Though I think I could get you some medicine if you were to join the brigade’, Samuel added cunningly.
‘I would really have to think on that.’
‘You see Jamon, some of the brigade members, they might begin to think, that when a young man does not want to join in with them, that he might be an enemy of the Big Man.’
‘That is not me Samuel. My situation, it is difficult.’
There was a time when elections were influenced by forms of bribery, or voting irregularities, but now, as each month, week and day inches the nation closer to dystopia, and the coffers further contract, coercion has become the preferred model of persuasion.
‘So then, I can rely on your vote to go to the Big Man?’
I knew that it scarcely mattered. Should the opposition somehow emerge victorious, the Government would never concede. There would be bloodshed, a state of emergency, retribution, imprisonment and torture. It was a pointless exercise, a charade.
‘Of course. Yes. The Big Man has my vote,’ I replied, not really knowing who I would be voting for, or why.
‘That is good Jamon. I can always trust you to do what is right.’
‘Yes.’
‘Still, I think you should give some more thought to my offer. In the brigades we can find you the things that you need. We are able to get the food, and the medicines. We can get hold of money.’
‘I will give it some more thought.’
‘That is wise Jamon. I will see you again. Sometime soon perhaps.’
‘Yes.’
‘Goodbye, Jamon.’
‘Goodbye, Samuel.’
***
It was not to be this day. The brigade continued on past our house, to the end of the street, where it veered to the left and disappeared from view; the din receding into an eerie silence. This time it was to be a show of strength only, no recruitment drive, no intimidation. Though I knew it would not be the last I would see of the brigade, and it was likely that there would be a time in the near future that would be more unsettling. From the back of the house my mother’s coughing persisted. I knew that soon I would need to make a choice. Most likely it would mean having to do things that I did not believe in. Whatever choice I made it would be the wrong one. It was out of my hands.
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He Didn’t Look Away
Kerry Lown Whalen
I can conceal what I’m feeling as well as the next person. Perhaps better. But this was different. While waiting for a bus this morning a man stared at me. It wasn’t in a curious I-think-I-might-know-you kind of way. It was more intimate than that. I felt uncomfortable because he didn’t look away.
I boarded the bus and sat beside a woman reading the Sydney Morning Herald. When I reached into my bag for Fifty Shades of Grey the man leered at me from across the aisle. How could I read a racy book with him looking at me? Luckily the woman alongside offered me her newspaper and I buried my head in it.
Time ticked by as the bus lumbered through peak-hour traffic. It stopped at snarled intersections and lurched forward when the traffic lights changed to green. When the bus approached their stop, passengers stumbled down the aisle, shoes clunking on the metal steps as the door whooshed open. My heart pounded. What if the man followed me from the bus?
A block from my stop I sneaked a look at him. He winked. I dinged the bell and headed for the door, sensing he was behind me as I clattered down the steps. Dodging pedestrians I dashed along Pitt Street and into the foyer of my building. The lift took forever to come and I caught my breath while waiting. As it ascended it stopped on every floor. When it reached mine I charged along the corridor to a window overlooking Pitt Street. On the footpath opposite I could see the man gazing up at my building, his fair hair lifting in the breeze. I jumped back, pulse racing. Why was he there?
I decided to tell my boss and stood outside his door gulping air to calm my nerves. Then I knocked.
‘Come in.’
‘Excuse me, Mr Granger. I have a problem.’
He set down his coffee cup. ‘What’s up Kelly?’
‘A man followed me from my bus stop to work.’ I sucked in a deep breath. ‘He’s downstairs on the footpath opposite.’
Mr Granger swivelled to look out the window. ‘Where?’
I pointed to him.
‘Recognise him from anywhere?’
‘No. Never seen him before.’
‘He’s a well-dressed young man. I wonder what he wants.’
I shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘What do you want me to do? There’s no law against standing on the footpath.’
‘But I’m terrified. He followed me here and is waiting on the street.’
‘Are you certain you don’t know him?’
‘Positive.’ I wrung my hands. ‘I’m scared.’
‘There’s one way to find out.’ Mr Granger pushed back his chair. ‘We’ll confront him.’
My legs shook. ‘I don’t think I can.’
‘You’ll be fine. It’s a busy street. There are people everywhere.’
I didn’t want to go near the man and was sorry I’d involved Mr Granger.
‘Come on Kelly. You can do it.’
In the end I had no choice but to go downstairs with him.
As we crossed the street, the man waved. ‘Hi Kelly. I knew it was you.’ He leaned close. ‘I wasn’t going to let you go this time.’
What did he mean? Who was this guy? ‘And you are?’
He grinned. ‘Jason Somerville. From Bondi.’
I shook my head. I’d never heard of Jason Somerville. Puzzled, I studied his face, a vague memory stirring. I’d only been to Bondi once. In fact, I’d nearly drowned in the surf there. Then I remembered. It was Jase. The lifesaver who rescued me.
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Kerry Lown Whalen biography
Kerry Lown Whalen lives with her husband on the Gold Coast of Australia. She has won prizes in literary competitions and had short stories and poems published by Stringybark Publications, Bright Light Multimedia, Margaret River Press and Down in the Dirt Magazine.
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A Little Life
Judith Ann Levison
When she died a broad chalk
Cracked the sky and thunder
Shivered billows of smoke
They knew the sequestered
Ways she darted through life
Always with a hanky or with alarm
Pressing logs against the door
She never had a secret chat
Or dressed a table with napkins
Meaningless remarks made her brood
And sometimes she peered to see in the mirror
Any sanity to pool her eyes
Such a little life consumed by rage
One night jagged sobs ignited the town
They heard just another woman’s
Rant and rave storm after storm
Wooden men, daughters running through
The spaces of stars for these wooden men
To lift warm spoons to their lips
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bruised
Janet Kuypers
haiku 2/14/14
I think all feel bruised
deep down, but don’t think of it
until times like these.
|
(haiku, on twitter)
This poem was nominated in the 100 Haikus 2014 press release for the (40 year) Pushcart Prize
(Click here to read Janet Kuypers’ bio.)
Hands in the Cement
John Grey
Wet cement,
two kids stick their hands in it.
They’ll be remembered
by the sidewalk
if nothing else.
Probably figured early
that footprints in the snow
or sand don’t cut it.
Nor scribble on walls.
Or scratches in desks.
There’s an art
to not being nobody.
So get it while it’s soft.
It’ll be hard again
some day.
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John Grey Bio
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Paterson Literary Review, Southern California Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in the Kerf, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.
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Black Cat
Allan Onik
The black cat finished lapping from the puddle and settled into a corner of the alley next to a dumpster.
On a park bench nearby a man in a suit lay sleeping with an Uzi hidden under his jacket. The spirits descended and began to circle him.
“So it is time.” The spirit glowed white and batted its wings.
“He is done? Surely he’s not completed, at such a young age,” said the other.
The cat lifted its head and purred softly.
“He was a nasty expression. Full of hate and vile, addiction and greed, lust and pride.”
“Lost,” said the other.
“His time?”
“Perhaps. They all have a time. They all have a purpose.”
“Sow a seed and reap its fruit.” The specter giggled.
The cat dashed into the nether shadows at the sound of the squeak of tires, and a gunshot that echoed through the wet, brick caverns.
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How The Music of 1945 Changed the Music of 1951
Jenean McBrearty
The Wolf was at the door. Freddy Wolf who never really knocked. He rapped lightly, but persistently. So that, like a bug bite you’ve vowed not to scratch because to scratch meant you had no self-control and that violates the Boy Brotherhood, you eventually give in.
“Come in already!” Jack said as he yanked open the back door and ambled back to the living room to find his pants.
Freddy followed him. “You’re not hung over again are you, Jack? And while we’re on the subject of you, why do you call yourself Jack when you’re name is Mike?”
“I’m Canadian.” He held up a pair of wrinkled jeans and waved them over his head like a lasso. “And I’m not hung over. Hangovers are for alkies. I do drugs. I’m crashin’, man. Or trying to.” He wiggled into his jeans .
“Mavis wants you to come for a bar-b-cue this week-end and you fought with the U.S. Army.”
“I was working in a Deli in Queens when Pearl Harbor got bombed. I went insane.We’re not talking about you now, but how is it you married my sister for a year and don’t know she’s Canadian?” He gave up the hunt for a t-shirt and flopped into his chair. Freddy knew he had a third nipple.
“You’ve heard of mixed marriages. Weren’t you married to a Jewish refugee for a few weeks?”
“Yeah. It kept her in the states and alive.”
“There you go. Mavis could be Canadian and you could have been born in Iowa.”
Jack found the Zippo lighter his father gave him—the one embossed with a B-52 bomber—and fired up a roach. “Do I look like a dumb ass from Dubuque to you?”
Freddy scraped a stack of New Yorker magazines off a fat ugly green chair and sat down. “I know your gate swings both ways, but you ought to get married just to have somebody clean this place up. Must be crawlin’ with germs. I fear for your health.”
Jack was calmer now, a placid smile replacing his ubiquitous sober scowl. “So, what say you be my sex slave and wash the floors? Start with the bathroom.”
“I told Mavis you’re a hopeless deadbeat. Try to make it to the bar-b-cue. Your parents are coming.” Jack saw him fade out the back door, the word hopeless hanging in the air like beer farts.
Oh, yeah. The parent thing was definitely a deal maker. Like they wanted to their son getting himself clean with the help of people like Gillis. He was a dead beat. That meant he was dead but his heart kept beating saying freedom, freedom, freedom with every pulse spurt. What confounded him was how Freddy returned from Europe seemingly unscathed by the inhumanity and carnage they saw in the death camps. He wrote a note to himself on a Man Whole napkin: Ask Freddy why he’s a pussy-whipped square.
****
“So me and Kerouac were talking at the bar and he asks me if I’ve started my novel. I tell him no, because my head is swirling in an eddy and my thigh is aching from the half dollar-sized hole in it.” The napkin he used to clean the needle had something written on it, but it must not have been important if Gillis used it too.
“You show your bullet hole to Kerouac?”
“I don’t show it to nobody.”
“You show it to me.” Gillis moved away from him and rooted around for a cigarette on the nightstand.
“I don’t show it to you. You look at it. That’s different.”
“It’s hard to miss when I’m down there takin’ care of business. I mean it’s right there.”
Jack pushed the bedding onto the floor. “God, this place stinks. Smells like a whore-house I visited in Rome once.”
“Once?”
“I was eightteen.”
“You were horny. Who isn’t at eight-teen?”
“You ever hear a Panzer tank blow something up?”
“I was too young and way too smart to fight.”
“Lucky you. The boom makes you deaf. I held my helmet on and prayed. Guess God didn’t hear.“
“If He was there, the Panzer probably made Him deaf too. War’s made an old man out of you, my friend.”
Old? He and Freddy were the same age. Twenty-eight. Invaded Anzio together in ‘43, the 3rd Infantry Division slogging its way to Rome, collapsing Kesselring’s Gustav Line and making sure the Krauts in Italy never made it to Normandy. How come men like Thomas Merton became monks and men like him shacked up with guys like Gillis from Jersey, and smoked, swallowed and shot up chemicals, and men like Freddy went to college, got jobs with 3M, and got married to people named Mavis? “They’re buying a house and Mavis isn’t even pregnant. Why?”
“He’s a shallow bastard,” Gillis said when Jack dumped the question on him.
“No. No, I don’t think that’s it. He coaches Little League. Get that sheet for me, will ya’? I’m freezing.”
If Gillis hadn’t been there, he’d stuff the head of his Johnson into his bullet wound. It was a comforting habit. Like thumb-sucking. A way to fill up his empty self.
****
Mavis acted like the emaciated, shaggy-haired man at the front door was still the strapping uniformed guy whose picture was on her living room piano. At least he’d showered. She recognized the scent of Ivory Soap. “You really ought to call though, Mike. The bar-b-cue’s tomorrow. You’re lucky you caught us home,” she said, leading him to the patio.
“So, Freddy here?”
“Puttering in the garage with the jig-saw he got for Christmas. He’s decided he can make everything cheaper than we can buy it.”
“You in dire need of a birdhouse?”
Mavis’ smile was angelic. “He’s making an Amish cradle.” She patted her tummy. “Uncle Mike.”
Speedballs he could tolerate, but sugar made him want to puke. So Mavis was pregnant after all. “You look happy.”
“I’ll get Freddy.”
And he appeared, aproned and safety-goggled. He removed the carpentry get-up, and got them each a beer from an ice chest on the pick-nick table. “Good to see you, Jack. What’s it been, three days?”
“Yeah. Tempest fugit. Congrats on the kid to be.”
“We’re thrilled. What’cha need? I take it you won’t be coming to the bar-b-cue.”
What did he need? Money, job, a shrink. Maybe a future. “Nothing much. Just the answers to the age-old questions. What’s the meaning of life? What happens after death? Who’ll win the World Series?”
Freddy laughed. He was on his home turf. Familiar and safe. “Must be more important than that. You cleaned up.”
Jack smoothed his freshly-brushed hair. “Sort of. Did you know Mavis thought about being a nun? The Order of St. Jane de Chantilly Lace or something. They were all about the universal cleanliness Godliness nexus.”
“I’m lucky she changed her mind.”
“You believe in that whole all you need is a good woman thing?”
“I believe in that whole all you need are good people thing.”
“You don’t find many of them in war.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Remember the priest who said mass for our unit in that bombed-out church? The medics who carried your wounded ass two miles to an aid station. The Italian women who gave us dried apricots when we were all hungry...and then there was the choir.”
“What choir?” He’d begun to sweat, a reminder that he was strung out again and needed a fix to stop the cramps that would soon overtake him.
“The Red Army Choir that came to the hospital in Berlin. But, that’s right, you were already home then. Yeah, those guys were something else. Went to Stalingrad and sang the praises of their comrades who fucked up Von Paulus. We had it bad, Jack, but nothin’ like those Ruskies at Stalingrad. Got the crap kicked out of them by Stalin and Hitler both. I didn’t understand the words but I sure understood these sons-of-bitches weren’t beat. Burned cities, raped women, slaughtered families...and they had to start their fuckin’ country over from scratch. But they weren’t beat.”
Jack felt his gut begin to twist. He was gonna toss his hops and malt...or curds and whey or whatever he’d put in his stomach since last night’s poetry reading of Ginzburg at The Underground. Cold pizza a la rat poison. Maybe dried apricots. The worst part was the way Freddy looked at him. He’d dug into his back pocket and brought out his wallet, and took out a wad of bills with the claw at the end of his prosthetic arm. He’d folded the money and stuffed it into his t-shirt pocket, and he left without the answers to the crucial unasked question: why was Freddy so kind to him? Maybe Freddy was trying to give him some hope, but it felt like fuckin’ charity. If he hadn’t need the money so badly, he might have been grateful.
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Jenean McBrearty Bio
Jenean McBrearty is a graduate of San Diego State University, a former community college instructor who taught Political Science and Sociology. Her fiction has been published in a slew of print and on-line journals including Cigale Literary Magazine, 100 Doors to Madness Anthology, Mad Swirl and The Moon; her poetry has been accepted by Lyrical Passion and Page & Spine among others; and her photographs have appeared in Foliate Oak Literary Journal and Off the Coast Magazine among others. Her novel, The 9th Circle was published by Barbarian Books, serials Raphael Redcloak and Retrolands can be found on Jukepop.com. Web-page: Jenean-McBrearty.com.
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Welcome
Liam Spencer
Lines line long at the three clocks
Smiling and groaning
All in this together.
Machinery ready to be started.
Finally the clocks read right
And off we go. Check vehicle.
Pile in lunches and water.
Last signs of being human.
Grab lose mail sorted by robotic clerks
Who smile despite it all, and head to our cases.
Cusses fly from newbies.
Old timers grunt and laugh.
Eighteen and eight...
Do they mean cusses or casings?
Anyway, it’s solitude;
Each confined to their singular fate.
Conversations by old timers
Relating miseries, distractions, complaints.
Cusses by newbies. Making our way.
Time races as moments drag on.
Supes visit, asking times, handing out asses
It’s their job.
Commitments made, rarely kept.
Numbers tally.
Off to the streets.
Dropping ads and letters,
Packages no one needs.
Consumerism, wanted or not.
Twelves steps, drop.
Keep moving. All timed.
Machine.
Twelves pieces dropped. Automatic.
Make time. Make time.
Undertime. Less time. More time.
It’s all timed. They know where you should be.
Smile at the customer. Nothing in it.
Block after block, robotic.
It’s true. If everything goes right,
The numbers are right on.
On schedule for long day.
Machines are not supposed to sweat
Or drink ice water.
Or dryly weep
For life passing them by.
As numbers mount
Things get delivered
And time passes by
Paychecks building.
Focused on numbers alone,
Making it somehow. The impossible being done.
Zombified, heartless, mindless.
Yet thoughts struggle to the surface.
Body screaming from long days
Triumphs over everything;
Thoughts, mind, heart, soul.
Kill, kill, kill....kill it all inside.
Robot, machine. Passions dying. Rest needed.
“Welcome to machine...”
Dry eyes and drier skin, sunbaked.
A lifeless body will drag itself through.
The day done. Another.
Twelve hours, at least, of nothing.
Time to go “home,”
Eat, and take a nap before work.
Such is life.
Such is career.
Such is all we celebrate.
Such is death.
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Shucked
Hal Savage
As he calmly left the bank, Jeff thought: Lisa would diss me if she ever saw this get-up. But she wasn’t going to see it, the bitch.
On this late December day Jeff could have slipped away without the help of the scruffy street guy, who was still shouting nonsense at the top of his lungs inside the bank.
For a split second Jeff wondered if the teller had picked up the smell of fish from his clothing, along with the scent of weed. Impossible. It had been two years since he worked at the oyster farm. The teller had seen him sweating, but so what? The important thing was that she believed he had a gun and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
Jeff slipped into the throng of Christmas shoppers outside and zig-zagged along the short block to the Castro Muni station. In under two minutes’ time he had crossed Castro Street and was descending the long flights of cement steps. He glanced over his shoulder once. He could see people hanging around the plaza across the street and bustling Christmas shoppers.
No cops.
Once he reached the platform he turned away from the mob of waiting passengers and found a spot against the tiled wall, near the trash bin. Off came the ski cap and fake beard and the 49ers sweatshirt. When no one was looking he dropped them into a bin. Being careful not to open the bag too far, he reached below the bundle of bills and pulled out an old soiled denim jacket. With his currently fashionable torn jeans and the jacket he was just another guy in the crowd. He was a bit too old to be dressing like this, he realized, but it was too late now.
He took a deep breath and turned around. A cop! But his uniform was brown. Just a Muni cop. He slowly exhaled. He looked up at the electronic monitor. A downtown train was in the tunnel and about to arrive. Just a few seconds more, he thought.
Jeff quickly boarded with the other passengers. He found an aisle seat next to an obese woman, hoping she would block the view from outside the window. The doors closed and the train pulled out.
Just then he eyed the train’s big side mirror and saw them. Two cops in a hurry. They had split up and were checking the platform, which was empty now except for a few stragglers or those waiting for a different train. “Missed me,” he chuckled to himself. He looked down at his watch. It had all taken less than five minutes, from the time he bagged the money to now. He had been extremely lucky. The trains were often late. He had counted on their being extra trains to accommodate shoppers, and for once he guessed right.
At the Church Street station two cops got on. He had expected this, but his heart was still pounding. Each cop took one side of the train and slowly proceeded toward the back, viewing each passenger. Jeff was in the second car, five rows back. He was sure that at least one patrolman had entered the second car through the rear doors to prevent an escape in that direction. He fought the urge to turn around and look behind him.
The pock-faced cop on his side had three seats to go before he reached Jeff. He asked a young Latino to open his shopping bag. Apparently satisfied, he passed by the next seat with two women sitting in it.
Jeff fervently hoped his present disguise did not call attention to itself. He had pulled out a paperback crossword puzzle book as soon as he sat down and started working it in pencil. He had made sure to complete a substantial part of the puzzle ahead of time, so it would look like he had been riding since SFO or at least Daly City. In the meantime he smelled the foul odor of human gas. The woman next to him had squeezed out a noxious fart. Perfect! The cop peered down at his shopping sack, seeing a box on top, all done up in Christmas wrapping. The heavy woman opened her purse obligingly, the picture of innocence. Jeff could feel the cop’s eyes boring into him and imagined him inwardly wincing from the odor. Something told him that this was the time to meet the cop’s eyes and smile. He did so. He was afraid to ask what all the fuss was about, afraid his voice would fail him. Instead, he turned back to his puzzle.
When he looked up again the cop had moved to the next two passengers. For a moment Jeff felt as if he were going to throw up or shit his pants or both. He took a deep breath and the queasiness gradually subsided.
“I wonder what’s going on,” said the woman next to him. “Maybe somebody ripped off a cell phone.”
“Something bigger than that,” he said, his snide tone bordering on ridicule. He had hoped to shut her up, but instead he had engaged her. His peripheral vision caught her appraising him.
“You’re right,” she said. “Maybe someone robbed a bank.”
He felt his cheeks burning, but he was determined not to make eye contact. She was about to speculate again, but stopped herself, seeing him engrossed in his puzzle.
Abruptly he decided to get off at the busy Powell station, where a throng of passengers nearly filled the platform. From there he would walk to the central terminal and catch the commuter bus to Marin County. As soon as the street car’s doors opened, he popped up and left before the woman could say another word.
At the central terminal one city cop was roaming and searching. Thirty feet away another was surveying the line of commuters. Stout and black, she was all business, studying each person seperately. Jeff was the last in line. He felt himself trembling as she turned to him. Concentrate, he told himself, as he continued to work on his puzzle. Twenty three down was “singer Clooney.” “Rosemary,” he wrote. His hand shook, but what the hell, it was cold. He pulled his jacket tight with his other hand, a little show just for the cop. From the corner of his eye he saw the cop turn and leave. Safe for now, he told himself.
The passengers ahead were finally boarding. After a seeming eternity he showed his ticket and climbed aboard. Glad to be away from the diesel fumes, he felt the welcoming heat inside. As he moved down the aisle he saw mostly business types in suits and overcoats and a few who “dressed down.” He wondered idly what someone would say if he told them he was a dirt farmer. Probably nothing, he guessed. What was there to say?
Soon the bus rumbled by the toll both on the Golden Gate, into the billowing white fog. For a few moments Jeff let himself be a tourist. He smiled at the sight of it. He smiled as he remembered driving with his dad to Drake’s Oyster Farm through both fog and rain, the two of them with their lunch boxes, chugging along the road from Petaluma, on to Drake’s Bay.
After crossing the bridge the sky slowly darkened. Instead of the wispy fog, Jeff felt a miasma forming around him, full of his troubles. It had started with the closure of the fishery. The Secretary of the Interior had decided it should not coexist with its pristine surroundings, even though it had done so for close to a century. How did an oyster farm threaten livestock, wild animals and birds? Jeff’s father had posed this question at a meeting. The government man reminded him that trucks traveled along the little road to the oyster farm on the bay, then out again. An irate shucker shouted “What about cattle trucks?” Others sounded off to no avail.
After the closure Jeff and his father could not find work. Jeff and some of his coworkers could use the “fancy” new phones, but they had few technical skills, which the job market called for. Several of the men got jobs at gas stations, but then the stations, themselves, started closing. Jeff learned from a buddy that the gas stations made more on confections and cigarettes than on selling gas. Jeff had tried to get work at a grocery store, but he would have to start as a bagger, and those positions were all filled. “This sucks,” he told the manager. The manager shrugged his shoulders. He put Jeff’s name on a waiting list.
During this period Jeff’s mother succumbed to ovarian cancer after a year of expensive treatments. It nearly bled them dry. As often happens, his father died soon after from a coronary. Jeff inherited the family home, along with its mortgage and considered himself lucky. The mortgage payments were considerably less than the rent he and Lisa were paying. But after a year he depleted his savings, and Lisa was in the same boat.
At that point Jeff and his wife became desperate. Lisa had already lost her job as a receptionist in a local restaurant. She complained loudly about her supervisor, but Jeff knew she was often late to work. They decided to sell their house. They took that money and bought a run-down farm in Sonoma County. There was never any question about what they would raise. The main crop would have to be marijuana. They would plant potatoes and vegetables for their own consumption. Jeff read books, went on the internet and talked to some of his stoner friends. They planted their seeds in a secluded part of their property, away from the road. The first crop flourished in the mild coastal climate. They were ecstatic. Then, just before harvest, a neighbor reported him. Jeff never found out who the bastard was. It didn’t matter. The sheriff told him to destroy the crop or face jail time.
Now they were eking out a living selling their vegetables at the big farmers’ market in Petaluma. Lisa hated the farm. She preferred to go to her secret place on Mount Tam in the shadows of the giant redwoods to pick mushrooms, leaving him to the lion’s share of planting or harvesting. Then she would proudly add her “little bit” to the boxes of vegetables in the bed of their old Ford pickup. Invariably she would arrive at the last minute, just before he was ready to pull out.
All that is about to change, he thought.
The bus stopped in Sausalito to let out eight passengers. He squinted at them as they went to their cars, their outlines blurred. The window did not seem that dirty. Maybe I need glasses, he thought.
Finally they turned into the commuter station in Petaluma. The longest bus ride ever was finally over. He peered through the window and saw Lisa waiting for him in their old pickup, the Drakes Bay signage still on the door, fading and rusted from the moist ocean air. It all seemed blurry to him.
“Hey,” she said. She gave him a peck on the mouth.
“Pull out slowly. Don’t want to look like we’re in a hurry.” She let out the clutch and backed out of the parking space. He peered into both mirrors, seeing nothing amiss.
“I think I need glasses,” he said.
“Well, now you can get some, as many pairs as you like. Hell, you could get oyster shell frames! How did it go?”
“Like clockwork. I had an accomplice.”
“What?” She was swerving into another lane.
“Watch it!”
She fastened her eyes on the road again. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t get your panties into a twist. I had an idea, that’s all. And it worked to perfection.”
“Who...?”
“I’m about to tell you. I saw this scuzzy guy on the street. Down on his luck, but not crazy, you know? I offered him twenty dollars if he would walk into the bank just after me and start shouting shit. And he did. ‘End of the world stuff.’ He was beautiful.”
“That was risky.”
“No, robbing the bank was risky.” He turned around and peered out the back window. No one was following them.
She reached into her shirt pocket and pulled out a joint. “This will calm you down,” she said.
“I’m not that nervous.” But he lit it anyway. “Funny thing is, I wasn’t that nervous in the bank, either. Kinda like I’d taken a few hits just before, you know?”
“Interesting.”
The chickens in the yard turned jerkily and clucked as they drove up. They shooed them away and went inside.
She had cleared the place mats and condiments off their scarred oak table. He plopped down the shopping bag.
“I’m going to need a drink,” she said. “You?”
“Naw, I’m still mellow from the weed.”
“Just to celebrate. Come on. It isn’t every day you rob a bank.” Said with a wink and a smile. He didn’t know what was going on with her, but he liked it.
“Might as well.”
She pulled down the Wild Turkey and poured them both drinks. They toasted. “To our first merry Christmas in years,” she said. She sat down and leaned back in her chair. For the first time in weeks she was smiling at him, her face radiant. “Maybe I should do this more often,” he said, and she chuckled, a soft throaty sound.
Feeling dizzy from the pot and bourbon, he sat down, himself. “It’s time,” he said.
“Go for it.”
He pulled out the bundles of bills and divvied them up. She got up and went to a rolltop desk and got out two pocket calculators. By the time she returned to the table, he had apportioned their stacks. They began to count their separate piles, writing down the totals. To his chagrin, Jeff had to squint at the numbers on the calculator. His father had never worn glasses, even up to the end.
“I get twenty-two thousand, three hundred and ten,” she said.
“Twenty-nine, seven hundred,” he threw in. He had hoped for more. “These days hitting one teller won’t make you a millionaire.”
“Aw. I think you did great,” she said. She got up and came around behind his chair and kissed the top of his head. “My bandit,” she cooed. Before he knew it they were in the bedroom tearing off their clothes. This time it’s going to be great, he told himself. And he was right. The euphoria, the plans they made together lasted on into the evening, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning he woke up in a fog. The magnitude of what he had done, the sheer desperate stupidity of it swept over him. As soon as he got out of bed he felt dizzy. Still high from the night before, he guessed. He stumbled into the bathroom and splashed water onto his face. Coffee. He could smell the aroma from the kitchen. Their coffee machine made the brew at seven. A cup of coffee would snap him out of this. He carefully made his way to the kitchen, determined not to fall.
The first cup of French coffee did nothing. As he poured a second cup he realized that there was something seriously off. Suddenly he knew: He had eaten poison mushrooms. It had happened once before. He and Lisa were sick, but nothing like this. Yesterday he had been feeling weird, and there was the thing with his vision. Then today. The poison had to have been been in the sphaghetti sauce last night and in the mushroom gravy the night before. It was the amanita or the other one, both full of deadly coprine. And he had drunk liquor both nights, which accelerated the effects. Lisa had been unaffected yesterday. This morning? He didn’t know.
She’s planning to skip with the money, he thought. He would wake her up and confront her. But first: time to call 911. Holding himself steady at the sink, his eyes roamed the kitchen. Where the hell was his phone? Bedroom, he remembered. Has to be there. He reeled out of the kitchen and lurched and weaved down the hallway, stopping to steady himself against the wall. He would make the emergency call first, then wake her up. Everything was blurring fast, now, the ceiling light in the hallway a dim halo. In the cowbebs of his mind he heard the voice of a spider: Strangle her. He moved on, steadying himself with the wall. Finally he made it to the bedroom door and reached for the knob. And missed. He fell onto the beige carpet and lay there. He knew he must get up but he could not move.
A pleasant euphoria took hold. Something was coming into view... The old pickup. Dad was driving it, Jeff riding shotgun, on their way to the oyster farm. Oldies were playing on the radio. Then the scene shifted to the dock. Yes. He could see it clearly now. They were on the dock and Dad was smoking his pipe. Jeff could smell the salty scent from a mammoth pile of dry oyster shells, comingling with the pipe smoke. “Time to check the traps,” Dad was saying, and he was smiling, proud of his only son.
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South Chicago Night (V3)
Michael Lee Johnson
Night is drifters,
sugar rats, streetwalkers,
pickpockets, pimps,
insects, Lake Michigan perch,
neon tubes blinking,
half the local street
lights bulbs burned out.
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A Sense of Justice
Peter McMillan
He wouldn’t need this stuff anymore, though he’d hoped to take away something. USBs, like-new 3.5" diskettes, and everything in between, had to stay. If it was confidential, proprietary, copyrighted, trade marked, patented, or otherwise of importance or interest to the company, he had to turn it over. He knew that. What was a surprise was that it didn’t matter that the USB was his and that it had his daughter’s photography portfolio on it. Personal or not, his escorts confiscated all electronic media – even the mouse. That cut deep. It was his first.
Calendars — desk calendars and one-a-day calendars — annotated with idiosyncratically-coded messages, innocuous except to a trained eye. They relented only after he’d embarrassed himself by pleading that he be left with something to show for the years he’d worked for the company. Years of servitude, he wished he’d said. Five were returned to him, but they were so thoroughly redacted they would likely serve as a very different kind of memento.
Scraps of paper and post-it notes — he was a hoarder — bore the names of his colleagues and the places and times for getting together, usually after work. Shorney’s, game 7 of the World Series; Toby’s for the midday England-Germany match, Brattigan’s, Stanley Cup Finals; a weekend matinee of The Nutcracker in honor of Penelope’s daughter who landed the role of a sheep; the Phantom they forced themselves to see, because they had won tickets; and of course, Reilly’s where they’d spent many evenings speculating about the company’s latest restructuring, government investigation, or class action lawsuit.
The artificial plants, the inspirational pictures, as well as office supplies valued in excess of $5 were tagged with asset numbers and had to be scanned back into inventory. What was left filled less than half of a banker’s box, and that he had to empty into a five-cent plastic bag when he got down to the information and security desk at ground level. Boxes they reused, he was informed.
#
Despite the way he had been treated, particularly at the end, a subconscious dependency lingered. For the entire next week, he awoke to false starts, a couple of times getting showered and shaved and out the front door with briefcase in hand. The worst was when he actually got to work and rode the elevator up with Penelope and Roger and Maurice. It was awkward for them, too. They promised to call. Said they were sorry and everything. That humiliation was the kick he needed, and the memory stayed raw for days, reinforcing his redundancy like nothing else could.
At home, he’d never really been interested in looking out the front window — hadn’t spent much time in the apartment. In fact, his blinds were closed most of the time. But with nothing on TV and nothing worth reading, and no work to go to, he took to peering through, just to get some ideas from watching how other people passed the day, he told himself. Little by little, the blinds were raised.
He realized he’d stumbled onto something. Here was a world just outside his window — so near yet so distant and unknown. Having spent so much time at the office and after hours with his office friends, he’d never taken the time to see and consider what was served up daily on the streets and sidewalks below. The blinds stayed open night and day.
During the daytime, especially at rush hours and lunch, traffic was nonstop busy with people and cars and bicycles and skateboards and dogs. But for all the activity, it wasn’t really inviting or entertaining. It was chaotic and disorderly, disturbing ... not at all like the structured world of his office. Worksickness? Really?
Right there on the sidewalk, dogs did their business. Cars jostled other cars to wedge into tight parking spaces or double-parked up to half an hour at a time. Bicyclists on the sidewalk yelled at pedestrians. The produce market down the street tossed its organic waste on the sidewalk to simmer in the sun or puddle in the rain. Young teenage girls from St. Joseph’s — his daughter, Yvonne, would have been about their age — flirted with scruffy-looking twenty-somethings to get cigarettes from the convenience store. Everyday there was something new ... some gross or indecent or stupid act you wouldn’t believe could happen here.
A lot of the same scripts played out every day ... like television reruns. The only difference was this was happening right outside his window. In HIS world, and it wasn’t right. How could they infringe his right to enjoy peace and order? How could they think—? Who did they think—? Obviously, they didn’t ... think. And what they did without thinking caused him enormous stress and anxiety. Hadn’t they been socialized, normalized ... just plain taught respect? Wasn’t that the point of school?
He debated. Should he call the city about the smelly garbage from the fruit and vegetable market — make a public health complaint? And there had to be a number to call to report people selling cigarettes to minors.
But what would a bunch of bureaucrats downtown do? File a report, bury it, and at the end of the day, collect a pension.
Wouldn’t it be better to carry a walking stick and, next time he saw a bicyclist parting the crowd on the sidewalk, shove it in the spokes of the front wheel? And if that little princess in the Lexus SUV double-parked again, maybe he should take down the plate number and anonymously report a hit-and-run.
The phone interrupted his plotting. He let the machine answer.
“Hey Donny! It’s Roger. We’re taking in a doubleheader tonight. Interested? We’re gonna grab something to eat at the ballpark. Meet us around 5:30? Our usual seats down by third base. Cheers.”
He replayed the message.
What the hell was he thinking?
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Peter McMillan Bio
The author is a freelance writer and ESL instructor who lives on the northwest shore of Lake Ontario with his wife and two flat-coated retrievers. In 2012, he published his first book, Flash! Fiction.
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Anecdotal
Christina Dendy
I swing the shovel at icicles
strung like teeth from the storm gutter
listen to them fall and chime in the wind
as I clatter back along the porch
a misswing and a child’s misstep
avert warning
bring my son into range,
frosty tooth bounces off felted hood
and I run to soothe and scold.
A bloodless lump later, we build a snow fort,
but I’m playing through a slideshow
of accidental deathwatch—
slips falls fevers icy roads curbsides
airplane engines and speeding intersections
the din of one snowflake’s violent flight
through merciless sky
before it melts in my coffee mug
on a winter’s morn:
so many never make it that far.
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Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images.
Since 2010 Kuypers also hosts the Chicago poetry open mic at the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting the Cafés weekly feature podcasts (and where she sometimes also performs impromptu mini-features of poetry or short stories or songs, in addition to other shows she performs live in the Chicago area).
In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages, the 2013 ISSN# color art book Life, in Color, Post Apocalyptic Burn Through Me and Under the Sea (photo book). Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).
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