gavin cardigan was out of his element.
it wasn't just that it was hot, and it was certainly very hot. the sun was blazing and there wasn't a single cloud in the sky to soften it a whit. cardigan couldn't even find any shade. it was as if every building in Fort Worth was a reverse-vampire that worshiped sunlight and feasted on darkness instead of blood, sucking the shadows from all manner of people and objects.
and the wind.
it wasn't a refreshing breeze from off the bay, spritzing his cheeks. no, this was a steady gust of dry, hot air right in his face, no matter which direction he turned, carrying dust or ash or exhaust or the odor of cow manure with it.
oh, yeah. cows. they didn't have cattle round-ups every day in downtown san francisco, either.
"i want to go home," he muttered to nobody in particular but drawing the attention of several cowboy hats that were lingering nearby. he cursed to himself, pulled down his fedora, and stepped into The White Elephant Saloon.
he felt better immediately.
it was nothing like Poor Yorick's Pub, but it was familiar enough. it had a bar, and a bartender, and alcohol. he ordered a beer, took a sip, and sighed deeply.
"mr. cardigan?"
that voice...he turned around in surprise.
"ms. dupree? are you stalking me now?"
she laughed, ignoring his outstretched hand to instead lean in close and kiss him on the cheek. "maybe. depends on where you're going."
"i going to buy you a drink," he grinned. "what's your poison?"
"dark and stormy," she replied quickly.
"what's that?" he asked as he signaled the barkeeper.
"dark rum, ginger beer, and lime," the bartender informed him.
cardigan shoved his beer away.
"make it two. that sounds amazing."
cocktails in hand, they raised their glasses.
"to destiny, mr. cardigan!"
"it's gavin. or cardigan. and i thought you only believed in destiny when you're in san francisco, ms. dupree?"
she sipped, and considered her answer. "it's lily, and your memory for details is amazing. that must be what makes you a good detective."
"this is really refreshing," cardigan nodded at his drink with approval, then lifted his eyes toward hers. "i remember every detail. the Germans wore grey, you wore blue."
she laughed. "Casablanca." *clink* "here's looking at you, kid."
cardigan looked around the saloon, the old cowboy hats hanging on the walls and ceiling. "of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, you walk into...the one i'm in. what in heaven's name brought you to Fort Worth?"
"work. or at least, that's what i thought. seeing you here, though...it seems that destiny has taken a hand."
"we're going to run out of Casablanca quotes at some point."
"then we'll just drink too much and sing As Time Goes By all night."
cardigan tilted his head and considered. "do you think that's destiny had in mind for you here?"
lily stirred her drink, stalling. "i don't know. i've been thinking about you, cardigan."
"really?" he sat up straighter.
"yes. i was thinking of hiring you again."
"oh." he tried and failed to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
she noticed and smiled.
"i'm not your client yet, though. tell me, what are you doing in Fort Worth, cardigan?"
"suffering," he muttered. "until you showed up, that is. a client back in 'Frisco owns an art gallery. he discovered a new western artist here and wants to offer him a contact to be his exclusive dealer. but, having dealt with a lot of artists in his business, he knows that they can be a bit flaky and unreliable, so he wanted me to check out first. it's not the first case i've done for him. what kind of work brought you here?"
"there's a beautiful old episcopal church here called St. Nicholas on the Prairie. the original architect was from new orleans, and it has a unique french colonial style. the diocese brought me out for a consultation. i'm a restoration architect, specializing in church architecture."
"holy moly." cardigan cringed as he said it. "why churches? because you don't believe in destiny? or because you do?"
"dammit cardigan, you sound like my old priest," she laughed. "you are determined to get inside my head, aren't you?"
"to start," he winked.
"okay, now you sound nothing like my old priest!"
"was he more successful at getting answers out of you?"
"he would say no, but i think he understood me better than anyone. he was very perceptive, and a good listener, and had great instincts. just like you, really. he would have been a good detective, too. maybe you would be a good priest."
"i don't think priesthood is destiny. but, we weren't talking about my destiny, were we?"
"weren't we?" she signaled for another round. "this isn't just about me; it's about us."
"oh, we're an us, are we? pray, continue."
she gave him an exasperated look. "it was much easier to hire you over the phone last time."
"but far less fun, with far less rum." he finished his first drink just as the bartender delivered the second. "does this mean that you're hiring me again?"
"i don't know. i'm enjoying your company too much, and the...case...is not something i have ever talked about with anybody. not even my priest. it's something that happened a long time ago, that i ran away from. i have been thinking lately that maybe it's time to go back there...but i'm also afraid that maybe it's too late and it might do more harm than good."
"that's very mysterious. but that's not surprising. you're a mysterious woman. a living ghost, i believe was the description we agreed upon last time we met, the way you moved about the city as if you were on a different plane and in a different time than the rest of us. and you don't know the extent to which that symbolism has played out in san francisco since you left."
she raised an eyebrow. "now you're being mysterious. what are you talking about?"
"the fat man, Gutman, who took pictures of you and then used them as a model for his painting. i bought it, at a mutually beneficial discount with the owner," he grinned.
"you did not!"
"oh yes i did! but i gave it to my friend danny to hang at his Pub, since i spend more time there than i do anywhere else. but the painting made a much bigger impression on danny than i ever thought it would. he stares at it, straightens it when it doesn't need straightening. i've even seen him try to draw it himself on cocktail napkins. so, even in a painting your presence is haunting, like a ghost. but from what you're telling me, it sounds as if you're also haunted by something in your past."
"but your detective skills are even spookier! is this Pub the one you said has excellent food?"
"yes, Poor Yorick's Pub. it's kinda weird. danny doesn't have a menu. he just makes one thing every day. you never know what it's going to be, but you know it's going to be good."
"Poor Yorick's?" she looked startled. "i used to have a d---"
BBBRRRIIINNNGGG!!!! BBBRRRIIINNNGGG!!!
they both checked their phones, pressed a button, and turned them off.
"now that's spooky!"
"it was destined to happen," cardigan agreed.
"aarrgghh!! what am i going to do? i'm not used to being indecisive."
cardigan drained his drink. "it sounds like you're running from the truth, darlin'. truth is my business, and i've learned that while it hurts, it also heals."
"you sound like my priest again," she sighed and drained her drink. "i think i need to sleep on this some more."
cardigan straightened his imaginary tie.
"but not with my priest."
"hmph."
Showing posts with label snapshots. Show all posts
Showing posts with label snapshots. Show all posts
Friday, November 9, 2018
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Snapshots: Pancho
Pancho was 6 years older than me and, in many ways, we were as different as two brothers could be. he was tall and lanky; i...not so much. he rode bulls; i attended college with a longhorn bull as the mascot. he liked baseball; i liked football. he could construct houses; i could construct sentences in latin.
our personalities were completely different as well. Pancho liked people, and people liked him. he seemed to know every third cousin and great aunt twice-removed as well as he knew the immediate family; he was certainly as comfortable with them. that was something i could never manage. i tended to stick to certain individuals in the family, but Pancho didn't. for Pancho, family was family, no matter how removed. and if he was your friend, he was your friend for life.
yet, as different as we were, i'd like to think we had a few things in common. one was work. Pancho always had a job or two--heck, he even had a job during his, um, illness. i've been constantly employed since i was 15 (save for one semester of college in Austin). i'm sure he worked harder than i did, but the point is that we both valued work.
Pancho and i also enjoyed shooting pool. we never had a pool table, but we used to play at the bowling alley and, later, in bars. he was always better than i was, but it never bothered me to lose to him. he would teach me stuff as we played, and it was fun. he later became apprenticed to a master cue stick maker, and i'm proud to own some sticks that Pancho worked on with him.
the one interest that we shared with equal zeal was reading. we both devoured books, but i'll always be grateful that Pancho introduced me to Louis L'Amour and, most importantly, J.R.R Tolkien. he convinced me to read The Hobbit and The Lord Of The Rings when i was in junior high and it was a revelation to me. however, i didn't know a single other person in my family or, indeed, our entire town who had ever read the books or were remotely interested in reading them, so Pancho was the only person i could talk to about them. it was our secret (obviously, not for long), and we never stopped talking about books or recommending them to each other.
we lost Pancho earlier this month. i'm sorry we didn't do more together as adults (we almost never lived in same state), but that's just the way it is. in a way, though, it doesn't matter. Pancho was a constant. if you knew Pancho 40 years ago, he was exactly the same person 40 years later (though, thankfully, he wasn't still shooting at me with a BB gun 40 years later. he probably wanted to, though). our cousin Steve, who officiated at Pancho's funeral, said that Pancho was real, and that is certainly true. i believe that it's his realness and his constancy that will help fill in the hole that his passing has left in our lives.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Snapshots: Shakespeare or Fakespeare?
The greatest English playwright ever known,
His stories will forever be performed.
But when a light on his own tale is shone
We find that we are not too well informed.
He never spelled his name the same way twice,
And seems to have not ever been abroad;
His education just would not suffice,
So some say he's the greatest ever fraud.
Perhaps Sir Francis Bacon was the scribe?
Still others nominate Edward de Vere.
Kit Marlowe had the talent, some subscribe,
Or did the Queen herself compose King Lear?
Poor Yorick's Pub is where the answers hide--
Read on and let these snapshots be your guide!
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Snapshots: Cardigan and the Cuban Miss Crisis
damn.
my investigation was going nowhere fast, like a chess club president at a cheerleader convention. i had been hired by a cuban refugee in miami to find his 21-year old daughter, yelina garcia. she left her father a note saying sayonara, papa. or maybe it was adios. at any rate, she left for san francisco two months ago and hadn't been heard from since. he wanted to know that she was safe, and wanted her to come home.
i asked if he had contacted the police; he dodged the question. since there was no need to dodge the answer, i told him my fee and instructed him to send it to my paypal account.
three days into the investigation and i had zilch. bupkis. nulo. ms. garcia had not entered the bay area by bus, train, or plane, and her father said she didn't have a car. long-distance inquiries back to miami had not uncovered a friend who was also missing. so, either she never arrived, or arrived under another name, or arrived with an as yet unknown acquaintance. or walked. or swam. to make matters worse, she had emptied her bank account before leaving miami.
the information age made finding missing persons easier than ever, but people who used cash and left no paper trail were the bane of my profession.
bastards. don't they know i have bills to pay?
i was running out of time on this case. if i didn't uncover something soon, señor garcia was going to stop subsidizing my lavish lifestyle. there wasn't a large cuban population in the city, but there was a cuban club in the mission district called Club Ernesto that served a mean mojito. the first rule in private detection was go with your gut, especially if it leads you to alcohol.
Club Ernesto was an homage to hemingway's time in cuba. straw hats, cigars, and classic american cars were celebrated in photos on the wall while sluggish ceiling fans circled overhead. it was hot and steamy inside. it sure as hell didn't feel like northern california in here. rivulets of sweat were racing down my back, but i didn't care about the winner. i went to the bar and ordered a mojito.
a few minutes later, i took my second mojito and sat down at a table on the far side of the club, where i could see everything. there was a small dance floor, crowded with couples, triples, and even singles swaying sensuously to a smoky song called guateque campesino.
"enjoying the view?"
i turned to my right. her neckline was as low as her voice, and just as enticing.
"i am now," i told her. "it would be much improved if you had a drink in your hand, though."
she signaled for a waitress as she took the chair across from me.
"mojito. and he'll need another one, too."
the waitress nodded and left us in silent study of one another's attributes.
"so, handsome. do you dance?"
i shook my head. "my body isn't very supple, i'm afraid."
"i'm sure it's good for something else, then," she said as the waitress delivered their drinks. "what brings you here if not the dancing?"
"i'm looking for a girl."
she clinked her glass against mine. "congratulations. you found one."
i certainly had, and a fine specimen at that. however, i was on the clock and had to spoil the moment. "a specific girl, actually. yelina garcia, recently of miami. do you know her?"
she took a leisurely sip from her drink. too leisurely. "what do you want with yelina?"
jackpot. she knew her. hell, maybe she even was her. was my luck that good?
"nobody has heard from her since she left miami and her father is worried. is she safe?"
she spun the gold and silver bangles around her lovely brown wrist, refusing now to meet my eyes. that made me sad. i could have happily stared into those coca-cola eyes all night.
"you a cop?"
"nope. private investigator." i tapped my finger on the table. "is yelina in trouble?"
"not in san francisco, she isn't. you can tell her father that she is safe, but she's not coming home."
my job was done. i had earned my money and could walk away now, find some air conditioning, and think about how to spend it. i kept going, though.
"is there trouble in miami? i found her pretty easily, without even a photo to go on. her father, at the very least, knows that she's in san francisco. others probably do, too."
"the only person yelina has trouble with is her father, and he knows she can cause him more trouble than he can cause her. tell him she'll stay out of his life if he stays out of hers."
i nodded. "okay, then. business is over, let's get back to pleasure."
she stood. "no, i don't think so."
i watched her walk away. as a consolation prize, it wasn't bad. the lady knew how to walk. still, it was only a consolation prize.
damn.
my investigation was going nowhere fast, like a chess club president at a cheerleader convention. i had been hired by a cuban refugee in miami to find his 21-year old daughter, yelina garcia. she left her father a note saying sayonara, papa. or maybe it was adios. at any rate, she left for san francisco two months ago and hadn't been heard from since. he wanted to know that she was safe, and wanted her to come home.
i asked if he had contacted the police; he dodged the question. since there was no need to dodge the answer, i told him my fee and instructed him to send it to my paypal account.
three days into the investigation and i had zilch. bupkis. nulo. ms. garcia had not entered the bay area by bus, train, or plane, and her father said she didn't have a car. long-distance inquiries back to miami had not uncovered a friend who was also missing. so, either she never arrived, or arrived under another name, or arrived with an as yet unknown acquaintance. or walked. or swam. to make matters worse, she had emptied her bank account before leaving miami.
the information age made finding missing persons easier than ever, but people who used cash and left no paper trail were the bane of my profession.
bastards. don't they know i have bills to pay?
i was running out of time on this case. if i didn't uncover something soon, señor garcia was going to stop subsidizing my lavish lifestyle. there wasn't a large cuban population in the city, but there was a cuban club in the mission district called Club Ernesto that served a mean mojito. the first rule in private detection was go with your gut, especially if it leads you to alcohol.
Club Ernesto was an homage to hemingway's time in cuba. straw hats, cigars, and classic american cars were celebrated in photos on the wall while sluggish ceiling fans circled overhead. it was hot and steamy inside. it sure as hell didn't feel like northern california in here. rivulets of sweat were racing down my back, but i didn't care about the winner. i went to the bar and ordered a mojito.
a few minutes later, i took my second mojito and sat down at a table on the far side of the club, where i could see everything. there was a small dance floor, crowded with couples, triples, and even singles swaying sensuously to a smoky song called guateque campesino.
"enjoying the view?"
i turned to my right. her neckline was as low as her voice, and just as enticing.
"i am now," i told her. "it would be much improved if you had a drink in your hand, though."
she signaled for a waitress as she took the chair across from me.
"mojito. and he'll need another one, too."
the waitress nodded and left us in silent study of one another's attributes.
"so, handsome. do you dance?"
i shook my head. "my body isn't very supple, i'm afraid."
"i'm sure it's good for something else, then," she said as the waitress delivered their drinks. "what brings you here if not the dancing?"
"i'm looking for a girl."
she clinked her glass against mine. "congratulations. you found one."
i certainly had, and a fine specimen at that. however, i was on the clock and had to spoil the moment. "a specific girl, actually. yelina garcia, recently of miami. do you know her?"
she took a leisurely sip from her drink. too leisurely. "what do you want with yelina?"
jackpot. she knew her. hell, maybe she even was her. was my luck that good?
"nobody has heard from her since she left miami and her father is worried. is she safe?"
she spun the gold and silver bangles around her lovely brown wrist, refusing now to meet my eyes. that made me sad. i could have happily stared into those coca-cola eyes all night.
"you a cop?"
"nope. private investigator." i tapped my finger on the table. "is yelina in trouble?"
"not in san francisco, she isn't. you can tell her father that she is safe, but she's not coming home."
my job was done. i had earned my money and could walk away now, find some air conditioning, and think about how to spend it. i kept going, though.
"is there trouble in miami? i found her pretty easily, without even a photo to go on. her father, at the very least, knows that she's in san francisco. others probably do, too."
"the only person yelina has trouble with is her father, and he knows she can cause him more trouble than he can cause her. tell him she'll stay out of his life if he stays out of hers."
i nodded. "okay, then. business is over, let's get back to pleasure."
she stood. "no, i don't think so."
i watched her walk away. as a consolation prize, it wasn't bad. the lady knew how to walk. still, it was only a consolation prize.
damn.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Snapshots: Burkie In Your Pocket
there are a number of characters that haven't had any snapshots, yet. one of them is yours truly. i'm gonna tell you a story about my criminal past.
wait, burkie had a criminal past?! i know, you're shocked. or disappointed. or possibly impressed.
it all started during my second year of college, either fall of 1981 or spring of 1982. i know it was then because i remember my roommate and me in our apartment on riverside drive in austin, honing the craft of our new career.
let me tell you a little about my roommate, roy (his middle name was dale and i suspected that he was named after roy rogers & dale evans, though he always denied it). roy was one those guys who always wanted to be an accountant. actually, he always wanted a nice salary but decided early on that majoring in accounting was the best way to pursue that goal. i'll tell you this, roy needed the money. he had the worst car ever. it was a 2-door chevy vega hatchback. the vega, if you're not familiar with that model, was a crappy car at best.
and roy's vega? it was never at best. i can't tell you how many times we'd have to push it down the street to build up enough speed so that one of us could jump into the driver's seat, put it in gear, and pop the clutch in order to get the engine started (does anybody do this anymore?). there were also times when that didn't work and we needed to get his car home, but he couldn't afford to have it towed. at those times, we'd call another friend of ours to come help us do a 3-man tow job. i guess i shouldn't say tow, since we actually pushed the car home. here's how it worked: roy would be in the driver's seat of his vega, and i would drive up behind him in my plymouth gold duster (unlike the vega, the gold duster was a fantastic car) and stop about a foot short. then our other friend had the unenviable job of sitting on the hood of my car and placing his feet on roy's car. i would then start driving and, using the third guy's feet (because bumper-to-bumper action could damage both cars), roy's car would be pushed along in front of me and roy would steer us home. once there, he'd spend a couple of days banging on it and, eventually, through sheer doggedness and a little baling wire and duct tape (he regularly used these items in his automotive repair activities, i kid you not), he'd get that ridiculous car running again for a little while. (later that year, roy would finally give up and have the vega committed to a scrap heap. god love him, he went and purchased an even more pathetic vehicle, the plymouth arrow pickup truck).
that was roy's situation. what you need to understand about my situation at that time is that i was changing my major every semester without any clue as to what i wanted to do when i grew up. never did. not sure i do now, come to that.
so, one night, we watched a movie on TV called Harry In Your Pocket. you've probably never heard of this movie; it wasn't that popular. roy and i, however, were greatly inspired. you see, Harry In Your Pocket was a movie about pickpockets. it taught you how to do it, and how to work as a team when picking pockets. it was so cool, and it starred james coburn, who was like the living embodiment of cool. we realized that by becoming professional pickpockets, roy would have plenty of money; i would have a career; and we'd both be cool (which, i confess, neither of us were regularly accused of being. maybe one day i'll tell you the story of our failed attempt to try marijuana).
we started that night. we each put on a jacket, placed our wallets in the inside pocket, and started practicing. we'd walk toward each other, accidentally bump, and one of us would try to steal the other's wallet. then, we'd place the wallet in the back pocket of our jeans (not the pocket holding the Skoal, of course) and practice lifting it from there without the other realizing it. most fun of all, we'd each carry a newspaper. the one who picked the wallet would place it inside the fold of his newspaper and then, walking by the other, nonchalantly slide the wallet from his newspaper to the other's newspaper. that way, you see, the one who had just picked the pocket is no longer holding the evidence in case the victim realizes he's just been robbed and sends a cop after the guy who bumped into him. cool, no?
well, when james coburn does it, it's really cool. when it's two college guys spending their friday and saturday nights doing this because they don't know how to get high and they don't have girlfriends, it's just...sad. fortunately, we were terrible at it. the newspaper trick, we could manage that, but a dead man would know we were trying to pick his pocket. roy would never be able to steal enough even to buy another retread tire (and he bought a lot of them), and my career as a pickpocket would have been even shorter than my career as a door-to-door bible salesman. instead, roy started painting people's houses after class and on the weekends, and i got a part-time job at the frame shop in the mall.
i haven't seen roy in decades. i hope he's well. and not in jail.
wait, burkie had a criminal past?! i know, you're shocked. or disappointed. or possibly impressed.
it all started during my second year of college, either fall of 1981 or spring of 1982. i know it was then because i remember my roommate and me in our apartment on riverside drive in austin, honing the craft of our new career.
let me tell you a little about my roommate, roy (his middle name was dale and i suspected that he was named after roy rogers & dale evans, though he always denied it). roy was one those guys who always wanted to be an accountant. actually, he always wanted a nice salary but decided early on that majoring in accounting was the best way to pursue that goal. i'll tell you this, roy needed the money. he had the worst car ever. it was a 2-door chevy vega hatchback. the vega, if you're not familiar with that model, was a crappy car at best.
and roy's vega? it was never at best. i can't tell you how many times we'd have to push it down the street to build up enough speed so that one of us could jump into the driver's seat, put it in gear, and pop the clutch in order to get the engine started (does anybody do this anymore?). there were also times when that didn't work and we needed to get his car home, but he couldn't afford to have it towed. at those times, we'd call another friend of ours to come help us do a 3-man tow job. i guess i shouldn't say tow, since we actually pushed the car home. here's how it worked: roy would be in the driver's seat of his vega, and i would drive up behind him in my plymouth gold duster (unlike the vega, the gold duster was a fantastic car) and stop about a foot short. then our other friend had the unenviable job of sitting on the hood of my car and placing his feet on roy's car. i would then start driving and, using the third guy's feet (because bumper-to-bumper action could damage both cars), roy's car would be pushed along in front of me and roy would steer us home. once there, he'd spend a couple of days banging on it and, eventually, through sheer doggedness and a little baling wire and duct tape (he regularly used these items in his automotive repair activities, i kid you not), he'd get that ridiculous car running again for a little while. (later that year, roy would finally give up and have the vega committed to a scrap heap. god love him, he went and purchased an even more pathetic vehicle, the plymouth arrow pickup truck).
that was roy's situation. what you need to understand about my situation at that time is that i was changing my major every semester without any clue as to what i wanted to do when i grew up. never did. not sure i do now, come to that.
so, one night, we watched a movie on TV called Harry In Your Pocket. you've probably never heard of this movie; it wasn't that popular. roy and i, however, were greatly inspired. you see, Harry In Your Pocket was a movie about pickpockets. it taught you how to do it, and how to work as a team when picking pockets. it was so cool, and it starred james coburn, who was like the living embodiment of cool. we realized that by becoming professional pickpockets, roy would have plenty of money; i would have a career; and we'd both be cool (which, i confess, neither of us were regularly accused of being. maybe one day i'll tell you the story of our failed attempt to try marijuana).
we started that night. we each put on a jacket, placed our wallets in the inside pocket, and started practicing. we'd walk toward each other, accidentally bump, and one of us would try to steal the other's wallet. then, we'd place the wallet in the back pocket of our jeans (not the pocket holding the Skoal, of course) and practice lifting it from there without the other realizing it. most fun of all, we'd each carry a newspaper. the one who picked the wallet would place it inside the fold of his newspaper and then, walking by the other, nonchalantly slide the wallet from his newspaper to the other's newspaper. that way, you see, the one who had just picked the pocket is no longer holding the evidence in case the victim realizes he's just been robbed and sends a cop after the guy who bumped into him. cool, no?
well, when james coburn does it, it's really cool. when it's two college guys spending their friday and saturday nights doing this because they don't know how to get high and they don't have girlfriends, it's just...sad. fortunately, we were terrible at it. the newspaper trick, we could manage that, but a dead man would know we were trying to pick his pocket. roy would never be able to steal enough even to buy another retread tire (and he bought a lot of them), and my career as a pickpocket would have been even shorter than my career as a door-to-door bible salesman. instead, roy started painting people's houses after class and on the weekends, and i got a part-time job at the frame shop in the mall.
i haven't seen roy in decades. i hope he's well. and not in jail.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Snapshots: A Day In The Park
the setting: san francisco, california. it's august and unusually bright and warm.
scene 1: golden gate park. it's morning and there are several rows of people performing tai chi. most of them are adult asians though there are also a couple of aging hippies and a 16-year old boy.
relax. breathe. let your arms float.
as he took his initial stance, he heard the words in his mind, but it wasn't his voice or that of his tai chi master that he heard.
head up. part the wild horse's mane to the left. exhale.
his sister's voice had set the tone. he felt the coarse hair of the mane in his fingers, his sister's warm breath against his ear. as he moved into the next form, he transcended his normal plane of awareness to a place that was both familiar and unkown to him. his body continued to flow from one form to the next.
grasping the swallow's tail. single whip. waving hands like clouds.
his consciousness, though, was elsewhere. it wasn't san francisco. it wasn't a place at all. his senses were void. he saw nothing, he smelled nothing, he felt nothing. his sister's voice was gone. but she was there. there was no evidence of her, but she was there. he knew it. twins had that connection. she was part of his world, and she was still with him.
scene 2: golden gate park. it's afternoon and an old man is playing chess against a 16-year old boy.
the boy opened by pushing queen's pawn forward two spaces. "rabbi ori, i was performing tai chi in the park this morning and...and i think i may have reached enlightenment."
the old rabbi raised a bushy grey eyebrow at his opponent, then moved his knight out into the field of play.
"did you, now? and what makes you think that, my young friend?
the boy paused. he was looking at the board, but his mind was on his experience that morning. when he had ended his forms, he was back in the normal, waking world. the presence of his twin sister had lingered, though. he found himself looking around to see if she was watching him. she wasn't there, though. nobody was.
he slid another pawn forward and said, "i was doing my forms, but it felt like my body was doing the movements on its own while my mind was...somewhere else. i don't know where. it was empty. nothingness, really, except for the feeling that my...that somebody i haven't see in a long time was there, and she was safe. i've never felt anything like that before. it was real, though. i swear it."
the rabbi nodded noncommittally, and pushed one of his pawns out into the fray, opening up a bishop and his queen. "in the eastern philosophies, reaching a state of enlightenment brings an end to suffering and an understanding of the complexities of the universe, no?"
the boy shrugged, and captured a pawn. "something like that, yeah."
the moves on the board seem to match the flow of the conversation: probing, unsure, deflecting, penetrating.
"so what mysteries did your enlightened mind unlock?"
"i don't know. i mean, i didn't solve any mysteries. i just...i just felt that this person was alive and safe, even though i have no real way of knowing."
"we've played many a game of chess, my young friend, and i've watched you here in the park. may i make an observation? yes?"
the boy nodded.
"you are lost. you exist in this world, but you are not part of it. the eastern philosophies, you are drawn to them because they would have you to turn away from the world and look inside yourself for answers. for them, the world is nothing but pain and suffering. it is something to ascend from, yes?"
another nod.
"for us jews, that is unthinkable. we live in our world. family and tradition, they are where we look for answers. the torah and talmud give us mitzvot--the commandments of god--to help us find our way in the world and make it a better place. we don't want to ascend from this world; we want to make this a better world, you see?"
another nod, but accompanied by a frown. "so, i didn't reach enlightenment?"
the old rabbi tilted his head to the side in a half-shrug. "meh, who knows? but we jews, we have a word called kavannah. do you know this word? no? well, it is a kind of enlightenment. it means directing one's heart toward heaven. oftentimes, we jews just go through the motions with our laws and prayers and rituals, doing them because we're supposed to, because we always have. sometimes, though, the rituals awaken sudden clarity inside of us and click! we understand. in that very moment, it all comes together. we feel the connection that we all have to god, and to each other, and to this world. that is kavannah. it's very zen, no?"
the boy looked impressed. "that's cool."
the old rabbi smiled. "i'm glad you think so, my young friend. now, maybe you experienced kavannah; maybe you did not. who knows? but my advice is to remember that connection you felt, the connection to that other person whom you loved, your connection to this world."
the boy nodded. "is that all, rabbi?"
"no, my young friend. you must also remember not to expose your king. checkmate."
scene 3: golden gate park. it's evening and a woman is sitting on a plaid blanket, eating a picnic dinner with an old shaggy dog and a 16-year old boy.
"danny, these sandwiches are delicious. where did you get them?"
"a jewish deli that rabbi ori told me about," the boy told her as he handed her a bottle of coke. "he said it's the best pastrami he's ever had."
"it's certainly the best i've ever had," the woman said. "i'm glad you thought to bring a bowl of yorick's regular food for him, though. i don't think the pastrami would be good for him and, besides, i don't want to share."
the boy said nothing, but reached over and rubbed the old dog's head affectionately. his aunt watched him, her eyes sad.
"you're remembering them, aren't you?"
he nodded. "it was six years ago today, you know."
"i know."
"annie's still alive."
"what?!" she wasn't prepared to hear that. "how do you know?"
"i don't know. i mean, i know it, but i don't know how i know it. i mean--" he took her hand. "aunt lucy, you've heard how twins have a special connection? they can speak their own language, finish each others thoughts?"
she smiled. "yes. your mother and i used to marvel at how you and annie used to talk gibberish to each other as toddlers. we couldn't understand a word you'd say, but you understood each other perfectly."
"we always had our own language. and we knew things about each other. like, i knew if she was sick, and she knew if i was lying about something, or hiding something. i knew if she had a bad dream, even when she was in the other room."
the woman looked closely at his face. "and you think you felt something today?"
the boy started petting the dog again. "yes. no. i mean, i realized something today. that connection is still there. it was always there. i just never paid attention to it. i guess...i guess it hurt too much. but today at tai chi, i found it again. if the connection is still there, then she's still alive. she's okay, aunt lucy. i know it. i know it."
the woman pulled him close. "i hope so, honey. i hope so."
the shaggy dog stood up and walked over to then and fell in between them, as if to join their embrace. the woman and boy laughed and each extended a hand out to rub against the dog's black & white coat, prompting a happy tail-thumping against the plaid blanket.
scene 1: golden gate park. it's morning and there are several rows of people performing tai chi. most of them are adult asians though there are also a couple of aging hippies and a 16-year old boy.
relax. breathe. let your arms float.
as he took his initial stance, he heard the words in his mind, but it wasn't his voice or that of his tai chi master that he heard.
head up. part the wild horse's mane to the left. exhale.
his sister's voice had set the tone. he felt the coarse hair of the mane in his fingers, his sister's warm breath against his ear. as he moved into the next form, he transcended his normal plane of awareness to a place that was both familiar and unkown to him. his body continued to flow from one form to the next.
grasping the swallow's tail. single whip. waving hands like clouds.
his consciousness, though, was elsewhere. it wasn't san francisco. it wasn't a place at all. his senses were void. he saw nothing, he smelled nothing, he felt nothing. his sister's voice was gone. but she was there. there was no evidence of her, but she was there. he knew it. twins had that connection. she was part of his world, and she was still with him.
scene 2: golden gate park. it's afternoon and an old man is playing chess against a 16-year old boy.
the boy opened by pushing queen's pawn forward two spaces. "rabbi ori, i was performing tai chi in the park this morning and...and i think i may have reached enlightenment."
the old rabbi raised a bushy grey eyebrow at his opponent, then moved his knight out into the field of play.
"did you, now? and what makes you think that, my young friend?
the boy paused. he was looking at the board, but his mind was on his experience that morning. when he had ended his forms, he was back in the normal, waking world. the presence of his twin sister had lingered, though. he found himself looking around to see if she was watching him. she wasn't there, though. nobody was.
he slid another pawn forward and said, "i was doing my forms, but it felt like my body was doing the movements on its own while my mind was...somewhere else. i don't know where. it was empty. nothingness, really, except for the feeling that my...that somebody i haven't see in a long time was there, and she was safe. i've never felt anything like that before. it was real, though. i swear it."
the rabbi nodded noncommittally, and pushed one of his pawns out into the fray, opening up a bishop and his queen. "in the eastern philosophies, reaching a state of enlightenment brings an end to suffering and an understanding of the complexities of the universe, no?"
the boy shrugged, and captured a pawn. "something like that, yeah."
the moves on the board seem to match the flow of the conversation: probing, unsure, deflecting, penetrating.
"so what mysteries did your enlightened mind unlock?"
"i don't know. i mean, i didn't solve any mysteries. i just...i just felt that this person was alive and safe, even though i have no real way of knowing."
"we've played many a game of chess, my young friend, and i've watched you here in the park. may i make an observation? yes?"
the boy nodded.
"you are lost. you exist in this world, but you are not part of it. the eastern philosophies, you are drawn to them because they would have you to turn away from the world and look inside yourself for answers. for them, the world is nothing but pain and suffering. it is something to ascend from, yes?"
another nod.
"for us jews, that is unthinkable. we live in our world. family and tradition, they are where we look for answers. the torah and talmud give us mitzvot--the commandments of god--to help us find our way in the world and make it a better place. we don't want to ascend from this world; we want to make this a better world, you see?"
another nod, but accompanied by a frown. "so, i didn't reach enlightenment?"
the old rabbi tilted his head to the side in a half-shrug. "meh, who knows? but we jews, we have a word called kavannah. do you know this word? no? well, it is a kind of enlightenment. it means directing one's heart toward heaven. oftentimes, we jews just go through the motions with our laws and prayers and rituals, doing them because we're supposed to, because we always have. sometimes, though, the rituals awaken sudden clarity inside of us and click! we understand. in that very moment, it all comes together. we feel the connection that we all have to god, and to each other, and to this world. that is kavannah. it's very zen, no?"
the boy looked impressed. "that's cool."
the old rabbi smiled. "i'm glad you think so, my young friend. now, maybe you experienced kavannah; maybe you did not. who knows? but my advice is to remember that connection you felt, the connection to that other person whom you loved, your connection to this world."
the boy nodded. "is that all, rabbi?"
"no, my young friend. you must also remember not to expose your king. checkmate."
scene 3: golden gate park. it's evening and a woman is sitting on a plaid blanket, eating a picnic dinner with an old shaggy dog and a 16-year old boy.
"danny, these sandwiches are delicious. where did you get them?"
"a jewish deli that rabbi ori told me about," the boy told her as he handed her a bottle of coke. "he said it's the best pastrami he's ever had."
"it's certainly the best i've ever had," the woman said. "i'm glad you thought to bring a bowl of yorick's regular food for him, though. i don't think the pastrami would be good for him and, besides, i don't want to share."
the boy said nothing, but reached over and rubbed the old dog's head affectionately. his aunt watched him, her eyes sad.
"you're remembering them, aren't you?"
he nodded. "it was six years ago today, you know."
"i know."
"annie's still alive."
"what?!" she wasn't prepared to hear that. "how do you know?"
"i don't know. i mean, i know it, but i don't know how i know it. i mean--" he took her hand. "aunt lucy, you've heard how twins have a special connection? they can speak their own language, finish each others thoughts?"
she smiled. "yes. your mother and i used to marvel at how you and annie used to talk gibberish to each other as toddlers. we couldn't understand a word you'd say, but you understood each other perfectly."
"we always had our own language. and we knew things about each other. like, i knew if she was sick, and she knew if i was lying about something, or hiding something. i knew if she had a bad dream, even when she was in the other room."
the woman looked closely at his face. "and you think you felt something today?"
the boy started petting the dog again. "yes. no. i mean, i realized something today. that connection is still there. it was always there. i just never paid attention to it. i guess...i guess it hurt too much. but today at tai chi, i found it again. if the connection is still there, then she's still alive. she's okay, aunt lucy. i know it. i know it."
the woman pulled him close. "i hope so, honey. i hope so."
the shaggy dog stood up and walked over to then and fell in between them, as if to join their embrace. the woman and boy laughed and each extended a hand out to rub against the dog's black & white coat, prompting a happy tail-thumping against the plaid blanket.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Snapshots: Faith Off
"father leo, do you believe in god?"
the portly priest gave his volunteer help a small smile. "it's a job requirement, i'm afraid. why do you ask, lily?"
the 16-year old girl didn't answer. she ran her feather duster around the inside pane of the church's stained glass window depicting jesus walking on water before asking another question. "can you serve the church without believing in god?"
a fair question, he thought, and he might have answered no in his more zealous novitiate days. now in his third decade as a parish priest, his own faith was as strong as ever but he was more accommodating about how faith manifests itself. lily herself was an interesting case study in faith. she truly loved the church, but seemed indifferent to The Church. she always volunteered to help pull weeds, dust, paint, file, or anything else that needed to be done. when not helping, she would often spend time around the parish reading books, doing homework, drawing, or simply talking to him. he didn't mind; he quite enjoyed her company. indeed, she had become a good friend, as odd as that may seem and as...unseemly...as that may be for a catholic priest.
however, as much time as she spent at church, she only went through the motions during mass, and on those rare occasions when she went to confession, she only confessed that it had been a long time since her last confession. there were many adjectives one could apply to lily dupree: intelligent, serious, beautiful, industrious, curious, generous. however, the one that father leo always thought of first was guarded. except for sophie and mack, she never let anybody too close, not even him. not even god, he suspected.
"you're serving the church now, lily. do you believe in god?"
"i don't know, father. sometimes, i'm not even sure i want to believe."
father leo felt he had just witnessed a miracle--lily dupree answered a direct question. her answer, as he would expect, was honest though it made him sad to hear a 16-year old say this. "why do you spend so much time here, lily? are you trying to find god?"
"no. you say that god exists everywhere. if that's true, i shouldn't have to try to find him, either at church or anywhere else."
he suppressed a grimace. he always had to be at the top of his game with her.
"most 16-year olds are with their friends on saturday nights or out on a date, not sweeping and dusting a moldy old church with their fat parish priest."
"you're as much my friend as anyone at school, and i have no interest in hanging out at the mall. as for boys," she shook her head. "they're so dull."
father leo laughed. "you have a point, there."
"and it's not a moldy old church!" she scolded him. "it's beautiful, and fascinating. houses and stores are built as rectangles, to maximize functional space within, with external visual aspects such as gables or columns added as an afterthought. here," she swung her arm around, "it's not about functional space. it's about inspiration. look how high the ceiling is! and the stories told in the stained glass windows! it's like being inside of a painting."
the priest smiled at her outburst of passion. "so you come here for inspiration! how are you inspired? do you want to be an architect?"
she didn't answer right away. she placed a finger on the window and began tracing a small crack in the stained glass. "i used to want to build things. i wanted to be an architect or engineer and design big things like skyscrapers or bridges. now...i'm more interested in preserving than creating. i want to study restoration architecture, especially church restoration." she tilted her head at the window. "and i'd like to learn how to make and repair stained glass windows, too. do you think i could work for the church as a restoration architect?"
father leo raised an eyebrow. lily was, uncharacteristically, revealing a lot about herself, though each answer generated even more questions. he hoped his luck (not that he believed in luck) would hold out and she'd continue to answer. "i think that is a fascinating and worthy field of study, lily, and there is certainly a demand. after all, the church has been building churches and missions and monasteries and convents for centuries. but, why is it important to you, especially if you don't believe in god, or even want to believe in god?"
she sat in a pew, frowning at the frayed edge of the thin cushion there. "a church represents more than spirituality, father. it also represents sanctuary. it's a place where you're always welcome and safe, no matter who you are, what you do, or what you believe. it's always here for you. yes, there is inspiration here, but there's also comfort, peace, and salvation. i want to preserve that."
he smiled at her choice of words. "and you believe you can do that, do you?"
"yes."
"i believe you can, too. now, let's go back to something you said said, earlier. god exists everywhere. that means he exists in you, too, lily. and if you believe in yourself, you believe in god."
she didn't buy it. "but you're the one who believes god exists inside me, so that only means that you believe in god."
he shrugged. "perhaps you're right; you're smarter than i am. let's put it another way. you believe in yourself, but you also believe that this simple building--or the concepts that this simple building represent--can inspire peace, salvation, and even spirituality. you have faith, lily. belief in god is a subset of that. your desire to serve a church built on faith is not inappropriate."
she gave him a mischievous grin. "does that mean i can be a priest?"
"i'm not getting into that with you again, young lady. now, back to work!"
the portly priest gave his volunteer help a small smile. "it's a job requirement, i'm afraid. why do you ask, lily?"
the 16-year old girl didn't answer. she ran her feather duster around the inside pane of the church's stained glass window depicting jesus walking on water before asking another question. "can you serve the church without believing in god?"
a fair question, he thought, and he might have answered no in his more zealous novitiate days. now in his third decade as a parish priest, his own faith was as strong as ever but he was more accommodating about how faith manifests itself. lily herself was an interesting case study in faith. she truly loved the church, but seemed indifferent to The Church. she always volunteered to help pull weeds, dust, paint, file, or anything else that needed to be done. when not helping, she would often spend time around the parish reading books, doing homework, drawing, or simply talking to him. he didn't mind; he quite enjoyed her company. indeed, she had become a good friend, as odd as that may seem and as...unseemly...as that may be for a catholic priest.
however, as much time as she spent at church, she only went through the motions during mass, and on those rare occasions when she went to confession, she only confessed that it had been a long time since her last confession. there were many adjectives one could apply to lily dupree: intelligent, serious, beautiful, industrious, curious, generous. however, the one that father leo always thought of first was guarded. except for sophie and mack, she never let anybody too close, not even him. not even god, he suspected.
"you're serving the church now, lily. do you believe in god?"
"i don't know, father. sometimes, i'm not even sure i want to believe."
father leo felt he had just witnessed a miracle--lily dupree answered a direct question. her answer, as he would expect, was honest though it made him sad to hear a 16-year old say this. "why do you spend so much time here, lily? are you trying to find god?"
"no. you say that god exists everywhere. if that's true, i shouldn't have to try to find him, either at church or anywhere else."
he suppressed a grimace. he always had to be at the top of his game with her.
"most 16-year olds are with their friends on saturday nights or out on a date, not sweeping and dusting a moldy old church with their fat parish priest."
"you're as much my friend as anyone at school, and i have no interest in hanging out at the mall. as for boys," she shook her head. "they're so dull."
father leo laughed. "you have a point, there."
"and it's not a moldy old church!" she scolded him. "it's beautiful, and fascinating. houses and stores are built as rectangles, to maximize functional space within, with external visual aspects such as gables or columns added as an afterthought. here," she swung her arm around, "it's not about functional space. it's about inspiration. look how high the ceiling is! and the stories told in the stained glass windows! it's like being inside of a painting."
the priest smiled at her outburst of passion. "so you come here for inspiration! how are you inspired? do you want to be an architect?"
she didn't answer right away. she placed a finger on the window and began tracing a small crack in the stained glass. "i used to want to build things. i wanted to be an architect or engineer and design big things like skyscrapers or bridges. now...i'm more interested in preserving than creating. i want to study restoration architecture, especially church restoration." she tilted her head at the window. "and i'd like to learn how to make and repair stained glass windows, too. do you think i could work for the church as a restoration architect?"
father leo raised an eyebrow. lily was, uncharacteristically, revealing a lot about herself, though each answer generated even more questions. he hoped his luck (not that he believed in luck) would hold out and she'd continue to answer. "i think that is a fascinating and worthy field of study, lily, and there is certainly a demand. after all, the church has been building churches and missions and monasteries and convents for centuries. but, why is it important to you, especially if you don't believe in god, or even want to believe in god?"
she sat in a pew, frowning at the frayed edge of the thin cushion there. "a church represents more than spirituality, father. it also represents sanctuary. it's a place where you're always welcome and safe, no matter who you are, what you do, or what you believe. it's always here for you. yes, there is inspiration here, but there's also comfort, peace, and salvation. i want to preserve that."
he smiled at her choice of words. "and you believe you can do that, do you?"
"yes."
"i believe you can, too. now, let's go back to something you said said, earlier. god exists everywhere. that means he exists in you, too, lily. and if you believe in yourself, you believe in god."
she didn't buy it. "but you're the one who believes god exists inside me, so that only means that you believe in god."
he shrugged. "perhaps you're right; you're smarter than i am. let's put it another way. you believe in yourself, but you also believe that this simple building--or the concepts that this simple building represent--can inspire peace, salvation, and even spirituality. you have faith, lily. belief in god is a subset of that. your desire to serve a church built on faith is not inappropriate."
she gave him a mischievous grin. "does that mean i can be a priest?"
"i'm not getting into that with you again, young lady. now, back to work!"
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Snapshots: Lurking Out My Back Door
"i wonder what's going on here?" the Mysterious Lurker wondered as she began lurking in a new story.
she wiped the sweat from her brow as she walked along a country road on an early june mississippi day, then stopped to watch a teenage girl with a ponytail chopping cotton. in an adjacent field, a shirtless young man with sun-bronzed skin was bailing hay.
the Lurker hastened for the shade under a live oak tree near a farmhouse. after a few minutes, a woman opened up the back door and called her laboring children in for dinner. the Lurker watched as they rushed into the house, not stopping to wipe their dirty feet.
"that's not right," the Lurker murmured to herself as she made an adjustment to the dialogue. when she walked in herself, she found them passing black-eyed peas and biscuits around the dinner table. she inhaled appreciatively, only half listening to the conversation until she realized they were talking about a suicide.
"nice use of local color," she nodded approvingly as the backstory unfolded. the brother's recollection of a prank that he and his friend had pulled on his sister made her frown, though. "ice down the back of a shirt isn't very memorable," she thought. "a frog! now that would be memorable!"
she made a couple of other minor revisions, then listened with interest as the mother related a story about the daughter and the victim. "holy shit!" her eyes went wide at the latest revelation. "i can't believe they'd throw something like that off a bridge!"
as she listened to the finale, she slumped in her seat, emotionally drained. "it's too much. i just...it's too much."
she went back to the couple on the bridge.
"i can't leave that in there," she decided. "what if...what if they were spotted throwing 'something' off that bridge, but nobody knows what it was?" she mused. "yes, much better. instead of being left emotionally devastated by the song, people will be left forever wondering about the mystery of what was thrown off the tallahatchie bridge!"
the Lurker gave a maniacal laugh, made the change, and danced away in search of another target.
she wiped the sweat from her brow as she walked along a country road on an early june mississippi day, then stopped to watch a teenage girl with a ponytail chopping cotton. in an adjacent field, a shirtless young man with sun-bronzed skin was bailing hay.
the Lurker hastened for the shade under a live oak tree near a farmhouse. after a few minutes, a woman opened up the back door and called her laboring children in for dinner. the Lurker watched as they rushed into the house, not stopping to wipe their dirty feet.
"that's not right," the Lurker murmured to herself as she made an adjustment to the dialogue. when she walked in herself, she found them passing black-eyed peas and biscuits around the dinner table. she inhaled appreciatively, only half listening to the conversation until she realized they were talking about a suicide.
"nice use of local color," she nodded approvingly as the backstory unfolded. the brother's recollection of a prank that he and his friend had pulled on his sister made her frown, though. "ice down the back of a shirt isn't very memorable," she thought. "a frog! now that would be memorable!"
she made a couple of other minor revisions, then listened with interest as the mother related a story about the daughter and the victim. "holy shit!" her eyes went wide at the latest revelation. "i can't believe they'd throw something like that off a bridge!"
as she listened to the finale, she slumped in her seat, emotionally drained. "it's too much. i just...it's too much."
she went back to the couple on the bridge.
"i can't leave that in there," she decided. "what if...what if they were spotted throwing 'something' off that bridge, but nobody knows what it was?" she mused. "yes, much better. instead of being left emotionally devastated by the song, people will be left forever wondering about the mystery of what was thrown off the tallahatchie bridge!"
the Lurker gave a maniacal laugh, made the change, and danced away in search of another target.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Snapshots: The Skewp on Sierra's Cravings
Music video star Sierra Charles was in Miami last week for the kick off of Coldplay's U.S. tour, and The Celebrity Skewp was there. Miss Charles, who first gained notoriety cage dancing in a ZZ Top video, has seen a resurgence in popularity thanks to her comedic performance in Coldplay's recent hit video "Cheeseburgers in Paradise." In the video, Miss Charles is seen eating cheeseburgers all over the tropics while engaging in such activities as jet skiing, parasailing and, yes, even dancing in a shark cage while the band performs the Jimmy Buffet classic.
Miss Charles may want to remain in the protective confines of her cage, however. The Skewp has learned that a new predator may be out to get the video vamp: Gwyneth Paltrow! Paltrow, the wife of Coldplay frontman Chris Martin, allegedly suspects that Miss Charles hungers for her husband rather than cheeseburgers. According to a long-time friend of Paltrow, the Oscar-winning actress for Shakespeare in Love did not appreciate the provocative way in which the ravenous bikini-clad Charles kept stealing Martin's half-eaten cheeseburgers in the video. "It was clear that [Charles] planned to steal Martin himself next," Paltrow's friend confided. When The Skewp pointed out that Miss Charles was simply carrying out the video director's instructions, Paltrow's friend scoffed. "Everyone knows that she's not a good enough actress to fake something like that!"
If true, this would not be the first time that Miss Charles has been linked romantically with an artist from one of her videos. Last year, The Skewp caught her eating waffles in a Los Angeles cafe with Enrique Iglesias while filming a video for his version of the Elvis Presley classic "Burning Love." Rumors that the video vixen is in talks to appear in a Aerosmith video will ensure that The Skewp will keep a close eye on whether this trend continues!
Miss Charles may want to remain in the protective confines of her cage, however. The Skewp has learned that a new predator may be out to get the video vamp: Gwyneth Paltrow! Paltrow, the wife of Coldplay frontman Chris Martin, allegedly suspects that Miss Charles hungers for her husband rather than cheeseburgers. According to a long-time friend of Paltrow, the Oscar-winning actress for Shakespeare in Love did not appreciate the provocative way in which the ravenous bikini-clad Charles kept stealing Martin's half-eaten cheeseburgers in the video. "It was clear that [Charles] planned to steal Martin himself next," Paltrow's friend confided. When The Skewp pointed out that Miss Charles was simply carrying out the video director's instructions, Paltrow's friend scoffed. "Everyone knows that she's not a good enough actress to fake something like that!"
If true, this would not be the first time that Miss Charles has been linked romantically with an artist from one of her videos. Last year, The Skewp caught her eating waffles in a Los Angeles cafe with Enrique Iglesias while filming a video for his version of the Elvis Presley classic "Burning Love." Rumors that the video vixen is in talks to appear in a Aerosmith video will ensure that The Skewp will keep a close eye on whether this trend continues!
Monday, May 30, 2011
Snapshots: Young Man River
"aunt sophie? do you know any more river stories?" lily asked while putting a new worm on her hook.
sophie dupree took a sip of cold water from her thermos and watched her niece cast a line out into the green water. lily wasn't really her niece, but she loved her like a daughter. the day that her husband, mack, brought the troubled girl home had been both the saddest and happiest day of her life. she was sitting on the front porch drinking iced tea when mack had pulled his big rig into the yard of their house outside new orleans. she smiled and waved when he climbed out of the cab, then frowned when he walked around to the passenger side. when he emerged a minute later carrying a small white girl in his strong black arms, she gasped.
"mack dupree! who is that? what happened?"
the girl stirred in his arms, looked around drowsily, and held on tightly to mack when she saw sophie running toward them. "uncle mack, where are we?"
"shhh, child. everything is okay. this is my home, and this is my wife sophie."
sophie watched the fear fade from the girl with mack's explanation. then, to her amazement, the girl jumped down and threw her arms around sophie's neck, crying her little heart out. sophie held her tight, listening to mack tell the story. when she asked for more details, the girl--lily as she was calling herself--became terrified and cried that she couldn't tell couldn't ever ever tell please don't make her tell please please she can never tell the bad man is still out there and will find her please don't make her tell!
they didn't make her tell. instead, they took her in and raised her as their own. since sophie herself was half-white, they claimed she was an orphaned cousin. mack's sister was a county clerk and helped with the paperwork. sophie had never known that she could love anybody as much as she loved that skinny little girl.
"child, that river has more stories than louisiana has flies," sophie told her as she swatted another one away from her face. "one time, there was a little girl like yourself fishing in the river, singing a song she learned in church. she had the prettiest voice you ever heard, and the river loved to hear her sing. he began to send all the fish in his water down to where she fished. that way, she would always catch fish and keep coming back to the river, and he would continue to hear her sing."
"that's so sweet!" lily exclaimed.
sophie shook her head. "no, child. it was selfish, selfish to send all the fish in the water to one person when so many other people relied on the river to put food on their tables and fill their bellies."
"oh, i didn't think of that," lily said. "did people go hungry?"
"oh yes, child. it was awful. and when the river's father--the sky--heard about it, he was furious!"
"what did he do?"
"why, he called up a storm and made a powerful twister come down that lifted her and her family up and blew them all the way to texas!"
"texas? where the oil wells are? that texas?"
sophie laughed. "yes, child, that texas. but they didn't wind up all the way out there where the oil wells are. they landed right down on galveston beach! she didn't have to fish in the river anymore 'cause the gulf of mexico had all the fish they needed. the river never heard her sing again."
"that's sad. but, did all those people still go hungry?"
"no, child. the river learned his lesson and never shirked his responsibilities again. now everybody gets their fair share of fish. if they keep an eye on their bobber," she added with a nod toward the water.
lily yelped as the rod jumped in her hand and the bobber went down into the water. she jerked upward on the rod, laughing excitedly as it bent. "i've got one, aunt sophie. i've got one!"
sophie grabbed the net and watched lily pull the rod back behind her. she finally pulled a large, grey catfish out of the water and sophie swiftly caught it in the net. "you surely did get one. a big one!"
lily watched sophie pry the hook free and drop the fish into the bucket. "thank you, mr. river, for providing our supper tonight!" she blew the river a kiss.
sophie laughed. "you're a good girl, lily belle dupree!"
sophie dupree took a sip of cold water from her thermos and watched her niece cast a line out into the green water. lily wasn't really her niece, but she loved her like a daughter. the day that her husband, mack, brought the troubled girl home had been both the saddest and happiest day of her life. she was sitting on the front porch drinking iced tea when mack had pulled his big rig into the yard of their house outside new orleans. she smiled and waved when he climbed out of the cab, then frowned when he walked around to the passenger side. when he emerged a minute later carrying a small white girl in his strong black arms, she gasped.
"mack dupree! who is that? what happened?"
the girl stirred in his arms, looked around drowsily, and held on tightly to mack when she saw sophie running toward them. "uncle mack, where are we?"
"shhh, child. everything is okay. this is my home, and this is my wife sophie."
sophie watched the fear fade from the girl with mack's explanation. then, to her amazement, the girl jumped down and threw her arms around sophie's neck, crying her little heart out. sophie held her tight, listening to mack tell the story. when she asked for more details, the girl--lily as she was calling herself--became terrified and cried that she couldn't tell couldn't ever ever tell please don't make her tell please please she can never tell the bad man is still out there and will find her please don't make her tell!
they didn't make her tell. instead, they took her in and raised her as their own. since sophie herself was half-white, they claimed she was an orphaned cousin. mack's sister was a county clerk and helped with the paperwork. sophie had never known that she could love anybody as much as she loved that skinny little girl.
"child, that river has more stories than louisiana has flies," sophie told her as she swatted another one away from her face. "one time, there was a little girl like yourself fishing in the river, singing a song she learned in church. she had the prettiest voice you ever heard, and the river loved to hear her sing. he began to send all the fish in his water down to where she fished. that way, she would always catch fish and keep coming back to the river, and he would continue to hear her sing."
"that's so sweet!" lily exclaimed.
sophie shook her head. "no, child. it was selfish, selfish to send all the fish in the water to one person when so many other people relied on the river to put food on their tables and fill their bellies."
"oh, i didn't think of that," lily said. "did people go hungry?"
"oh yes, child. it was awful. and when the river's father--the sky--heard about it, he was furious!"
"what did he do?"
"why, he called up a storm and made a powerful twister come down that lifted her and her family up and blew them all the way to texas!"
"texas? where the oil wells are? that texas?"
sophie laughed. "yes, child, that texas. but they didn't wind up all the way out there where the oil wells are. they landed right down on galveston beach! she didn't have to fish in the river anymore 'cause the gulf of mexico had all the fish they needed. the river never heard her sing again."
"that's sad. but, did all those people still go hungry?"
"no, child. the river learned his lesson and never shirked his responsibilities again. now everybody gets their fair share of fish. if they keep an eye on their bobber," she added with a nod toward the water.
lily yelped as the rod jumped in her hand and the bobber went down into the water. she jerked upward on the rod, laughing excitedly as it bent. "i've got one, aunt sophie. i've got one!"
sophie grabbed the net and watched lily pull the rod back behind her. she finally pulled a large, grey catfish out of the water and sophie swiftly caught it in the net. "you surely did get one. a big one!"
lily watched sophie pry the hook free and drop the fish into the bucket. "thank you, mr. river, for providing our supper tonight!" she blew the river a kiss.
sophie laughed. "you're a good girl, lily belle dupree!"
Monday, April 18, 2011
Snapshots: A Glimpse Into Linda Nulo's Past
her name was linda
her fav'rite color was blue
or was it purple?
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Snapshots: The Dupree Case
The fat man came into view again under the San Francisco streetlamp as another patch of fog drifted past like puffs of smoke from the devil's cigarette. I reached for my own pack of Marlboro Reds, not remembering that I had quit until my hand found an empty pocket. Damn. This city is hell on an ex-smoker.
I checked my watch. High noon. Right on time, my client emerged from the revolving door of the hotel across the street, wearing the red raincoat we'd agreed upon. She looked left, then walked right.
I checked my watch. High noon. Right on time, my client emerged from the revolving door of the hotel across the street, wearing the red raincoat we'd agreed upon. She looked left, then walked right.
My gaze shifted back to the fat man. Sure enough, he raised a camera and began snapping shots as my client moved down the sidewalk. After several snapshots, he walked in the same direction on the opposite side of the street at a surprisingly brisk pace. Ah, I understood. He was trying to get a comfortable distance in front so he could shoot her face.
With a camera.
I hoped.
I maintained a similar distance as I stalked the stalker. More snapshots. My client seemed oblivious, but she had spotted him the previous day and the day before that without letting on. She was good. He was, too. He didn't have much time to set up his shots, but I could tell that he was getting clear, unobstructed views.
But to what purpose? My client claimed not to know anybody in San Francisco, and few knew she was here. She hired me over the phone after the second straight day of stalking. I didn't detect fear or anxiety in her voice; she sounded wronged. He had intruded on her space and she wanted it back.
My client suddenly stepped inside a trattoria for lunch. The stalker waited outside for five minutes, then stepped inside. I swore and moved my Hush Puppies forward but he walked out before I could get there and rushed off in the opposite direction. I spared a quick glance inside. My client was buttering a slice of bread. Assured of her safety, I took off in pursuit of my quarry. He was going for the cable car. I jumped on just in time.
After a short ride, the fat man deboarded at Union Square and took off down Market Street. He stopped in front of a shop, unlocked the door, and entered. I looked at the sign: Gutman Studios. The door was unlocked and the light was on, so I walked in.
"Can I help you?" The fat man looked up from a desk where he was connecting his camera to a computer.
I glanced around. The artwork was mostly oils on canvas--cityscapes. "I saw you taking pictures earlier. Are these your work?" I gestured at the walls.
"Yes. You looking to buy?"
"What were you photographing earlier?"
He shrugged. "Sidewalks. People. Streetlife. Why do you ask?"
"People?" I inquired. "Or one particular person?"
He looked at me sharply, then sank into his chair with a sigh. "She saw me, didn't she?""You're kinda hard to miss. Why were you doing it?"
"Have you seen her? She's amazing! Look," he opened a file and pulled out some photos. "See how she dresses? How she holds herself? She looks like she's from the '40s, like she doesn't fit in with everyone else, but she does fit in with the city. She belongs and doesn't belong at the same time."
He was right. She walked through the city as if nobody else were there, as if it were hers alone. "She's like a ghost," I muttered.
"Right! That's it exactly. When I saw her the other day, I knew I had to do her."
I gave him a hard stare.
"No, man. I'm talking about painting. Come here." He pointed at a canvas. It was her, wearing a stylish coat and hat, walking down a busy sidewalk. She and the city were grayscale; the other people and cars were in color. It was far from finished but it was stunning.
"So, you don't know her? You're only taking her picture so you can paint her?"
"Yeah. I'm not a stalker. Okay, okay, I guess I was stalking her, but I only wanted her picture. I don't know her name and don't want to know it. I have all the pictures I need; I won't follow her anymore, okay?"
I reached an understanding with the fat man, then walked outside and rang up my client. We arranged to meet for coffee near her hotel.
She was already seated at a booth when I walked in. Once again, she stood out from the crowd. She belonged in another era. Glamorous. Nobody was glamorous anymore. She was. But there was something more this time. I felt like I knew her. I knew I had never seen her before; I would have remembered. Nevertheless, I couldn't shake the feeling.
"Ms. Dupree?"
She looked up. "Mr. Cardigan? Please, sit down."
I sat and ordered coffee and a scone from the waiter.
"You said that you had solved the case?"
"Yes, ma'am." I explained how the artist had been struck by her countenance.
"Countenance?" She smiled. "I didn't know anybody used that word anymore, Mr. Cardigan."
"It fits you. The fat man said you evoke another era and that's what he was trying to capture. I agree with him, if you don't mind my saying."
She sipped her coffee. "No, I don't mind. I even understand, I think."
My own coffee arrived. It was black, strong, and hot; the scone was flaky, fruity, and nutty. I tried not to read too much into that. "Do you? Can you explain?"
"I'm not sure I can. I've never lived in San Francisco, but I feel at home here. No, not at home. Alive, maybe."
"You don't feel alive other times?" I was curious.
"Not the way I do here. It's complicated." She paused. "Do you believe in past lives, Mr. Cardigan?"
"I never gave it much thought before. But today...maybe I do. You seem very familiar to me, though I know we've never met."
"No, we haven't. I would have remembered. I'm not sure that I believe in past lives, either. Or destiny. But I admit that I feel those forces at work when I'm in this city." She looked out the window. "It's a special place to me."
"It can continue to be," I assured her. "The fat man won't follow you again. He doesn't know your name or where you're from; in fact, he doesn't want to know. It reinforces the image of a ghost."
"A living ghost," she mused. "I like that. It captures how I feel in this city."
"Far more preferable to being a dead ghost," I agreed. "The food tastes much better."
She laughed. "I agree! I couldn't bear the thought of being in this city and not eating. Each meal is special."
"You should meet my friend Danny," I told her. "He is a purveyor of special meals."
"Maybe next time I'm in town," she stated. "I fly out tonight."
"Give me a ring; you have my number."
"And your PayPal account. You'll be paid in full for your services, plus a bonus."
"The bonus isn't necessary, Ms. Dupree. I took care to overcharge you in the first place."
She laughed. "I like you, Mr. Cardigan. I hope I am stalked again on my next visit."
"Let me know when you're coming and I'll make all the arrangements."
She smiled. "I'd like that. Goodbye, Mr. Cardigan."
"Goodbye."
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Snapshots: Tucker's Pain Song
(D) four score and seven lies a(C)go
you (G) told me that you (D) love me
that i'm your (C) man (G)
so i (D) went and bought a platinum quarter (C) carat
and got the (G) blessing from your (D) daddy
we made our (C) plans (G)
i was (D) waiting at the altar with your
(C) little brother (G) tommy standing (D) by me
as my best (C) man (G)
but your (C) daddy called and said that you'd run
(G) off with carl the local weather(D)man (C) (D) (C)
(D) four score and seven nights a(C)go
i wrote a (G) song about your (D) lovin'
it went gold (C) (G)
the (D) papers said it touched a nerve
it (C) was the biggest (G) record kenny (D) chesney
had ever (C) sold (G)
it's (D) played at every wedding from ken(C)tucky
to miz(G)zou to califor(D)nia
so i'm (C) told (G)
i (C) wish 'em well, i wish 'em luck
i (G) wish i had your body here to (D) hold (C) (D) (C)
(D) four score and seven drinks a(C)go
i was (G) thinking i'd for(D)get you
find someone (C) new (G)
(D) start another chapter in this
(C) misbegotten (G) story of an (D) songman
of talents (C) few (G)
but (D) every time i'd meet a girl she'd
(C) smile and shake her (G) head and say she's (D) sorry
like she (C) knew (G)
the (C) man you'd left behind was nothing
(G) but a hollow shell without a clue (D) (C) (D) (C)
(D) four score and seven prayers a(C)go
i was (G) looking for an (D) answer
it never (C) came (G)
(D) god the father, god the son, and
(C) god the holy (G) ghost weren't inte(D)rested
in casting (C) blame (G)
(D) every time i looked inside the
(C) dark place of my (G) mind i'd feel a (D) newfound
sense of (C) shame (G)
(C) one day i'll get over you but
(G) i'm not gonna ever be the same (D) (C) (D) (C) (D) (C) (D)
Friday, November 26, 2010
Snapshots: Academic Pursuits!
she was oblivious to the palpable thumping of every male heart in the ballroom as she strode across the floor.
"dr. charles! you look absolutely divine!"
foxy smiled at the dean of the anthropology department. "dr. dean, you're too kind. and the ballroom looks lovely! i'm so glad that we're hosting the annual conference this year. it's good publicity for the department and the school."
"dr. dean!"
the new voice was low, deep, and self-assured, and foxy found herself turning toward it the way a cobra obeys a snake charmer's flute.
"brett, my boy!" dr. dean reached out to embrace a tall young man with wavy, jet-black hair, steely grey eyes, and a noticeable scar running jaggedly from the outside corner of his left eye down toward the ear lobe. the scar enhanced rather than detracted from his primitive good looks; the broad shoulders and lean hips didn't hurt matters, either.
"dr. charles, allow me to introduce dr. brett cobalt. brett accompanied me to Papua New Guinea five years ago to help me study the wedding rituals of the aboriginal tribes there."
"enchanté," dr. cobalt bent to kiss foxy's hand but his eyes never left hers. "your work on immigrant influences on american culture is both fascinating and unprecedented."
despite being caught off-guard and more than a little breathless, foxy managed a winning smile and comeback. "but nowhere near as exciting as your recent research on the impact that illegal drug trading is having on south american farmers. very dangerous work, indeed!"
dr. cobalt ran a finger down his scar. "well, it certainly has its moments." he held out his hand. "shall we dance?"
"oh, we shall. we certainly shall!"
foxy's feet were as light as the butterflies in her stomach as the dashing dr. cobalt twirled her across the dance floor. she sensed the raw heat and strength that his body could barely contain. he was a man of action, yet also a distinguished scholar in her own field. he was her intellectual equal, but his physicality had no rival.
when the song ended, he noted, "you dance beautifully, dr. charles. would you join me for a glass of champagne?"
"i'd be delighted, dr. cobalt."
her knees weakened slightly as his hand gave hers a squeeze. she found a wall to lean against and compose herself while he walked off to find champagne. she smiled when he appeared again in front of her, a fluted glass of golden bubbles in each hand, when suddenly her arms were wrenched behind her!
"buenas noches, señor cobalt," a sinister voice behind her said.
cobalt's face hardened and his eyes gleamed like sharpened flint. foxy could sense the untamed animal inside him overtaking his scholarly veneer.
"let her go, carlos."
"why should i?" the sinister voice retorted. "your research exposed a very profitable operation for my family and caused my brother to be killed." foxy felt something cold against her face. "how is it you americans say? 'revenge is served with cold cuts?'"
foxy shook her head. "no, carlos. it's 'revenge is a dish best served cold.' it's very common for people who learn english as a second language to--"
"stop it! cierra la boca!"
cobalt took that moment to throw the champagne flutes at the sinister carlos, who took the bubbly full in the face as foxy, anticipating cobalt's move, threw herself to the side. cobalt rushed forward to grapple with the villain. they rolled back and forth across the floor, writhing and growling in a tangle of taught tendons and bloody, exposed flesh as each man had a hand on the knife and used it against the other alternatively. suddenly, carlos grinned and, releasing the knife, reached behind his back.
foxy screamed, "brett! he's got a gun!"
she saw the knife thrust down toward carlos' throat as the gun went off.
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"
she rushed forward and knelt beside cobalt, rolling him off of the lifeless carlos.
"no, please...." the red froth at cobalt's mouth matched that at the wound in his chest, and she knew there was nothing anybody could do.
his flinty eyes softened as he looked into her face. he brought his fingers up to her lips. she kissed them gently and he brought them back down to his own lips as the light faded from his eyes and his chest stopped moving.
dr. dean dropped down and placed a comforting arm around her shoulder. "are you okay, dr. charles?"
she nodded. "i am unharmed, dr. dean. but poor brett..."
the dean nodded. "yes, a tragedy in every sense of the word. a brilliant mind who quite literally gave his life in pursuit of greater understanding. he's an example for all of us to follow, young and old. come, let us let the authorities tend to their duties."
"let me in. i'm a doctor!" a woman with a black medical bag knelt down opposite foxy and placed her fingers against cobalt's neck. "he's still alive. here, place this over the wound!"
foxy applied the plastic sheet to the gaping chest wound and held it in place while the doctor attached strips of tape to three sides of the patch, leaving the fourth side to open.
"that's to let the bad air out, but it won't allow any bad air in," the doctor informed her. sure enough, she saw the open side flap open as cobalt exhaled, and flatten against his skin as he inhaled again.
"is he going to live?"
the doctor rolled him over on his side. "yes, i think he will. he's strong and we got to it pretty fast. now, clear the way for the paramedics."
as foxy stood to get out of the way, she realized with a blush that she seemed to have ripped her bodice somehow...
"dr. charles! you look absolutely divine!"
foxy smiled at the dean of the anthropology department. "dr. dean, you're too kind. and the ballroom looks lovely! i'm so glad that we're hosting the annual conference this year. it's good publicity for the department and the school."
"dr. dean!"
the new voice was low, deep, and self-assured, and foxy found herself turning toward it the way a cobra obeys a snake charmer's flute.
"brett, my boy!" dr. dean reached out to embrace a tall young man with wavy, jet-black hair, steely grey eyes, and a noticeable scar running jaggedly from the outside corner of his left eye down toward the ear lobe. the scar enhanced rather than detracted from his primitive good looks; the broad shoulders and lean hips didn't hurt matters, either.
"dr. charles, allow me to introduce dr. brett cobalt. brett accompanied me to Papua New Guinea five years ago to help me study the wedding rituals of the aboriginal tribes there."
"enchanté," dr. cobalt bent to kiss foxy's hand but his eyes never left hers. "your work on immigrant influences on american culture is both fascinating and unprecedented."
despite being caught off-guard and more than a little breathless, foxy managed a winning smile and comeback. "but nowhere near as exciting as your recent research on the impact that illegal drug trading is having on south american farmers. very dangerous work, indeed!"
dr. cobalt ran a finger down his scar. "well, it certainly has its moments." he held out his hand. "shall we dance?"
"oh, we shall. we certainly shall!"
foxy's feet were as light as the butterflies in her stomach as the dashing dr. cobalt twirled her across the dance floor. she sensed the raw heat and strength that his body could barely contain. he was a man of action, yet also a distinguished scholar in her own field. he was her intellectual equal, but his physicality had no rival.
when the song ended, he noted, "you dance beautifully, dr. charles. would you join me for a glass of champagne?"
"i'd be delighted, dr. cobalt."
her knees weakened slightly as his hand gave hers a squeeze. she found a wall to lean against and compose herself while he walked off to find champagne. she smiled when he appeared again in front of her, a fluted glass of golden bubbles in each hand, when suddenly her arms were wrenched behind her!
"buenas noches, señor cobalt," a sinister voice behind her said.
cobalt's face hardened and his eyes gleamed like sharpened flint. foxy could sense the untamed animal inside him overtaking his scholarly veneer.
"let her go, carlos."
"why should i?" the sinister voice retorted. "your research exposed a very profitable operation for my family and caused my brother to be killed." foxy felt something cold against her face. "how is it you americans say? 'revenge is served with cold cuts?'"
foxy shook her head. "no, carlos. it's 'revenge is a dish best served cold.' it's very common for people who learn english as a second language to--"
"stop it! cierra la boca!"
cobalt took that moment to throw the champagne flutes at the sinister carlos, who took the bubbly full in the face as foxy, anticipating cobalt's move, threw herself to the side. cobalt rushed forward to grapple with the villain. they rolled back and forth across the floor, writhing and growling in a tangle of taught tendons and bloody, exposed flesh as each man had a hand on the knife and used it against the other alternatively. suddenly, carlos grinned and, releasing the knife, reached behind his back.
foxy screamed, "brett! he's got a gun!"
she saw the knife thrust down toward carlos' throat as the gun went off.
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"
she rushed forward and knelt beside cobalt, rolling him off of the lifeless carlos.
"no, please...." the red froth at cobalt's mouth matched that at the wound in his chest, and she knew there was nothing anybody could do.
his flinty eyes softened as he looked into her face. he brought his fingers up to her lips. she kissed them gently and he brought them back down to his own lips as the light faded from his eyes and his chest stopped moving.
dr. dean dropped down and placed a comforting arm around her shoulder. "are you okay, dr. charles?"
she nodded. "i am unharmed, dr. dean. but poor brett..."
the dean nodded. "yes, a tragedy in every sense of the word. a brilliant mind who quite literally gave his life in pursuit of greater understanding. he's an example for all of us to follow, young and old. come, let us let the authorities tend to their duties."
"let me in. i'm a doctor!" a woman with a black medical bag knelt down opposite foxy and placed her fingers against cobalt's neck. "he's still alive. here, place this over the wound!"
foxy applied the plastic sheet to the gaping chest wound and held it in place while the doctor attached strips of tape to three sides of the patch, leaving the fourth side to open.
"that's to let the bad air out, but it won't allow any bad air in," the doctor informed her. sure enough, she saw the open side flap open as cobalt exhaled, and flatten against his skin as he inhaled again.
"is he going to live?"
the doctor rolled him over on his side. "yes, i think he will. he's strong and we got to it pretty fast. now, clear the way for the paramedics."
as foxy stood to get out of the way, she realized with a blush that she seemed to have ripped her bodice somehow...
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Snapshots: Meanwhile...
she woke with a shudder, hoping the wail of terror she had let out in her nightmare did not carry over into the real world.
it didn't.
she lay still at her end of the cab, giving no sign that she was awake. the roar of the semi-truck's engine and wheels as they sped across some random state was oddly comforting, as was the deep voice of the giant truck driver singing along with the music from the speakers.
she pulled the trucker's green, woolly army blanket around her closer. she knew it was still summer, but her young body felt as if it would never be warm again.
her slight movement drew a glance from the trucker. "you okay over there, little girl?"
no, she wasn't. she'd never be okay again. but she was alive. "yes, sir."
"would you like to listen to some different music? rock, or country music?"
"no, sir. i've never heard these songs, but i like listening to you sing them."
there was a touch of tenderness in his voice as he replied, "you're older than your years, aren't you, little girl? most of those songs are older than me."
she listened to the song:
i see trees of green
red roses, too
i see 'em bloom
for me and for you
and i think to myself
what a wonderful world...
the words broke her heart and made her smile at the same time. her mother had loved flowers. the First Day of Spring was an official holiday in their family. their mother would take them out of school and they would drive around all day planting flower seeds in random places: parks, roadsides, even houses that had "For Sale" signs in the yard. donnie would play fetch with yorick while she and their mother would place the seeds in the soil and pour some water from a plastic milk jug over the soil. it was their tradition; she didn't know anybody else who did this.
she resolved then and there that she would carry on her mother's tradition every First Day of Spring, no matter where she was. this sudden decision about her future made her sit up. she had a future. this was the first time since that terrible day that she had thought about the future. it had all been about how to survive the current moment, or missing her family. she had something to look forward to, now. a purpose.
"sir, where are we?"
"missouri," he told her, then added, "and i told you not to call me 'sir."
"i'm sorry, sir." she giggled. "sorry! what do i call you, then?"
he hmph'd. "i have a niece about your age who calls me 'uncle mack.' you can call me that, if you like."
"uncle mack," she tried it out. "i like that. you look like an uncle, although i've never had an uncle before."
he glanced at her. "since we're on the subject of names, i can't really continue to call you 'little girl,' little girl. want to give me yours now?"
she shook her head. "i can't. i can't let him find me again."
"who, little girl?"
"the bad man." she shivered as she recalled his face, evil even when lying there motionless, covered in blood as she made her escape. she wished he were dead but knew he wasn't. she may be only 10 years old, but she knew that evil like that couldn't be killed. he'd come looking for her again. and for donnie. she prayed that he'd never find donnie. she knew she couldn't look for donnie because that might lead the bad man to him.
the worry lines in the trucker's forehead creased even deeper. she had captured his heart and soul when he spied her behind the truck stop cafe, crying as she held her sneakers under a water faucet, trying to scrub blood off. when he knelt down and offered to help, she threw herself into his arms and sobbed uncontrollably into his chest. he could tell that she was in trouble--bad trouble--but she wouldn't tell him what it was, nor who she was, nor where she lived. when he mentioned the police, she had screamed and tried to run away from him. he saw the pain and terror in her face and just couldn't let her run away, so he promised to take care of her and not call the police. he took her to a Wal-Mart to buy some clean clothes, then they came back to the cafe and ate pancakes. when she begged him to take her far, far away, he couldn't say no to her. he still didn't know what to do, but he would not abandon her.
"well, if you're not going to use your real name, i guess you need to pick a new one."
she perked up. "i get to pick my own name?"
he shrugged. "you'd look pretty silly being called 'little girl' when you're 50 years old, wouldn't you?"
she laughed. "yes, that would be very silly!"
"so, what's it going to be? bertha?"
"yuck, no!"
"thelma?"
"no way!"
"well, what do you want to be called?"
she put her finger to her chin, thinking hard. "this is an important decision, isn't it?"
mack nodded. "very important. you're going to hear this name for the rest of your life, so you'd better like it."
"hmmm." she thought about her promise to herself to continue her mother's tradition of planting flowers. "what about...lily?"
mack grinned and started to sing:
who's got eyes that sparkle like a lily sprinkled with dew?
lily belle.
who's got lips that's fresh as autumn rain when summer is through?
lily belle...
lily clapped her hands in delight.
it didn't.
she lay still at her end of the cab, giving no sign that she was awake. the roar of the semi-truck's engine and wheels as they sped across some random state was oddly comforting, as was the deep voice of the giant truck driver singing along with the music from the speakers.
she pulled the trucker's green, woolly army blanket around her closer. she knew it was still summer, but her young body felt as if it would never be warm again.
her slight movement drew a glance from the trucker. "you okay over there, little girl?"
no, she wasn't. she'd never be okay again. but she was alive. "yes, sir."
"would you like to listen to some different music? rock, or country music?"
"no, sir. i've never heard these songs, but i like listening to you sing them."
there was a touch of tenderness in his voice as he replied, "you're older than your years, aren't you, little girl? most of those songs are older than me."
she listened to the song:
i see trees of green
red roses, too
i see 'em bloom
for me and for you
and i think to myself
what a wonderful world...
the words broke her heart and made her smile at the same time. her mother had loved flowers. the First Day of Spring was an official holiday in their family. their mother would take them out of school and they would drive around all day planting flower seeds in random places: parks, roadsides, even houses that had "For Sale" signs in the yard. donnie would play fetch with yorick while she and their mother would place the seeds in the soil and pour some water from a plastic milk jug over the soil. it was their tradition; she didn't know anybody else who did this.
she resolved then and there that she would carry on her mother's tradition every First Day of Spring, no matter where she was. this sudden decision about her future made her sit up. she had a future. this was the first time since that terrible day that she had thought about the future. it had all been about how to survive the current moment, or missing her family. she had something to look forward to, now. a purpose.
"sir, where are we?"
"missouri," he told her, then added, "and i told you not to call me 'sir."
"i'm sorry, sir." she giggled. "sorry! what do i call you, then?"
he hmph'd. "i have a niece about your age who calls me 'uncle mack.' you can call me that, if you like."
"uncle mack," she tried it out. "i like that. you look like an uncle, although i've never had an uncle before."
he glanced at her. "since we're on the subject of names, i can't really continue to call you 'little girl,' little girl. want to give me yours now?"
she shook her head. "i can't. i can't let him find me again."
"who, little girl?"
"the bad man." she shivered as she recalled his face, evil even when lying there motionless, covered in blood as she made her escape. she wished he were dead but knew he wasn't. she may be only 10 years old, but she knew that evil like that couldn't be killed. he'd come looking for her again. and for donnie. she prayed that he'd never find donnie. she knew she couldn't look for donnie because that might lead the bad man to him.
the worry lines in the trucker's forehead creased even deeper. she had captured his heart and soul when he spied her behind the truck stop cafe, crying as she held her sneakers under a water faucet, trying to scrub blood off. when he knelt down and offered to help, she threw herself into his arms and sobbed uncontrollably into his chest. he could tell that she was in trouble--bad trouble--but she wouldn't tell him what it was, nor who she was, nor where she lived. when he mentioned the police, she had screamed and tried to run away from him. he saw the pain and terror in her face and just couldn't let her run away, so he promised to take care of her and not call the police. he took her to a Wal-Mart to buy some clean clothes, then they came back to the cafe and ate pancakes. when she begged him to take her far, far away, he couldn't say no to her. he still didn't know what to do, but he would not abandon her.
"well, if you're not going to use your real name, i guess you need to pick a new one."
she perked up. "i get to pick my own name?"
he shrugged. "you'd look pretty silly being called 'little girl' when you're 50 years old, wouldn't you?"
she laughed. "yes, that would be very silly!"
"so, what's it going to be? bertha?"
"yuck, no!"
"thelma?"
"no way!"
"well, what do you want to be called?"
she put her finger to her chin, thinking hard. "this is an important decision, isn't it?"
mack nodded. "very important. you're going to hear this name for the rest of your life, so you'd better like it."
"hmmm." she thought about her promise to herself to continue her mother's tradition of planting flowers. "what about...lily?"
mack grinned and started to sing:
who's got eyes that sparkle like a lily sprinkled with dew?
lily belle.
who's got lips that's fresh as autumn rain when summer is through?
lily belle...
lily clapped her hands in delight.
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