She tried to set us up for one of those coffee joints. Like hell, I don’t need that overpriced crap. So then I’m sitting waiting for her at Long’s, my favorite dive. I’m sitting there, hoping a real Baby Girl shows up, someone maybe I’ll be able to whisper sweet nothings to and, instead, in walks this Allanis Morrisette-type with wild, kinky hair, no bra and sandals. Seriously, are there no real girls out there who wear the stilettos? Is that too much to ask?
Well, I’m gonna try, of course. Whaddo I have to lose? We’re in paradise after all. Even if she’s not much of a bet for down the road, she might end up a decent drive-by.
So she sits. I can tell she’s already thinking this is not so good. She’s nervous and tries to order some stupid thing Long’s wouldn’t be caught dead having. I try to pull her out a little asking her about her job, if she has kids. I say, Baby girl, whaddya do to bring in the bacon? She looks at me like I’m talking Martian then launches into what sounds like a sermon or a speech about some save-the-whales or dolphins or snails thing. Are there actual jobs like that? It doesn’t make any sense to me so I tell her what I do: front-end loader driver. Well, not right now cuz I was laid off but normally that’s what I do. Unemployment’s good enough for me right now. Gives me time to set up some uh these meet and greets. Christ, I have run into some doozies doing this.
Anyways she has nothin’ more to say, I guess, except that she’s not a girl or a baby or my dear. I can see she’s not even gonna end up a driveby so I kick back and let her squirm. It’s too bad, she’s not bad lookin’. I mean, if I can find the right Baby Girl, I’ll be loyal as a dog. But I can see she’s one of those who thinks most men have fleas. I wonder why she even came.
I did really crappy at this. I did pick out someone I would never go out with and had a hard time empathizing. I'll probably try again when I don't have a deadline.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Heroes, part two
OK, I have to add this one because I’m just that weird. It’s not so much heroism as it is stubbornness and foolhardiness.
I had necrosis in both hips due to years of high-dose steroid therapy to treat lupus. No matter how eloquent I wax, I can never describe the pain to you. I will attempt it by telling you that it is literally the bone (the ball part of the joint) dying and slowly collapsing over years. It burned like it was on fire…it reminds me now of what of I’ve heard of certain types of weapons that will go into a human body and continue to burn. I was burning and rotting from the inside out.
One night I decided to go to a ballet at the O’Shaughnessy auditorium at St. Kate’s. One of the pieces was by a famous violinist who contracted MS. She composed the piece to describe her struggle with it. James Sewell had choreographed something to her music. She had since died.
I stopped at a grocery store on the way to pick up something or other. The store was right next door to a liquor store and it was Saturday night. Two handicapped spots sit outside the store. I do have the appropriate sticker. But some asshole had not only parked in handicapped; they had come in sideways taking up almost the entire two spaces. I was barely able to squeak in, with maybe an inch or two to spare. Three Asian guys sat in the idling car and gazed at me with their mouths open. A fourth guy came out of the liquor store. He looked at my car. He looked me.
“Lady, you’re gonna have to move your car.”
“No,” I said and I stood there waiting to see what would happen. I figured if he decided to ram my car or something I should at least get his license number.
“Lady, you have to move your car. I can’t get out if you don’t”
“Sure you can, you’ll just have to go back and forth a bit.”
He got in his car. They all glared at me. I continued to stand there watching them. He moved forward slightly then back slightly. He did that a few more times and got out of the car again.
“Lady, I can’t get out. You have to move your car.”
I said, “No. You can do it.”
It took a while but he eventually was able to get out of his tight, sideways parking spot. Again I waited to see what they would do. I knew they wanted to do something. I had nothing to lose. There was nothing they could do that would cause me more pain.
Anticlimax. One of them said, “Aw, it’s just an old rust bucket anyway.”
I chuckled as they drove away because I couldn’t argue with that. It was true.
OK, I have to add this one because I’m just that weird. It’s not so much heroism as it is stubbornness and foolhardiness.
I had necrosis in both hips due to years of high-dose steroid therapy to treat lupus. No matter how eloquent I wax, I can never describe the pain to you. I will attempt it by telling you that it is literally the bone (the ball part of the joint) dying and slowly collapsing over years. It burned like it was on fire…it reminds me now of what of I’ve heard of certain types of weapons that will go into a human body and continue to burn. I was burning and rotting from the inside out.
One night I decided to go to a ballet at the O’Shaughnessy auditorium at St. Kate’s. One of the pieces was by a famous violinist who contracted MS. She composed the piece to describe her struggle with it. James Sewell had choreographed something to her music. She had since died.
I stopped at a grocery store on the way to pick up something or other. The store was right next door to a liquor store and it was Saturday night. Two handicapped spots sit outside the store. I do have the appropriate sticker. But some asshole had not only parked in handicapped; they had come in sideways taking up almost the entire two spaces. I was barely able to squeak in, with maybe an inch or two to spare. Three Asian guys sat in the idling car and gazed at me with their mouths open. A fourth guy came out of the liquor store. He looked at my car. He looked me.
“Lady, you’re gonna have to move your car.”
“No,” I said and I stood there waiting to see what would happen. I figured if he decided to ram my car or something I should at least get his license number.
“Lady, you have to move your car. I can’t get out if you don’t”
“Sure you can, you’ll just have to go back and forth a bit.”
He got in his car. They all glared at me. I continued to stand there watching them. He moved forward slightly then back slightly. He did that a few more times and got out of the car again.
“Lady, I can’t get out. You have to move your car.”
I said, “No. You can do it.”
It took a while but he eventually was able to get out of his tight, sideways parking spot. Again I waited to see what they would do. I knew they wanted to do something. I had nothing to lose. There was nothing they could do that would cause me more pain.
Anticlimax. One of them said, “Aw, it’s just an old rust bucket anyway.”
I chuckled as they drove away because I couldn’t argue with that. It was true.
Heroes
This is a story that is not a moment in time. It was just under a year of struggle and joy.
It was a sunny day late in June and I had been trying to reach my mother who lived in Michigan. After an hour of repeated busy signals, I knew something was wrong. My mother hated to talk on the phone.
I called her next door neighbors, Les and Eleanor for help. Les removed the window screen from one of the bedroom windows and was in the midst of climbing in when he heard my mother, Donna, say from another room, “It’s OK, I’m alright.”
Hearing this from Eleanor, I said, “Do you mean to tell me he didn’t go all the way in and actually see her?”
“No, he didn’t. She said she was alright.”
“If someone does not go into that house and personally see my mother soon I am going to call the police.”
“No, no! Please don’t call the police. My heart can’t take it.”
The police were eventually called. I called the emergency room and spoke to her sister, Joan, to see what her condition was. To see if she was even alive. Joan wouldn’t tell me anything but just kept repeating over and over how terrible it was that we, her kids, hadn’t made sure our mother had a housecoat. There she was taken out on a stretcher in her short nightgown and Joan had looked high and low for a housecoat, it’s ridiculous, what’s the matter with you kids.
“Joan, fuck the housecoat. Is my mother alive?”
Finally, she told tell me Mom was alive, that she had collapsed sometime the night before behind an easy chair and couldn’t get back up. To this day I wonder how long she sat there. The doctors had no idea what was going on yet. Mother was not in her right mind. She didn’t what year it was, who was president or where she was but her feistiness was intact. She kept telling everyone she was just fine.
I shook from head to foot. I couldn’t stop the tremors. The information would not penetrate my brain yet my body got it. I was terrified to a depth I had never experienced. A friend drove me to the airport and I was in Escanaba by nightfall. I repeated over and over in my head: Please don’t let her die before I get there; please don’t let her die before I get there; please, please, please, please, please.
She was alive and in intensive care. I sat with her as she slept for several hours then drove down to the lake (Michigan). I hadn’t seen it in some years due to my own illness. The winds came in strong and steady from the southeast. It brought large swells. The white of the wild wave caps crashing to the shore glowed against the dark night and the darker water. The power of the lake and the wind and the night was immense. So immense it seemed I should be wiped out of existence; yet there I stood. The lake felt like a dear, powerful friend and a part of my soul with which I was being reunited. I laid down on the sand and looked up at a sky of soft black velvet strewn with glittering diamonds. The planet had tilted and nothing looked or felt the same.
The heroism? I stayed with my mother. I stayed through radiation and chemo and dry heaves and vomiting. I stayed through seeming recovery and then metastasis to the brain. I stayed in order to give my sweet mom the care and dignity she deserved. I stayed through one sibling telling me I couldn’t stay (“we can’t have one handicapped person taking care of another handicapped person, Jodi.” [I walk with a cane.] Mind you, she didn’t want to stay with Mom – she just didn’t want me staying) and another accusing me of torturing our mother (“chemo is just a form of torture, everybody knows that, she does pretty much what you tell her to do;” I told him I did not care if she took chemo or not, that I told her before every appointment that we could just cancel and not go if she wanted. He simply didn’t believe me.).
Most of all, I stayed in spite of the fact that the job at which I’d worked eighteen years declined my request for a leave of absence. I stayed not knowing if I would lose my job and then my home. I have never once regretted it. My mother did not die alone or in a hospital but in her own home. It was a year of impossible difficulties but also of great joy and depth.
This is a story that is not a moment in time. It was just under a year of struggle and joy.
It was a sunny day late in June and I had been trying to reach my mother who lived in Michigan. After an hour of repeated busy signals, I knew something was wrong. My mother hated to talk on the phone.
I called her next door neighbors, Les and Eleanor for help. Les removed the window screen from one of the bedroom windows and was in the midst of climbing in when he heard my mother, Donna, say from another room, “It’s OK, I’m alright.”
Hearing this from Eleanor, I said, “Do you mean to tell me he didn’t go all the way in and actually see her?”
“No, he didn’t. She said she was alright.”
“If someone does not go into that house and personally see my mother soon I am going to call the police.”
“No, no! Please don’t call the police. My heart can’t take it.”
The police were eventually called. I called the emergency room and spoke to her sister, Joan, to see what her condition was. To see if she was even alive. Joan wouldn’t tell me anything but just kept repeating over and over how terrible it was that we, her kids, hadn’t made sure our mother had a housecoat. There she was taken out on a stretcher in her short nightgown and Joan had looked high and low for a housecoat, it’s ridiculous, what’s the matter with you kids.
“Joan, fuck the housecoat. Is my mother alive?”
Finally, she told tell me Mom was alive, that she had collapsed sometime the night before behind an easy chair and couldn’t get back up. To this day I wonder how long she sat there. The doctors had no idea what was going on yet. Mother was not in her right mind. She didn’t what year it was, who was president or where she was but her feistiness was intact. She kept telling everyone she was just fine.
I shook from head to foot. I couldn’t stop the tremors. The information would not penetrate my brain yet my body got it. I was terrified to a depth I had never experienced. A friend drove me to the airport and I was in Escanaba by nightfall. I repeated over and over in my head: Please don’t let her die before I get there; please don’t let her die before I get there; please, please, please, please, please.
She was alive and in intensive care. I sat with her as she slept for several hours then drove down to the lake (Michigan). I hadn’t seen it in some years due to my own illness. The winds came in strong and steady from the southeast. It brought large swells. The white of the wild wave caps crashing to the shore glowed against the dark night and the darker water. The power of the lake and the wind and the night was immense. So immense it seemed I should be wiped out of existence; yet there I stood. The lake felt like a dear, powerful friend and a part of my soul with which I was being reunited. I laid down on the sand and looked up at a sky of soft black velvet strewn with glittering diamonds. The planet had tilted and nothing looked or felt the same.
The heroism? I stayed with my mother. I stayed through radiation and chemo and dry heaves and vomiting. I stayed through seeming recovery and then metastasis to the brain. I stayed in order to give my sweet mom the care and dignity she deserved. I stayed through one sibling telling me I couldn’t stay (“we can’t have one handicapped person taking care of another handicapped person, Jodi.” [I walk with a cane.] Mind you, she didn’t want to stay with Mom – she just didn’t want me staying) and another accusing me of torturing our mother (“chemo is just a form of torture, everybody knows that, she does pretty much what you tell her to do;” I told him I did not care if she took chemo or not, that I told her before every appointment that we could just cancel and not go if she wanted. He simply didn’t believe me.).
Most of all, I stayed in spite of the fact that the job at which I’d worked eighteen years declined my request for a leave of absence. I stayed not knowing if I would lose my job and then my home. I have never once regretted it. My mother did not die alone or in a hospital but in her own home. It was a year of impossible difficulties but also of great joy and depth.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Juxtaposition with surroundings
Even out of the girl’s grimy hair, the molten piece of sun found a glint or two. The moisture in the air hung heavy. The sun, barely peeking above the horizon, reflected on the thickness of the atmosphere giving everything a red-orange tinge, a post-predawn theatrical glow. The finger of light, clear and warm, touched the girl’s eyelids and she startled awake, head jerking away from the sooty car window on which it had rested. The air in the old car was stuffy, even though the other windows were open, and smelled of dust. The light picked out motes shifting around in the air. The air itself moved not at all. She rubbed her eyes and swiped her pointy nose with her sleeve. The rough-woven material had a satisfying scratch and left a new soot-streak to join the others. Her mouth tasted of dirt. Her breasts had not yet swelled nor her blood run. She was still a girl.
She peeked over to the back seat to see if Jimmy was awake. He lay on his back, his flaking mouth open and twitching just a little like a dog’s legs do when chasing rabbits in dreams. He was younger and looked more so in sleep. She felt the urge to protect him. The rumbling of the train that had been building was growing louder and, with a blast of the train’s horn, Jimmy spasmed awake too. The car sat some yards from the tracks but shielded from sight by a few dark firs the lumberjacks forgot to raze. Their darkness merged with the car’s black, matte exterior. A solitary bird chirped hopefully from the trees. She looked back out the windshield, squinting, as the train bore down and passed by, shaking the ground, the car and them, the clack-clack-clack drowning out the bird’s calls.
She peeked over to the back seat to see if Jimmy was awake. He lay on his back, his flaking mouth open and twitching just a little like a dog’s legs do when chasing rabbits in dreams. He was younger and looked more so in sleep. She felt the urge to protect him. The rumbling of the train that had been building was growing louder and, with a blast of the train’s horn, Jimmy spasmed awake too. The car sat some yards from the tracks but shielded from sight by a few dark firs the lumberjacks forgot to raze. Their darkness merged with the car’s black, matte exterior. A solitary bird chirped hopefully from the trees. She looked back out the windshield, squinting, as the train bore down and passed by, shaking the ground, the car and them, the clack-clack-clack drowning out the bird’s calls.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Story in an hour exercise
Deathless prose it is not but I had to wring it out drop by drop (of blood). I sincerely hope I do better in the future.
Scene I—before the conversation
Before the trip, Laurel made a pact with Clarice. They were sitting at Betsey’s Back Porch Café excitedly planning the trip. It was January and grey and sloggy and dirty outside. The snowbanks were covered with black gunk and the salt and sand on the roads had built up on the sides like refuse after a particularly dirty flash flood. They sat in the yellow addition near the fake fire. Brochures, books and papers were spread around them on the big green couch and the table in front of them. Not-so-great artwork from someone local leered from the walls. The rope lights across the ceiling were unlit in spaces.
They had been talking about the “plan,” how things would work from day to day.
“I just really want to let it unfold, you know?” Laurel said. “Let what’s happening and what’s there naturally lead us to the next place.”
“Well, sure, but we could plan some stuff, couldn’t we? Like maybe block it in a few days or a week at a time?” Their trip was to last a full, glorious month.
“How about we just decide what the must-sees are and let the order and timing be more in the moment?”
Clarice had agreed to that, said it sounded good. Liar.
Scene 2—During the conversation
The sun had just cleared the horizon. It glowed red through the smog of Athens and gave the white buildings an orange-red glow. The air was chill. Laurel put on her deep brown windbreaker and wrapped her scarf around her neck. She was excited. She was here, in Athens. Even the cigarette butts and pieces of paper that rattled around street and sidewalk seemed like part of the distinctive ambience, the Greekness, of the place. She sat at a sidewalk café table, sipping coffee. Apparently, you had to ask for “Nes” if you didn’t want the muddy Turkish…er, excuse me, Greek, version. The waiter told her that when he brought the mud.
She saw Clarice picking her way over. Her muscles tightened a bit.
Clarice sat down next to her at the chipped white table. The open iron-work was cold to the touch as Laurel steadied the table. Clarice plunked down her thick “Athens for Idiots” book and scooted up in her chair.
“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” Clarice wasted no time. “I’d love to go see the Parthenon again.”
“I’m not sure. I was hoping to sit and listen to the day and figure it out.”
“We could go ahead and book a cruise to the islands. It’s probably warmer there.”
Laurel didn’t answer. She was already tired of Clair’s need to plan everything, to build up a structure around each and every hour and minute. They had a stopover in Rome on the way over for three days. Clarice had shuttled them from point A to point B with relentless precision. Laurel felt she hadn’t gotten to know Rome at all. She’d seen a lot but it felt like a slide show instead of the slow, growing friendship between person and city that she had envisioned. She longed to build up a certain familiarity, intimacy even, with a place she visited. She hadn’t learned any of the back streets or out of the way spots. She remembered something from yesterday.
“Did you notice that guy at the restaurant last night? Seemed like he was listening to us.”
Clarice cocked her head. “That’s silly. Why would anyone listen to us?”
“No clue. But when we moved our chairs to see the street better, he moved where he was sitting, too.”
“Which guy? What did he look like?”
“He was to our left, right in that corner by the door.” Laurel thought a minute. “He had brown hair that was kind of sticking up on the side and he wore a grey suit with maroon stripes. He looked like he’d had five o’clock shadow for a week.”
“Oh yeah. I thought he was interested in you, the way he kept looking at you.”
Laurel laughed. “I thought he kept looking at you.”
“What could we have possibly been talking about last night that would interest some stranger?”
Clarice plowed on as Laurel thought about that. “We were talking about the Acropolis and the Parthenon. You said your feet were tired and maybe you’d pass on the clubs in the Plaka. What else?”
“I don’t know, just the flight over,” Laurel said. “You accused me of stealing gum out of your purse while you were sleeping.”
“Yeah, well, you could have at least put things back where you found them. I hate having my purse messed with.”
“I’ll say it one more time. I did not go into your purse. You probably messed it up yourself but you’re too anal to admit it might have been you.”
Clarice crossed her arms and canted her body away from Laurel. “Yeah, right.”
Laurel felt the slow burn go up a few notches. “You’re basically calling me a liar.” She swallowed angrier words and said, “Why don’t we go our separate ways for today. We can talk later tonight or tomorrow about where we want to go next.”
Laurel thought back to the January day at Becky’s Back Porch Café when she and Clarice had made their pact for this trip. It was grey and sloggy. The snowbanks were covered with black crud. Salt and sand on the roads had built up on the sides like silty refuse after a flash flood. They sat in the yellow room with the rope lights and the bad art and scattered all their brochures and books and papers around them. Two months in Greece. It seemed perfect and plausible then. She and Clair had talked about planning versus seat of your pants wandering. Clair had agreed to certain must-sees and that the rest would be more in the moment. Liar.
Clarice took out pen and paper. “Okay, let’s just coordinate where we’re going so we don’t do something we meant to do together.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Clair, just go where the hell you want. Everything does not have to be planned.”
“Fine, screw it. God forbid there should be a little thought going into something. You go do your freaking boho thing and I’ll actually see some things.”
Clarice scraped back her chair. Her legs looked stiff and wooden as she walked away from the café toward their pension.
Part III: After the conversation
Laurel leaned forward pressing her forehead to her palms. She felt kind of bad. Well, no actually, she felt relieved. Free. Free for the day. She could take this day exactly as she chose. She already had her daypack with her. She leaned back and sipped a little more mud thinking about where she wanted to go next. The sun was higher. The orange-red glow of the buildings had changed to pink. The air was slightly warmer and she found herself thinking of the story she had heard about the monastery on Mt. Hymettos.
Scene I—before the conversation
Before the trip, Laurel made a pact with Clarice. They were sitting at Betsey’s Back Porch Café excitedly planning the trip. It was January and grey and sloggy and dirty outside. The snowbanks were covered with black gunk and the salt and sand on the roads had built up on the sides like refuse after a particularly dirty flash flood. They sat in the yellow addition near the fake fire. Brochures, books and papers were spread around them on the big green couch and the table in front of them. Not-so-great artwork from someone local leered from the walls. The rope lights across the ceiling were unlit in spaces.
They had been talking about the “plan,” how things would work from day to day.
“I just really want to let it unfold, you know?” Laurel said. “Let what’s happening and what’s there naturally lead us to the next place.”
“Well, sure, but we could plan some stuff, couldn’t we? Like maybe block it in a few days or a week at a time?” Their trip was to last a full, glorious month.
“How about we just decide what the must-sees are and let the order and timing be more in the moment?”
Clarice had agreed to that, said it sounded good. Liar.
Scene 2—During the conversation
The sun had just cleared the horizon. It glowed red through the smog of Athens and gave the white buildings an orange-red glow. The air was chill. Laurel put on her deep brown windbreaker and wrapped her scarf around her neck. She was excited. She was here, in Athens. Even the cigarette butts and pieces of paper that rattled around street and sidewalk seemed like part of the distinctive ambience, the Greekness, of the place. She sat at a sidewalk café table, sipping coffee. Apparently, you had to ask for “Nes” if you didn’t want the muddy Turkish…er, excuse me, Greek, version. The waiter told her that when he brought the mud.
She saw Clarice picking her way over. Her muscles tightened a bit.
Clarice sat down next to her at the chipped white table. The open iron-work was cold to the touch as Laurel steadied the table. Clarice plunked down her thick “Athens for Idiots” book and scooted up in her chair.
“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” Clarice wasted no time. “I’d love to go see the Parthenon again.”
“I’m not sure. I was hoping to sit and listen to the day and figure it out.”
“We could go ahead and book a cruise to the islands. It’s probably warmer there.”
Laurel didn’t answer. She was already tired of Clair’s need to plan everything, to build up a structure around each and every hour and minute. They had a stopover in Rome on the way over for three days. Clarice had shuttled them from point A to point B with relentless precision. Laurel felt she hadn’t gotten to know Rome at all. She’d seen a lot but it felt like a slide show instead of the slow, growing friendship between person and city that she had envisioned. She longed to build up a certain familiarity, intimacy even, with a place she visited. She hadn’t learned any of the back streets or out of the way spots. She remembered something from yesterday.
“Did you notice that guy at the restaurant last night? Seemed like he was listening to us.”
Clarice cocked her head. “That’s silly. Why would anyone listen to us?”
“No clue. But when we moved our chairs to see the street better, he moved where he was sitting, too.”
“Which guy? What did he look like?”
“He was to our left, right in that corner by the door.” Laurel thought a minute. “He had brown hair that was kind of sticking up on the side and he wore a grey suit with maroon stripes. He looked like he’d had five o’clock shadow for a week.”
“Oh yeah. I thought he was interested in you, the way he kept looking at you.”
Laurel laughed. “I thought he kept looking at you.”
“What could we have possibly been talking about last night that would interest some stranger?”
Clarice plowed on as Laurel thought about that. “We were talking about the Acropolis and the Parthenon. You said your feet were tired and maybe you’d pass on the clubs in the Plaka. What else?”
“I don’t know, just the flight over,” Laurel said. “You accused me of stealing gum out of your purse while you were sleeping.”
“Yeah, well, you could have at least put things back where you found them. I hate having my purse messed with.”
“I’ll say it one more time. I did not go into your purse. You probably messed it up yourself but you’re too anal to admit it might have been you.”
Clarice crossed her arms and canted her body away from Laurel. “Yeah, right.”
Laurel felt the slow burn go up a few notches. “You’re basically calling me a liar.” She swallowed angrier words and said, “Why don’t we go our separate ways for today. We can talk later tonight or tomorrow about where we want to go next.”
Laurel thought back to the January day at Becky’s Back Porch Café when she and Clarice had made their pact for this trip. It was grey and sloggy. The snowbanks were covered with black crud. Salt and sand on the roads had built up on the sides like silty refuse after a flash flood. They sat in the yellow room with the rope lights and the bad art and scattered all their brochures and books and papers around them. Two months in Greece. It seemed perfect and plausible then. She and Clair had talked about planning versus seat of your pants wandering. Clair had agreed to certain must-sees and that the rest would be more in the moment. Liar.
Clarice took out pen and paper. “Okay, let’s just coordinate where we’re going so we don’t do something we meant to do together.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Clair, just go where the hell you want. Everything does not have to be planned.”
“Fine, screw it. God forbid there should be a little thought going into something. You go do your freaking boho thing and I’ll actually see some things.”
Clarice scraped back her chair. Her legs looked stiff and wooden as she walked away from the café toward their pension.
Part III: After the conversation
Laurel leaned forward pressing her forehead to her palms. She felt kind of bad. Well, no actually, she felt relieved. Free. Free for the day. She could take this day exactly as she chose. She already had her daypack with her. She leaned back and sipped a little more mud thinking about where she wanted to go next. The sun was higher. The orange-red glow of the buildings had changed to pink. The air was slightly warmer and she found herself thinking of the story she had heard about the monastery on Mt. Hymettos.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
In twelve hours, the armed guard at the front of the bus turned to look at us twice. On departure he gave us a grim look, Uzi at rest across his thighs. Morning became afternoon. The second time, he turned to motion us off the bus to relieve ourselves in the bushes. He didn’t bother to turn his back then. The distant blue-green mountains became dusky blue foothills then rocks around us in the black night. Swirls of fog chased us. The dark was split open when we arrived at the hostel. Protesters shouted, klieg lights strobed and an effigy burned.
Free-writing from opening sentences
“Me and my brother Loftis came in by the old lady’s window.”
She always left her window half open, even on the coolest nights. We tried to keep quiet but Loftis went and fell when he was half in, half out, his big clunky shoes making a clatter enough to raise the dead. She slept through it, though, seemed dead to the world. I thought old people were supposed to sleep lighter. There was a thread of spit spooling out of her mouth and pooling on her white, starched, lace-trimmed pillowcase. Kind of made me sick, actually.
Anyways, me and Loftis tiptoed out of there as fast as we could in case of a delayed reaction. Best not to tempt fate. Not knowing the house, we had to move pretty slow, kind of feeling our ways around the furniture and the occasional surprise wall. We finally found the stairs. The smooth wood banister felt hefty in my hand and the wood floor under my bare feet like it was still holding some of the day’s heat. Or maybe it just seemed that way after the cold ground outside and chill in the old lady’s bedroom.
We found the front room and from there the “drawing room (what the hell’s a drawing room?).” We’d heard her grandson, Tobe, refer to it that way. His real name’s Tobias or something like that but everybody calls him Tobe. He’d mentioned to Loftis she kept her coins in the sideboard. Course, he never would’ve told me that. Little did he know, Loftis tells me everything. I figured a sideboard had to be a piece of furniture big enough to keep things in. The three-quarter moon sliced through the window on our left and I saw a big, black monstrosity of a hutch, hulking at the back of the room, so black it was more like a dark, fathomless hole in the wall. The hairs on the back of my neck started to lift up and I got this weird feeling if I got too close it would suck me in and pull me down somewhere I’d never be able to get out of.
She always left her window half open, even on the coolest nights. We tried to keep quiet but Loftis went and fell when he was half in, half out, his big clunky shoes making a clatter enough to raise the dead. She slept through it, though, seemed dead to the world. I thought old people were supposed to sleep lighter. There was a thread of spit spooling out of her mouth and pooling on her white, starched, lace-trimmed pillowcase. Kind of made me sick, actually.
Anyways, me and Loftis tiptoed out of there as fast as we could in case of a delayed reaction. Best not to tempt fate. Not knowing the house, we had to move pretty slow, kind of feeling our ways around the furniture and the occasional surprise wall. We finally found the stairs. The smooth wood banister felt hefty in my hand and the wood floor under my bare feet like it was still holding some of the day’s heat. Or maybe it just seemed that way after the cold ground outside and chill in the old lady’s bedroom.
We found the front room and from there the “drawing room (what the hell’s a drawing room?).” We’d heard her grandson, Tobe, refer to it that way. His real name’s Tobias or something like that but everybody calls him Tobe. He’d mentioned to Loftis she kept her coins in the sideboard. Course, he never would’ve told me that. Little did he know, Loftis tells me everything. I figured a sideboard had to be a piece of furniture big enough to keep things in. The three-quarter moon sliced through the window on our left and I saw a big, black monstrosity of a hutch, hulking at the back of the room, so black it was more like a dark, fathomless hole in the wall. The hairs on the back of my neck started to lift up and I got this weird feeling if I got too close it would suck me in and pull me down somewhere I’d never be able to get out of.
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