Burgers & Tunes

Burgers & Tunes

All of it. Ills and evils. A street brawl workday. An aching lower back. A thousand tiny worries. Alleviated by the significant victory of arriving home safely, changing into casual clothes, powering on the stereo, and firing up the grill. No kettle tonight. Instead, a reward for the senses. An old-fashioned glass with perfectly formed ice, one and a half ounces of Tanqueray gin, two ounces of club soda, and a grapefruit wedge – like a good friend throwing their arm around my shoulder. A delight! I wish that friend had been here, lounging on a patio chair, helping connect the dots of the day.

In my newly minted ‘Adam Baldwin Cross Country Chin Up’ tee, I initiated the ritual. Carefully slipped the midnight shine of a vinyl record from its arty sheath, placed lovingly on the turntable, and let the needle descend. The perfect crackle. And then, music. Side one of Tragically Hip’s ‘Fully Completely’. With the soundtrack set, the grill set it to a desired heat, I moved to the kitchen.

From the icebox, I accumulated all the ingredients required for the perfect burger and a fresh corn salad with scallions and basil to have alongside. When ‘Courage (For Hugh MacLennan)’ faded into ‘Looking for A Place to Happen’ I was ready to make the main course. In a shallow bowl I carefully broke up the ground beef and minimal fill with my hands, careful not to overmix. I formed a generous patty, ¾ inch thick, made a sizeable depression in the middle with my thumb, seasoned with salt and pepper and moseyed to the barbeque. I dispensed colorful banter with neighbors nearby while I brushed my burger with oil and waited for the first side to turn golden brown and slightly charred. My Dad always told me, “Never press your patties when it’s grilling unless you want a bland burger. Pressing takes all of the fat and flavor out of the meat.”  I am now forever a frequent flipper instead. Gord sang me out of ‘At the Hundredth Meridian’ and into ‘Pigeon Camera’ when I popped inside to select the cheese. It is always a toss up between swiss, old cheddar, or Havarti. I opted for old cheddar in honour of my friend who I was deeply missing.  I even made their not-so-secret sauce to garnish – mayo, ketchup, relish and paprika all mixed in a small bowl to rest. My friend would have been pleased to see that added touch. And I made it solely because I knew it would make them happy. And, I like when my friends are happy. I like the things that connect us and keep us close.

After frequents flips of the sizzling chuck, I top with cheese and duck back inside to swap out the music. Side one of Tragically Hip for side two of Matt Mays’ ‘Twice Upon a Hell of a Time’ – unplugged, always my preferred dining vibe. When I arrived back to the barbeque, a tender, juicy, and flavorful burger awaited me. I brought it inside, nestled the cheesy patty in a warm brioche bun, brushed with my bud’s special sauce, and topped with smoky bacon, a beefy tomato slice and crisp lettuce. A side of the corn salad, a gin refill and all was right with the world. I sat to eat with a calm in my heart. Burgers and tunes, even alone, and especially after a long week, is where its at.

***

I made a comment on a bud’s Facebook post about his making burgers. He’s a mega music friend. To his post, I simply replied, “Burgers and tunes!”  He replied, “Sounds like a short story title.” I took it to heart and used it as a lazy Sunday writing exercise. It’s likely a bit of a bore but it felt good to use the creative side of my brain to churn out a little piece. Just to move my fingers. Some details fact, some details fiction. As with anything, yeah?

Happy Sunday!

In propinquity,

Nic

He Looks Busy for a Living

He Looks Busy for a Living

nevermind the permanent slump

the raspy ol’ fella in the bright red

sweatpants & gravy stained t-shirt

is the first to tell you that he looks

busy for a living – Earl of Oldtown

can afford the luxury for all those

golden years of the finger pickin’  

storytellin’ & vodka ginger sippin’

that first blue archtop guitar he got

straight outta the Sears Christmas

catalog was the instrument that led

him to write the kind of songs folks

would hang themselves over railings

& jump out of lazy row boats for a

closer listen, for a nip of devious wit

& hefty pragmatism only he could

deliver – all it took was a songbook

full of few chord songs with vivid

human tales to make you weep, to

make you laugh, to make you sing

nevermind the permanent slump

the croaky ol’ troubadour who

invited you onto his front porch

just to remind you that he is just

a regular Joe who sometimes sang

about things people don’t talk about

& when you reveal your accolades

he’ll just grin and say, “Aw shucks”

& direct your attention to a cold

glass of lemonade on a wobbly rail

***

I was terribly sad when I saw the news online that John Prine had been hospitalized due to Covid-19. And then, hopeful, when they said he was out of the woods, what relief! And then, I woke to the news he’d succumbed. My heart goes out to his family, his friends, his fellow musicians, music lovers all over the world. I put a few words together. It’s taken this long but sometimes that’s how it goes.

These are surreal times. I was looking forward to babies being born that I now can’t snuggle any time soon, live shows I may not be able to attend. I miss my friends and my family and coworkers in close proximity. I miss my life. I’m grateful I can still do my job from home, stationed at the kitchen table with a pesky cat friend and a snoring Mama. I’ve been home a month now and as far as the news tells us, it’ll be weeks more. I’m lonely but appreciative. And, I pray every single day my loved ones stay safe and healthy. And, we don’t lose any other treasures like we lost in John Prine.

In propinquity,

Nic

One Last Wish

One Last Wish

If only I could articulate it, my one last wish. I can hear everything they say, clear as day: there’s little hope she’ll wake up; she possesses little or no brain function … only a matter of time … we’ll re-evaluate in an hour. I refuse to believe that my body is a mere shell. I wish I could scream, “I’m in here! Listen to me! Don’t give up on me! Don’t let me die!” Alas, I cannot move a muscle. Or open my eyes. I am breathing with the aid of machines that hum and hiss and make me want to spit nails, because I am alive. I am not yet dead. I am imprisoned inside of myself and at this point, I cannot, for the life of me, locate the escape hatch.

It was a freak accident, or that’s how I remember it. I think. I took the bus downtown. There was a spring in my step. I was wearing a new scarf; the sun was shining directly on my happily upturned face. Finally, the Rembrandt exhibit, a mere block away! I’d been trying for weeks to find the time to take it in. Between work and painting myself, there was little time left for much else. I chastised myself. How could I not find the time to be in front of original Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn work? The wizard of the Dutch Golden Age of art, master of light and shadow, his tremendous legacy is the whole reason I wanted to try my own hand at living an authentic artistic life. I took generous steps, two at a time, skipped along a busy sidewalk crowded with curmudgeons – one of them, inadvertently jabbed me with a quick elbow. I felt myself falter. I shrieked in panic, falling quickly into oncoming traffic. I saw a horde of hands reach out to try and pull me back. For a split second I was gladdened, one hand clasped around my wrist, one split second of relief, and then, for some inexplicable reason, it let go. My heart rose in fear. According to the reports being discussed about and around me, that hand belonged to someone who, because they stopped to help so quickly, caused a human traffic jam behind them, and was forcefully struck, thwarting my almost-rescue. After that, for me – fade to black, never mind Rembrandt’s Self Portrait with Beret and Turned-Up Collar to ogle in awe. Laid vulnerable in a hospital bed, with the knowledge that at any given moment my loved ones would be encouraged to pull the plug, I couldn’t help but wonder, once I broke on through to the other side, if my artistic mentor would at the very least, show me the kind of mercy he’d never show himself in portrait. If he were to commit this sudden and unfortunate wreck to canvas, would I be treated to the exact pale I deserve? Or would he spare me the agony? Would you hear the death rattle in the brilliant strokes of his brush while he cloaked me in a non-descript hospital gown while my loved ones, weak in the knees, wailed bereft, at the tragic loss of me? It isn’t inconceivable. The Dutch masters tended to paint everyday ordinary life instead of sprawling biblical or military scenes commissioned by church or aristocracy. I am a plain girl in a grey room supposedly fighting for every breath – how much more ordinary can you get!?  But then, who the heck am I, to believe a master painter would find me a fitting subject. I’m arrogant in my current condition, one doth think, no? I say, a girl can dream. And, it’s a good dream – to be the subject of accessible, famous art. Even better than someone writing a song about you, which comes in at a close second.

It was my sweet mother, choking on her tears, knees buckling from underneath her, her tiny hands wringing mine, literally squeezing the life out of me. It took her in a million little pieces and a vital machine threatening to flatline, to comprehend. I was no longer in the bed. I was above, floating, hovering, witnessing my own demise. There I was, no longer inhabiting my body, my corporeal vessel, the flesh I dressed and cared for, close to thirty years, hovering above it all, making temporary contact with a water stained ceiling tile, sorting out what comes next. After a bit of time passed, I don’t know how long it was, my brother escorted my grief-stricken mother from the room. I watched them exit, almost in slow motion, move further and further away from me. And, suddenly I was alone with myself. I couldn’t help but wonder, while gazing upon the paleness of my usually rosy cheeks, who might be saved from my misfortune. The only function of the machines still drumming were to keep my organs viable. Would my dull blue eyes give someone the brilliant gift of sight? Would my young healthy heart, beat in another’s chest? Or maybe skin to soothe a burn victim. I donated it all. And then, what’s left, they’ll give to my family, in an ornate urn of some sort (I hope) so they might have a little closure. I feel deep guilt leaving them in such a quick and tragic way, but I didn’t advocate or expect such an early expiration. I had plans! First, my mother’s birthday dinner next week, where while seeing the exhibit I had hoped to acquire a unique present of some sort in the museum’s gift shop. I oversaw the gift and her cake. The gift I can’t do much about, but her cake is ordered and scheduled for delivery on the day. It’ll make her cry, posthumous confections from her dearly departed favorite daughter. I wish I could get word to my brother to intercept but I wanted it to be a surprise. A cake delicately decorated and airbrushed with memory photos of her life. Pecan crunch with butter cream icing, her favorite. What else? What other plans … oh! Istanbul. In five years. Or bust. I was also flirting with the idea of cutting my hair that has been halfway down my back for as long as I can remember to something daring, like a pixie cut or a short-inverted bob. Maybe give it a bold shock of color. I promised myself after a rather debilitating break-up that I’d live inside of every moment, push my crayons to shade outside the lines. Taste food not just chew it quickly to swallow it down. Relish the flavors and textures. I made a vow to myself to feel, to savor everything, take pause, enjoy. And now this.

My mother and brother were not yet settled in the car when I propositioned God. Asked for a favor. One last wish, the one I did not think I could articulate. Before I embark on whatever predestined plan was set for me, could I please just see one original Rembrandt? The request seemed trivial all things considered but given that I have no idea where I was going or what will transpire, the momentary joy of standing before an original painting by someone I deeply admire seemed like an even trade. You know what? It worked, albeit granted with an ironic twist which confirms God has a decent sense of humour or is outwardly arrogant. Or, perhaps a little of both.

I found myself, just as I was before the accident, agile and enthused with the same spring in my step, my favorite scarf on display and a happy face forward, studying a real live Rembrandt, Head of Christ. I don’t know where in the world I was. Berlin. Paris. Destination unknown. But, the painting. Breathtaking. 1648. The romantic head of Jesus, slightly inclined, long dark curls, short full beard, in a reddish-brown cloak. Noble and pensive. If my heart was still inside of my chest, it would have raced, fast and furious. His features are nothing to mistrust. They calmed my newly minted soul. Someone directly connected to Rembrandt’s piece was receptive to my prayer, it was no accident to arrive before this exact rendering. A stark reminder that in life, there is a reason we worship beautiful things.

***

I pecked at this wee piece for a little bit. It was a writing prompt, I executed it with a twist: write a scene or story that includes a character fulfilling their or someone else’s last wish. I started writing without even knowing where I was going with it. The idea just ran with me. It was another exercise just to keep my fingers moving, to maintain my meandered thinking. I don’t know if this is interesting or if anyone will enjoy it, but I liked writing it.

Any thoughts are welcome.

In propinquity,

Nic

Bingo Bags

Bingo Bags

Saturday night, a 1980s bingo hall.

The noxious cloud cover of cigarette smolder was already imminent when Tibs and Millie approached their usual Saturday night seats armed with bingo cards and over-sized over-the-shoulder purses teeming with colorful dabbers, ice cold Coke, and salty snacks. Gertie was already seated, cards organized in front of her, puffing Cameos, her sweaty can of Sprite in its right place.

“Early bird catches the worm, wha? Awful early, you shit the bed or something?” Tibs opened, plunking her wide arse down on the bright orange unstable chair.

Gertie’s lanky face coiled into an instant blush, “No, I ain’t shittin’ no beds. Cyril had darts and made a big friggin’ fuss about me always making him late, so he dropped me early to the bingo.”

Tibs chuckled, “In such a hurry you forgot to crack them curlers out, wha?”

Gertie touched her kerchiefed head in a panic, “Sufferin’ Moses, Andy!! Lucky my head is attached on this ol’ body or I mighta forgotten that too.”

Millie’s chair scraped loud on the grimy tiled floor scooting her chair in closer to the table with the might of her wide girth, “Why didn’t cha call me, coulda swung by and picked ya up. I had to get Tibs anyhow.”

Gertie waved her thin hand, “No matter, thought it best to come and save our seats since them there idiots tried to hork ‘em last week.” Gertie threw a thwarted nod to a motley crew several tables down.

Tibs scoffed, “Buncha turds. We’ve only been sittin’ here for wha, a million years!? Like to see ‘em try again.”

It’s as if the Head Turd heard Tibs’ jeer. She fixed her eyes on the trio and straightened her lean to move her faded orange mop and blotchy face toward them, “If it ain’t the Get Along Gang back for another week, hoardin’ the lucky seats.”

Not one for confrontation, Gertie’s face, looking smaller than it is with her head full of rollers, turned beet red. She looked away, taking a nervous drag off her menthol. Tibs, about to rise and meet the Head Turd’s antagonizing gaze was stopped by the gentle hand of Millie, who calmly regarded the intrusion, “Ain’t got nothing ta do with luck, you know that. It’s alll chance.”

Head Turd cleared her throat, “That so? Well, maybe one a’ ya might lend out that horseshoe ya got jammed up your collective arse. Give the rest of us a “chance” at winnin’ a god damn game once in a while.”

Millie offered a pregnant pause, “Ya … nah.”

            That sent Head Turd, agitated, shuffling back to her gaggle. Tibs let out a howl and high-fived Millie, “Hooligans ain’t takin’ no foolishness, wha! Ha!”

            Millie snorted, “That bunch there reminds me of them things the grandbabies like, Garbage Patch Kids. Spit right outta their mouth!”

Gertie shook her head and put her cigarette out in a clean ashtray, “Let’s play already, frig.”

Without a game having started, Tibs’ voice filled the smoke hall, “Bingo, wha!” her enthusiasm was met with a collective smatter of, “Shaddap.”

The trinity got busy at their specials, concentrating on the win. Gertie’s goal of the evening, as it was every Saturday night, was to fill her whole card and win the Bonanza. Tibs took it home the weekend before and the weekend before that, Millie won. So, Gertie was hoping the winning streak would continue with her tonight.

Tibs, aggressively dabbed her bingo books, dangerously close to winning a game by coloring in around the FREE asked, “We gettin’ donairs tonight if we win, wha?”

Millie confidently replied, “Ain’t if, Tibs. It’s when.”

Gertie turned up her nose, “Ain’t there anything else we can eat? Donairs give me some god-awful gas and I ain’t in no mood listen to all the goin’ on Cyril will do, especially after darts when he’s half frisky.”

Tibs cracked up, “Two of ya need separate bedrooms. Works out good for me ‘n’ Dickie. He snores like a sombitch and I need my beauty sleep. Plus, we gave up tryin’ ta knock boots. All we bang anymore is bellies.”

Gertie closed her eyes and shook her head, “Now ain’t that an appealin’ mental picture. Lord Christ, Tibs.”

Tibs shrugged with a hearty laugh, “Either that or D.I.V.O.R.C.E.”

“I like my single livin’,” Millie interjected, “I can pass gas all the live long day and ain’t no one gonna give me no guff.”

“Explains why that tabby cat of yours disappears for days on end. Can cats even hold their breath?”

The three friends laughed so hard half of their table missed the caller yell out, B5. Millie dabbed her book like a bat out of hell, “BINGO!” Shortly thereafter she was fanning herself with a fist full of twenty-dollar bills, “Gonna be an exxxxtra-large donair night tonight, ladies!” Tibs did her signature silly-arms-pumping happy chair dance while Gertie rolled her eyes internally knowing full well, she’d indulge despite her husband’s inevitable scorn. And, what the hell, she still had her rollers in. Cyril won’t have anything to do with those suckers wound tight on top of her pretty head.

During a break between games, the friends started to reminisce. Head Turd and her posse assaulted the canteen for the last of the greasy burgers, the trio stayed seated like they always did, for fear someone might steal their seats right out from under them, not that they were territorial or anything. Millie ripped open a bag of Ketchup chips and began, “I miss when Gertie’s Nan still came to the bingo with us. Eighty-four years old, sneakin’ nips of gin in her Sprite cans, remember that?”

Tibs, with a hunk of Oh Henry in her mouth said, “Oh, I miss me some Nanny Mona, she was a friggin’ hoot, wha. Little bugger was always walkin’ off with my pink dabbers, only ones she could see good.”

Gertie nodded, “Wasn’t so funny though when she finally lost all her hearin’ and yelled Bingo on the Bonanza and never had one god damn number that was called, remember that!?”

Millie’s eyes went wide, “How could ya forget that!? Lil ‘ol bitty near started a riot in the bingo hall! She was some sweet though.”

Tibs banged her meaty paw on the wobbly table in a fit of remembrance almost knocking the open Cokes over, “Remember that feller, stayed with the what’s-their-nuggets up the road there by the store!? Went and streaked bare arse naked right up through the bingo hall, in a Jesus snowstorm no less! From the front door right on down the back!”

Millie all but keeled over wiping tears from her eyes, wheezing, “Oh my gentle Jesus yes! Drunk as a god damn skunk he was. Ain’t ever gonna forget that pasty white flat-as-a-pancake arse.”

Gertie, characteristically, shook her head full of wonky curlers, “Didn’t have a whole bunch goin’ on in the front either.”

Tibs and Millie said in unison, “Bush whacker!”

The three friends laughed so hard the caller sternly requested, in the microphone, they simmer down. This, to be clear, was not an isolated incident. It was, however, enough to settle their kettles enough to focus on the task at hand, winning bingo.

It was a tense night of bingo. Millie won a few cards, Tibs won a few and now it was Gertie’s turn. Gertie and Head Turd were set for the Bonanza. Gertie, waiting on N46, Head Turd holding out for O75. Millie, completely out of character started to pray, the more the sweat gathered on Gertie’s top lip, the harder she implored to the good Lord Jesus for her friend to cash in even though she knew it unholy to muse on a sort of gamble.

The caller announced, “O74 …” 

Head Turd cursed, “Come awwwwwwn!”

The caller called out the next number, “B10 …” Head Turd growled, Gertie’s nervous frame started to rock back and forth.

The caller called out the next number, “N … 46 …”

Millie and Tibs called it at the same time, “BINGO!”

Head Turd wailed, “God dammit!”

Gertie, wide eyed, looked at her friends, “Cheese and crackers, did I just go and win the friggin’ Bonanza!?”

Tibs gave her friend a fat slap on her lean back, “Donairs gonna be on you now, wha?!”

Gertie laughed, “Heck sure, but we ain’t eatin’ them at my place! Rather Cyril didn’t know I got any extra in my pocket.”

Millie piped up, “Come on girls, let’s get us some food and scarf ‘er down at my place.”

Gertie nodded, “Done deal.”

Crowded around Millie’s single woman’s small kitchen table, the friends inhaled their meaty nibbles – thick slices of spiced beef on warm pita bread, topped with generous chunks of onion and tomato, then drizzled with the Donair’s signature sweet garlicy sauce which inevitably ended up dripping from their fingers and faces.

Tibs broke the snack silence, “Ain’t even sure what I love more, Donairs or eatin’ them with y’all.”

Millie concurred, “Don’t even taste the same if I ain’t eatin’ them with you guys.”

Gertie sipped a fresh Sprite, “All that stuff is true for sure, I just love winnin’ a wad of money. I ain’t gotta job like you two. Cyril only gives me enough enough allowance for the bingo.”

Tibs scoffed, wiping her chin with a napkin, “Well frig you too then, wha!”

Gertie rolled her eyes, “Don’t go twistin’ the words comin’ outta my mouth, Tibs. I’m just sayin’, all of it, goin’ to the Bingo, winnin’, havin’ donairs like this here, well, it’s what I most look forward to. ‘Cause, Millie ‘n’ you, well, you’re my best friends. I ain’t ever had friends like y’all before I moved here. I appreciate yas.”

Millie smiled, reached and gave Gertie’s shoulder a warm friendly rub in agreement. Tibs hung her head, “Well shit.”

Gertie replied, “It’s all good, Tibs. I know you ain’t got a lotta time for feelins and all. I ain’t never learned now to not be so damn sensitive.”

Tibs looked up at her friend, “Oh, ain’t that. I just dropped a pound a’ the sauce down in my titties. Pass me that there napkin will ya.”

***

I’ve been plucking away at this snapshot for what feels like eons. It isn’t meant to be long, more like, (as with everything these days), a writing exercise. Just to keep my imagination and my fingers moving. No pretensions here. A few chuckles maybe, but all in fun.

If you took a second to read, thank you. I hope you had fun.

In propinquity,

Nic

Luftmensch

Luftmensch

if he

had two cents to rub together

he wouldn’t know what to do

but ask him about his long list

of embellished yearnings and

witness his empty head rise up

and through the billowy clouds

            the songs he could sing

***

I thought about this word my whole morning commute. I noted it some time ago and happened upon it while packing things in my work bag. It was scratched on a wrinkled piece of paper. If it’d been left unattended at the bottom of my things, it may not have survived much longer in a receipt purge. I’m grateful to have found it. I’m grateful it helped me deliver this small verse. It felt good to put words together after attending two funerals in the span of a week. Being able to create something, even as miniscule as the above poem, did my heart good.

To increase my spirit, which has been lacking a great deal for some time it seems, I have set out on a new, slightly humorous piece of short fiction. I’m confident this little adventure will add levity to my days. It’s all scribble and notes for the moment but I shall endeavor to mold it into an enjoyable (I hope) read/escape. I may call on a few of you for select details!

Happy Monday.

In propinquity,

Nic

If I Were Brautigan

Brautigan, San Franciso 1965

If I Were Brautigan

            if I were

Richard Brautigan

I’d be penniless &

drunk on watermelon

                        sugar

in some warm giddy

bar w/ optimistically

wrecked poets

            if he had been

me

he’d admire some man &

the casual way he tipped

back a can of Coca Cola

before moseying toward

December

through an

impenetrable paisley fog

           

if I were

Richard Brautigan

I’d be published &

contented to succumb

in a haphazard bodega

dying of thirst

            & a ripe peach

in plain sight

***

A poem, my first in 2020, from a writing prompt. 

Here goes nothing, a new year. New words.

In propinquity,

Nic