Yee Haw

Well, here it is.  I've been fussing over this story for awhile and I'm confident enough now to share it.  The introduction of Tillie Wiegers and Mouse is a perfect way to kick off the month of April.  This prose thing is neat and I'm still enjoying the challenge.  No rest for the wicked though, there's another idea brewing so stay tuned.  

In the meantime, enjoy Yee Haw.

Yee Haw

Most people will tell you that Tillie Wiegers is nutty as a fruitcake but I admire her.  Most would try and impart on you the quirky and mannish looking fifty-something proprietor of my favorite used bookstore is a bit hard to get along with but to me she’s a searing spoke of sunlight. Between her wild wiry sunburnt hair, wide grey eyes, burly broad shoulders usually covered with a flannel shirt over a vintage band tee and a quaint conceit, she’s a fascinating caricature. Her glut of eccentricities outlines her boisterous persona, her appearance is jarring but I think she’s a marvel.  I’ve never met anyone quite like her.

The first time I wandered into Basket Case Books she was engaged in a heated discussion with a fidgety middle-aged business man paying for three used copies of Wuthering Heights.  Her husky speech thundered, “Say what you want grumpy puss but it makes a helluva lot more sense to say teethpaste than it does toothpaste.  No one just brushes one tooth or one tooth at a time?  Who in their right mind would coin a phrase so stupid? You!?  Did you invent toothpaste? I’ll tan your hide!” 

Tillie punched her stubby fingers into the keys of the register to make his change.  He grabbed his books tucked in a small brown paper bag emblazoned with the store’s stamp on each side. Red-faced, he wheezed, shaking his head and called out as he escaped her combative clutches, “You old hen, you are crazy as a bed bug!  I don’t even know why I bother talking to you.  Last time I’m spending my money here! LAST. TIME.”

Pleased with herself, she chomped down on the end of her blue Bic pen already full of generous bite marks and hiked herself up on the tall stool behind the counter and laughed, “You said that last time, acking fusshole.  See you next week!  I’ll be here!  By then I’ll have your special order in.”  She looked over at me as I thumbed through a well-worn cookbook and pretended not to eavesdrop.  She wasn’t bothered because she said to me, “That old man right there is what you call a prefab character.  Sparse, dull, not very exciting but he spends a five-ton truck-load of money on my books and records, plus it’s easy to rile him up.  He’s a trip.”

I didn’t open my mouth.  She scared the bejesus out of me.  I quaked in my boots for fear she’d start to pick on me but she broke the ice easily and asked, “Must be your first time in, Mouse? Ain’t never seen you in here before.” 

I nodded like an idiot, timid as could be and forced a smile but not a sound rose from my throat.

“Cat got your tongue or something?  I ain’t gonna bite you.”  A fat mackerel tabby cat with a peppered nose jumped onto the counter settling lazily across the ledger.  The animal startled me.

“Gr..great store you got here.  I love books.” I stuttered.

I love books?  I was an idiot.

“You need anything just give a holler.”  She gave the tabby a meaty paw on the striped noggin and continued, “Me and Cat Stevens will be re-organizing this here shipment of vinyl that just came in.  Some real good finds in this pile.”

I would be affectionately known as Mouse from then on.

While paying for my very first purchase, a ragged and well noted trade paperback copy of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, I inquired, “Where did the name Basket Case Books come from?”

“A Warren Zevon song.  Know him?  Or are you too young to know the greatness that is Warren Zevon?”  I shook my head yes but I had no idea who he was.  She popped my receipt inside the book, bagged it and started to sing not to me but at me with her throaty tone and a rascally glint in her eye,

“Dracula’s Daughter, Calamity Jane

smoke on the water, water on the brain

she’s pretty as a picture and totally crazed

my baby is a Basket Case.

If you hang around my joint long enough, you might hear it.”

The store itself is a masterpiece but from the outside you wouldn’t think so.  It is tucked in between Poky’s Laundromat and the Herb’s Deli in a lean strip mall on the local stretch of highway that leads out of town.  It is literally a stone’s throw away from the sign that says Thank you for visiting Dillon Hill Pop. 1,181 Please Drive Carefully.  It’s your run of the mill exit greeting, faded and unattended.  Basket Case Books looks grungy on approach but when you open the front door, step inside and hear the tiny bell ring to announce your entry, you have arrived at a voracious reader’s paradise.  There are so many books the shelves sag and beside them are books stacked to the ceiling.  They won’t support your weight should you get a sudden urge to climb and retrieve an item from higher up.  I tried it.  All I got was a bunged up hip and a bruised ego.  It’s a terrible mess but it’s easy to navigate your way through the inventory.  While dusting off dust jackets or record sleeves the lack of windows, objectionably dim lighting and the sounds of Dylan, Prine, Petty, Waits, Zevon and The Band on permanent rotation creates a comfortable, easy atmosphere for browsing and getting lost in thought.  Tillie Wiegers and her brass balls constructed of varying degrees of wisdom and pigheadedness may stand guard but the guts of the business she’s built is rooted in a pure unadulterated passion for the arts and a haven for collectors.

At first, I would duck into Basket Case once a month, that quickly turned into every few weeks.  Then I started going every other day after class until I was spending my lunch hours with Tillie and sometimes skipping whole afternoon blocks just to hang out. I felt like I was getting a far better education in the bookstore than I was at college.  We’d whittle the time away talking about all the town gossip, Herb’s long string of mistresses he keeps and then we’d talk about books and she would constantly try to broaden my horizons with recommended reading lists that included Lester Bangs and Adolus Huxley and sometimes she’d let me borrow records to listen to.  “You need to get yourself away from all that top 40 dung they play on the radio and listen to some real meaningful music.  I’m tellin’ you right now, the right soundtrack will change your life in ways you wouldn’t even believe.”

Everything Tillie ate was from Herb’s next door at the deli.  Considering she lived above her store in a small one bedroom apartment, if you could even call it that, was more like a storage closet with a shower, there was no real reason for her to stock a fridge when she spent the bulk of her time downstairs.  We sat one afternoon, me picking at my usual veggie wrap fretting over a school assignment while she bit into one of Herb’s specialty sandwiches with an Italian flare, the Herbinator.  Thick slices of salami, capicola, mortadella and roasted ham with mozzarella cheese, roma tomatoes, pickles, hot peppers, onions and in lieu of zesty Italian dressing, it oozed with mustard and on direct contact with the deli delight, the sharp yellow condiment dripped onto her t-shirt.  With a full mouth she spoke, “Never god damn well fails, can’t eat nothin’ without getting it all over my sheep teets.”  I laughed and she wiped mustard off of Levon Helm’s face.  “Small price to pay I guess when you’re stuffing dry-cured pork neck down your gob.  This stuff is dope. But you know what would taste good with this here sandwich?  Jack Daniels right outta the bottle.  Remind me to refill the flask would ya?”  She took another bite, this time stray onions fell from the fold of her sandwich onto the floor; Cat Stevens sauntered by to sniff them.

I was fretting over my writing assignment while we ate. I was distracted while Tillie yammered on about the absurdity of them Twlight kids in a movie based on Kerouac’s best work.  I was lost in thought but she wasn’t having any of it, “You ain’t listening to a blasted word I’m saying.  Don’t even know why you bother eating lunch in this here store, you’re always a million miles away.”

I snapped out of it, “I’m sorry, Tillie.  I’m having trouble with this assignment for school.”

“What the blazes are you working on so hard you’ve gone deaf to ignore the likes of me?”

“Oh, just a character outline for my creative writing class.  Our professor feels we aren’t creating characters that are vivid and interesting enough so we have been giving the task of outlining and describing the main character of our current work to flesh them out, to get to know them better. “

“I didn’t know you were taking a writing class.  So, what’s this here character like?  Test your outline on me, I’ll tell you the truth, if it’s dung or not.”  She stuffed the last bite of her lunch in her mouth.

“It’s about a female writer in her 50s.  I’m calling it Authoress, Catastrophe in a Teacup.  It’s … she’s … a dainty writer but something of an eccentric.”

“Yeah like me.”  She laughed harder than she needed to causing her to cough.  “I’m right dainty.”

“And eccentric.”  I smiled looking up from my notebook.

“Go on then, read me what you got.  I only have all bleedin’ day.”

I informed her, “It’s all point form so there’s no real flow to it yet.”

Tillie sat back and threw her feet up on the counter and crossed them.  “Shoot.”

“Ok, so Estrella Banks, mid 50’s is a delicate writer woman, radiant with eccentricities.”

“Which eccentricities?”  She asked while gathering the refuge from her lunch and tossing it in the trash.

“Let me see, impish sense of humor, bridled with strong moral obligations …”  I trailed off.

Tillie leered at me, “Do you even know her?  Strong moral obligations?  Like what?”

“Like fidelity and ingenuity and hygiene.”  I mourned that my statement might sound more like a question to her.

Tillie nodded and closed her eyes as if to picture her in her head, “Yeah, okay, go on.”

“Estrella is disinterested in the opinions and company of others, preferring her fictional characters to regular people.  She is highly intelligent with an intense curiosity and is prone to asking inappropriate questions for shock value and to keep people at bay.  Um … she has unusual eating habits …”

She peeked at me with one eye open, “What kind of unusual eating habits?” 

“Oh, like having to separate her foods on her plate so they don’t touch, eating items in alphabetical order, those sorts of things.”

“Well that’s just messed up.  How the hell does she eat salad or pizza?”

I shook my head and carried on, “She lives in a large house that is sparsely decorated, hates clutter except for her bookshelves.”

She nodded, “I hear that.”

I ignored her and carried on, “She’s a brightly dressed woman, lovely but kooky, demure but outspoken, contradiction of sorts.  She also has a exultant preoccupation with collecting pens, not biting them.” I teased,  “Eccentrics often do fixate on something like that.”

“If I didn’t know better I’d swear you were basing her on me.   Except you left out a penchant for midget porn and late nights hitting the hookah.”  She cracked herself up.

“You’re gross.” I threw a piece of bunched up paper at her playfully.

“That ain’t nothing, kiddo.”  She caught the ball and flung it back narrowly missing my left eye.  We laughed.

“Anyway, my goal is to build a really strong character that stands out.  An eccentric woman unlike anyone else, I want her story to be fascinating.”

“Yeah well, her story is only gonna be as interesting as she wants it to be.  You can’t fake her story or make it up.  She has to relay it to you.  If you force it, it’ll suck big fat hairy donkey balls.  You gotta trust Estrella before she’ll reveal herself to you and even more-so she has to trust you.  Don’t make shit up or pretend she is someone she isn’t or else she’ll piss all up in your Corn Flakes and eff up the tale.”

I hated when Tillie was right.  A few days later after working day and night on the story, I left her a copy on top of the ledger for her to read as she instructed me to do.  She said she’d read it and leave it for me in the store mailbox on the outside of the door so I could take in her notes the next morning before class.  She did and left a note attached to my manuscript she had decorated quite lovingly with a bright red pen.  The note read, Is that it!?!?!  You can’t end it there!  You are an asshole.  Write more.  Now.  Peace – Tillie Wiegers.

The more time I spent at Basket Case the more I came to know Tillie and the more she became curious about me.  Like I said, at first it was all small talk and chit chat, school work, town gossip, the customers and then she offered me a part time job.  I started working for her so she could run errands without having to close up and sometimes with her on Sunday mornings.  Naturally, things evolved on a personal level.

“So Mouse, tell me more about Freckles, this red-headed Ivy League boyfriend you got.   If you ask me, there’s nothing wrong with gingers, we are a spicy bunch.  I mean I’m a little more on the carroty side but it’s the same ball park.  One good thing about gingers, you never have to wonder whether or not the curtains match the carpet.   Nothing fake on a ginger.”

I wanted to die at her candor but I came to expect nothing less.  For a woman with sharp mental vigor, she talked like a red neck trucker.  I told her, “Benoit …”

“Benoit?!  What the flame thrower?! What’s his last name?”  Tillie asked flabbergasted.

I hesitated, “Fitzwalter.”

“Lord dying Jesus, at least he gets points for having a minor Shakespearian last name but that first one is a doozy.  Ok sorry, continue. Tell me more about Ben Wah Balls.”   

I started to feel nervous about the direction of our conversation but continued, “We met at a concert.” I showed her a photo on my phone taken of the two of us in our seats; an unfortunate self-portrait washed with bright flash and closed eyes, terribly unflattering but too precious a moment to delete.

Tillie leaned forward to study us.  Engrossed in the story she asked, “What concert?  This is important to me for obvious reasons.”

I regretted my admission, “John Mayer.”

Tillie winced and recoiled dramatically, “Mary, mother of God, man!  You just went down several notches in my book.  Remind me to fix you another mix of real music later.  Jumpin’ hairy Jesus. My heart can’t take that kind of agony, it ain’t strong enough.”  She drew in a deep breath and quickly blew it out. Now, keep going.  But keep in mind, my current state is really fuckin’ fragile.”

I took a deep breath and kept on, “His seat was next to mine.  We were both alone.  It’s awkward to go to a concert alone.  We were both so shy at first but then we started flirting without words.  It was the sweetest thing.”

“Two losers stag at a douche nozzle’s concert, that’s the sweeeetest thing I’ve ever heard.”  Tillie mocked me and rolled her eyes.

“We slowly rose out of our seats when ‘Your Body Is A Wonderland’ started and then turned into silly dancing machines during ‘Why Georgia’. We were laughing and holding hands.  It was an instant connection.  Maybe even love at first sight.”  As I said it I knew it sounded naïve but I meant every single word.

“I think I’m gonna hurl. Don’t tell me, afterwards you two shared an ice-cream float using the same gnarly straw and then you sucked face at the front door until your creepy neighbor spied and you had to go inside?”

It was now my turn to trip Tillie.  I said pointedly, “Actually no, we went back to his dorm room and had sex.”

Tillie’s eyes bulged and she half coughed, “You knocked boots?!  A John Mayer concert made you that electric in the pants that you boffed a complete stranger?  Maybe I should start listening to him.”

“I didn’t even know his name at the time.  It just happened that way.  To be truthful, I had never done anything like that before.”

She scoffed, maybe a little too much, “Hellllls belllllls, I believe that.”

“I was in the city visiting with my Dad and he was being so difficult about me wanting to come back here to live with my Mom and go to school.  Things in my life had become so maudlin and predictable.  I just outwardly rebelled.  I felt sick and excited all at the same time. It was a big deal for me.  After the sex, we had breakfast together, introduced ourselves and ever since we’ve been attached at the hip, he’s been coming out here to see me some evenings and weekends when he’s free.”

“Attached at the stick and starfish you mean.  When do I get to meet Ivy League anyway?”

I blushed, “You want to meet him?”

Tillie jeered, “Does Pinocchio have wooden balls?  ‘Course I do.”

I bowed in agreement, “Then you will, next time he visits.”

“Yee haw!  Give me a heads up and I’ll bring an extra stool down from upstairs he can sit his tight little academic buns on while I grill him about his intentions.”  She winked but I think deep down she was being serious.

Tillie got called away to help a groovy hipster looking for anything and everything she had on Allen Ginsberg.  I watched her shuffle around the store with him.  The contrast amused me.  A young boy waif in red skinny jeans and a large checked scarf wrapped around his neck that fashionably accented his leather jacket next to Tillie wearing her flannel shirt, rock t-shirt and camouflage cargo shorts with heavy socks and sneakers so worn in the toes curl up.  She was animated; talking with her hands, shaking her head, telling him God knows what.  That is when it occurred to me, under all of that gnarly attitude and eccentric behavior, she had a big heart and I wondered how she had used it during the years before I knew her.  No one goes through life unloved. I asked when the customer paid for his books and left.

Perched on my stool re-loading the stapler I opened up a dialogue I wasn’t sure would fly, “Now that I’ve gone on about Benoit it’s your turn to tell me about yourself.  Who did you love?”

Tillie tousled her wild hair as a knee jerk reaction to being put on the spot, avoided eye contact and habitually chewed on the pen that was hanging out of her mouth, “Nothing to tell here, Mouse.  Do I look like Danielle Steele to you?”  She held her flannel shirt open fully exposing her faded Eagles t-shirt.

“Surely you must love or have loved someone at some point in time in your life.”  I knew she was holding back by her lack of eye contact so I braved it and pressed her.  It’s true that there are questions to be asked that you only wished you did when it’s too late and sometimes by the time it’s too late you realize you have that many more.  I had this burning desire to let Tillie know someone wanted to know about her heart.

She sighed and reluctantly began, “Mousie, I grew up in the north end of Dillon Hill on Heartbreak Hill and it was just that for me, heartbreak.  Not a lotta boys wanna hop your scotch, if you know what I mean, when you’ve been beaten with the short end of the ugly stick. I was always a bit of a loner, didn’t play sports, didn’t go to dances, get invites to parties, I hung out in the library.  Books were my friends.”

I felt so bad for asking, “There must have been someone?”

“Oh, there was someone to be sure.  Rob ‘The Grave Digger’ Duggan.  I met him at the bus depot when I moved back here.  All six feet of him was slouched in one of them plastic chairs cleaning his fingernails with an X-Acto knife.  He wasn’t exactly lean and he wasn’t really all that pretty.  Had this here scar on the side of his face stretched all the way down under his earlobe and a head full of long black curly hair that went way down past his nipples.  So much hair I could hardly see his eyes.  At first I thought he was one of them long haired metal heads from some washed up 80s hair band.  The grungy leather jacket and dirty jeans being my clue but turns out he was a former middle weight boxing champion.”

“You said was? What happened? Did you two break up?”  I felt guilty.

She said flatly, “He croaked.  Massive heart attack.”

Tears rose to my eyes at her blunt delivery, “How long were you together?”

“I don’t know, what was it, five years and some I’d say.  He helped me get this here store going.  Two days after we opened, he dropped dead, right over there in that there nook.  Only seemed right to re-arrange my stock and put all the sports related crap there.  What do you call it? A memorial kinda.”  She nodded to the sports section.

I bolted up off of my stool, “He died in here!?”

“He ain’t Casper or nothing, doesn’t spook the store.”  She barked.

I held onto my chest in disbelief, “Tillie, that’s so terrible.  And you loved him.  He must have loved you too to help you with all this.” 

She pulled her wallet out of the back pocket of her cargo shorts, flung it open and showed me their photo.  There they were, Tillie and Rob standing side by side.  She stood awkwardly in his embrace squinting from the sun, Rob’s long hair covered his eyes but he was all smiles. “Love ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, kiddo.  Love is a four letter word.  It’s just an illusion and it’s fleeting.  Ain’t meant to last.”

“I think it does last and I truly believe that anything is possible.” I defended.

She quickly argued, “Yeah well anyone who believes nothing is impossible ain’t tried stapling pudding to a palm tree.”

“That is a terribly pessimistic take for someone so in love with literature and music.” I pushed.

“Suit yourself to think that but in my sad case, books and records never called me Quasimodo or a butch dyke.  They were always right there when I needed them and even when I didn’t need them.  It`s a certain loyalty you don`t get from flesh and blood, breathing, shitting, low life beings.  People suck.  Do you know why people read, Mouse?  Why they listen to music?  It ain’t for the sturdy stories or the sweet sounds, it’s for the company.  Plain and simple.  You think people read on a crowded bus for fun?  No, they read because even though they are in the middle of strangers’ stench, around people, they need something to keep them company, easiest place to be lonely is in a crowd.  Same with headphones, it’s to tune out all the crap and to be kept company by something soothing, by someone who gets them and will always deliver the goods. That’s how the lonely live and we are far better off than people trapped in loveless relationships based on unrealistic expectations.”

“I understand what you’re saying but I beg to differ, you had Rob. That was something real, he got you. He understood who you were and loved you for it.”

Tillie scanned the room, “Yeah, and where is he now? Gone and dug his own grave because he couldn’t keep off the hooch and the bacon. I loved him enough and Lord knows he loved me.  I’m god damn grateful for it all too to know I at least deserved love like everyone else.”

“Well of course you do. Everyone does.  You are too precious in your self-deprecating fog.  You do know that you are lovely, right?”

She cut her eyes at me and guffawed, “You do know I’m not a lesbian, right?”

I jabbed her in the arm, “You are impossible!”

“Listen, people who look like me would argue you that it ain’t all peaches and cream and happily ever afters.  I wouldn’t have known it without him.  My father didn’t care much for me and my Ma died soon as she squeezed me out.  Daddy didn’t want a daughter so he raised me like a boy.  That’s what I look like anyhow so it stuck I guess.  Didn’t take me long to high tail it off the old proverbial farm.  Went to live with my Ma’s sister, she was a dancer so I was on my own a good chunk.  When she was off working I’d be home listening to her records and reading her books.  I basically graduated from the school library to her flat to this here shop.  All the stuff in between was just survival. Couldn’t stand being anywhere else.  Except for the short period I quit my job washing dishes in a greasy spoon and went on tour with The Boss.   I sold t-shirts.”

“The Boss? As in …”

She pointed to the photo of herself behind the cash of her and Bruce.  The wall behind the register was amazing, littered with Polaroid shots of rock-stars and authors who stopped by the store coupled with old concert tickets and literary souvenirs. “Bruce god damn Springsteen.  Yep.  Best few months of my life, except for the time I had with Rob bumpin’ uglies like dogs in heat and spending my days here in the store.”

“I do suppose we can’t really call you a romantic.”  I popped a piece of gum in my mouth and offered one to Tillie.

She declined and said, “No, Rose-Colored Glasses, you could not.”

“I just have so many hopes and dreams.  Own my own business someday, to be married and live in a big house with a wrap-around porch and have tons of babies.  That’s all based in love and desire.”

“Those things float your boat, Mousie.  They don’t float everyone’s.  You’re dreaming of Prince Charming and a white picket fence. I wanted to be a diamond thief.  The best laid plans, strategically designed, well-prepared heists filled my days but then I’m fish out of water.  Most ladies dream of wearing diamonds on their wedding finger and around their dainty little necks, me, I long to steal ‘em and sell ‘em for a hefty payday.”  She changed her mind about the gum, stole a piece from my package and popped it into her mouth.

 

“You know what?  In so many ways, you remind me of Estrella, the writer in my story.”

“I know who she is dumb ass, I read the damn thing.  Maybe she reminds you a little bit of me. I’m sure people would call me an eccentric. I’ve been called lots of things to be sure but one of the nicer things would be an eccentric.”

“I gather most would think you unique.  But you’re wonderful just as you are.  That’s what makes you so likeable.”

“Aw shucks, Mouse. Likeable? You’re too much.” 

“You are always the source of such interesting stories, Tillie Wiegers.  You’ve had such an interesting life.”

“Have I?”  She grinned mischievously, “Or do I just know how to spin a good one? Had myself lots of time to practice.”

***

Happy rainy Easter Monday to those of you who are at home snuggled in while I remain at my work station until quitting time.

In propinquity,

Nic

Mining for Marcel Proust

I know it's only Wednesday but it's my Friday.  After work I'll enjoy a quiet dinner with some friends and then go home, mingle with my comforts and continue on with my current TV obsession, Downton Abbey.  Season 3 arrived in the mail yesterday.  I'm three episodes in already.  I try desperately to savour them but I simply cannot. I'm enthralled.  

I haven't been blogging much but I'm writing.  I am working on yet another short story called 'Yee Haw'.  On my first day off tomorrow I have planned an artist date for myself after running errands.  I'm going to park myself somewhere where there is coffee and scribble all over my sheets with a red pen.  I've also decided there needs to be a few more scenes so I'll have my thinking cap on besides.

Also, on a bright note, my dear friend and wordsmith Ru has joined me online!  She started a blog of her own and I can't WAIT to read every single word she writes.  She's magnificent and should be famous. 

A little poetry for a wet Wednesyday:

Mining for Marcel Proust

marcel proust

was a startling image

falling into an asthma attack

mining my languid prose for

great style & perception

valentin

louis

georges

eugene

marcel

proust

turned his back on my writing

deemed my carefully crafted pages

blatantly numbered pastiche

I discredited his false accusations

challenged him to a quick draw

gunfight outside of an ambient saloon

the medley of my poetic ingredients

coupled with the exactness of fame

warranted an integer of expressions

of defense & anthologized pardon

marcel proust

hurled a compendium of essays

after a licentious literary review

was published citing his work as

unconscious memories of the deaf

valentin

louis

georges

eugene

marcel

proust

invented everything

& revised nothing

all allegorical

& me

still 

excavating

for gold

**

All for now.  Almost quitting time.  Tea is almost gone.  Work is almost done.

In propinquity,
Nic

Winter Is In Us

Winter Is In Us

winter is in us

in our bones

our burning hearts

desire warmer days

it is in us

like cold fever

like dry language

sweating

spelling

poems left over

after the storm

about the

fall equinox

deep freeze

slippery sidewalk

blowing snow

winter is in us

in our bones

our yearning

for warmer days

**

I haven't been prolific with posting this month but I'm not worried.  I completed two short stories so the bulk of my energy went there.  I am taking a teeny breather, reading a little bit and mulling over a new story idea/character that's nagging.  There's no first line or title yet, just her name.  I look forward to my next adventure.

We are getting another dose of winter this evening and possibly another on Friday.  Hello Spring?  In like a lion, yes?  So, a wee poem about the longing for warmer days ahead.

Post again soon.

In propinquity,

Nic

Baby Duck

Baby Duck

“And now for your local forecast … a strong slow moving storm is battering the region with severe weather at this hour and is expected to last well into the early morning.  The storm will pack a wallop with possible hail, significant rainfall amounts, up to 50 millimeters are expected as well as periods of thunder and cloud to ground lightening. Hurricane force winds with gusts up to 96 miles per hour are also expected and could cause wide spread power outages.  Local officials are cautioning residents to stay inside unless it’s an emergency and to have their weather preparedness kits fully stocked and on hand.  Wind and rainfall warnings are in effect.  This is Sam Shaw and you’re listening to KJCW 95.5FM, High Bay Hills most trusted radio station.”

Charlie Roop was rolled up like a ball of yarn behind the chesterfield but he wasn’t one bit scared.  Charlie wasn’t afraid of anything especially a silly old storm but the violent wind gusts that howled through the windows and creaked among the shingles, the thunder that rattled incessantly and the bursts of blinding lightening arrested his mother Aggie.  Whenever there was a storm like this she paced the floor boards of their two bedroom farmhouse a half mile along Loki Almond Road and pulled her coat sweater tight around her middle as if to protect herself and when Charlie went out of sight she’d call to him, “Baby Duck!?  Where are you?” 

In his usual precocious way he’d pop out from behind a door or a piece of furniture that camouflaged him wielding a sword made of paper towel rolls or wearing an eye patch, “Right here, Mama.”

Aggie would grip her chest melodramatically and roll her eyes, “Stay where I can see you?”

For as long as Charlie could remember, in his short five years of being on this planet, his mother behaved in the exact same manner every single time a storm brewed.  Charlie loved them; they fired up his overactive imagination but not with worry or fear but with contemplations of adventure.  Often times, like today,  he would stand in the living room window, watching the wind thrash sheets of rain around and pretend to be at the helm of a troubled pirate ship or navigating a river raft down a tumultuous water way.  There were no limits to his appetite for ingenious explorations and was an expert at turning the most mundane things into excitement.  The fun only lasted until Aggie grouched at him to move away from the window for fear of flying debris.  “You won’t be satisfied until the barn door is torn off its hinges by the wind and comes right through that window!  Scuttle your butt.  Skedaddle.”

In front of the ice-cold window he was dressed in a crisp white captain’s hat with well-worn rubber boots up to his knees and his pajama pants bunched inside, he scissored a plastic straw between his fingers and pretended to smoke a cigarette.  Charlie sighed and took a long fake drag and shook his head.  He did what she asked but not without an incredulous rebuttal, “Holy macaroni, Mama. You need to cool your jets.  Sheesh.”  

“I’ll holy macaroni you alright.  Hustle.”  He constantly flustered her with his youthful quick wit but having him divert her attention was always an earnest blessing.

Aggie knows exactly where her crippling fear of storms came from, her Granny Roop.  After the incident, as a child the mere mention of a potential storm sent her into crying fits.  She Googled it and found that she suffered from what is called astraphobia, an atypical fear of stormy weather, in particular, thunder and lightning.  No matter how hard she tries to rationalize her fear, she can’t seem to quell her alarm when storm days loom.  The second the wind picked her heartbeat accelerated and she would start pacing, trembling, and sweating, close to having panic attacks complete with crying jags and extreme nausea.  This made even worse by living in an old refurbished country-style farmhouse just on the outskirts of town, the property peppered with trees and a handful of deteriorating barn structures.  She always thanked her lucky stars Charlie didn’t inherit it.  He was the most valiant child she’d ever known.

Aggie had the cordless phone resting between her right ear and shoulder, leaned into the corner of the kitchen counter, talking to her mother.  She could hear Charlie in the other room running around playing while the weather outside grew more and more unpleasant and her anxiety heightened.  Her voice shook as she spoke into the receiver, “The weather is so bad that it’s enough to drive wood splinters into brick.”

Her mother, non-plussed  at the other end of the line said, “Aggie, you need to get a hold of yourself.  It’s a just a little bit of wind and rain, child.  You are going to give yourself a heart attack one of these days, worrying about things you can’t control and about things that pose no real threat to you.  It’s just a storm, darling.  That’s no fear you have but rather a penchant for over-exaggerating.”

“I think its Gran’s fault I am like this to be honest.  You remember! When I was Charlie’s age, her dragging me to Great Aunt Norma Jean’s in the middle of the night and throwing me in the storm cellar.”

Her mother balked, “She did not throw you in the storm cellar!”

“Yes, she did!  With creepy cousin Arthur!  I was frozen with fear and fell asleep; when I woke up I was in there alone.  I had to lift that heavy cellar hatch myself; the wind kept slamming it shut down on my knuckles.  When I did get out I ran all the way home. The rain was coming down sideways in buckets and Old Man Robinson’s cow got struck by a big bolt of lightning.  It just fell right over in the field.”

“Old Man Robinson’s cow did not get struck by lightning. I think that was just your imagination getting the best of you.  You just need to saddle up and get over this, you’re a grown woman.  A storm is a storm is a storm, darling’.”

Before Aggie could deliver her affronted discourse a deafening clap of thunder sounded, forcing the power to go out.  Aggie screamed and Charlie stopped dead in his tracks, startled by the sounds coming from his mother than the cacophonous noises outside.  “It’s ok, Mama.  I have my flashlight.”  Charlie slid the big red button forward on the top and pointed the fluorescent light in Aggie’s direction.  He smiled, “See?” 

She swallowed a sob for Charlie’s sake and quickly wiped a tear from her eye, “Thank you, Charlie.  You’re so clever.” 

“Mama, can I hug you? I think you need a hug.”

“Of course you can and yes I do.  Come here.”  She stooped down and Charlie wrapped his little arms around her neck and squeezed her tight.

“You give the best hugs, Baby Duck.”  She kissed him on his rosy cheek, flushed from playing.  “What do you say we have a huddle?”

“Last one under the blanket is a rotten egg!”  Charlie sprinted toward the living room wiggling the stream of light as he ran and dove for his seat. 

“First one there is the stinky cheese!”  Aggie called out after him and they both laughed.

Aggie lit a slew of candles around the living room that flickered gently against the soft green walls then sat down with Charlie in one of the two over stuffed Edwardian chairs she upholstered herself with tapestry woven rugs and tucked her legs under her.  Charlie cuddled in and covered his mother’s lap with a generous length of a handmade quilt.  The storm raged outside filling the room with a subtle damp draft.

They sat quietly for a few minutes; Aggie tried desperately to ignore the moaning wind and opted to concentrate on the comfort of her son wedged into her side.  Charlie broke the silence, “Mama, why do you call me Baby Duck?”

Aggie looked down at the sweet face of her boy, his eyes were deep blue pools of kindness and his face was framed with thick blonde curls, “Because you are just as darling and precious as a brand new duck, you’re my baby.”

“I am not a baby, I am five years old.”  Aghast, Charlie curled his lips in disapproval and pointed to himself tapping the tip of his index finger into the middle of his chest.

“You’re a big brave boy now but you’re still my baby.  Baby ducks need a warm, safe place to live, to be fed and loved and protected. “

 “I guess.  We do live in a pretty nice house and it’s always toasty warm.  Plus you do make really yummy peanut butter sandwiches with squishy bananas and you love me this much.”  Charlie stretched his arms as far apart as he could to demonstrate. “That’s an awful lot.”

“I love you to the moon and back, just like it says in our favorite book.”  Aggie kissed his hair gently.

“Maybe I could be a bear instead of a duck but kind of not a baby one but an in between bear.”  Charlie twirled a loose piece of thread from the blanket around his finger as he talked.

“Why would you rather be a bear?” his mother asked.

“Because silly, if I was a bear I could shield you when storms come. I would just roar back at it and scare it back into the sky.  Or I could be a magician because then I could wave my magic wand and zap the scared right out of you!”  He motioned to wave an imaginary baton in front of her eyes and nodded deep in the day dream of it, “Then you’d be amazed.”

Aggie felt a wash of unconditional love and warmth come over her at the mere notion that her child wanted to come to her rescue in the face of an irrational fear.  “I am always amazed by you.”

Charlie asked his mother why she was afraid of thunder and lightning and storms, Aggie couldn’t formulate a good enough response.

“Mama, you know, just because there’s a storm now doesn’t mean there won’t be sunshine soon.  Granny Roop said you were made of fool’s gold for being so scared of them. “

“Granny Roop should mind her bees wax.” Aggie said, agitated her mother would say that to Charlie.

“I just don’t understand why you are such a scaredy cat.”  Charlie shrugged innocently.

“I don’t really understand it either.”  Aggie fibbed. Her voice trailed off and fixed her gaze on the 1960’s elephant lamp and a small army of vintage lead soldiers marching across the walnut end table top beside them.  She didn’t want to share her cellar story with Charlie to not impart her anxiety on him even though she knew he was made from stronger stock. 

“Stormy days are the best.  Just because we can’t go outside doesn’t mean we can’t have fun.  I like when I get to stay inside with you. We get to take lots of naps, snuggle with the candles on when the lights go out; we get to horse around and tell stories and eat junk food because there’s no electricity to cook anything.”

She tickled him under his chin and asked, “How did you get to be so smart?”

In a very matter of fact manner he said, “You.”  Aggie felt very put in her place. “You always tell me that sometimes bad things happen for good reasons. God makes it storm so he can empty all the clouds and clear the sky so it will be nice outside.  That’s what my friend Lily Weaver from school told me at church on Sunday when Pastor Gary said there was one coming.  Makes sense to me.”

For most of the storm the thunder sounded in a long low rumble but a sharp loud crack rattled the house, the loudest clap either of them had ever heard and they both screeched in unison.  Aggie’s heart pounded in her chest against Charlie’s face that burrowed in from the earsplitting scare.  Shivering, she squeezed Charlie, “Are you ok, Baby Duck?”

He looked up at his mother, eyes widened in shock.  “Cheese and rice that was loud!  I could hear the lid on the cookie jar make that funny little jingle sound like when neighbor Silas drives the tractor too close to the front porch.  Are you ok, Mama?”  Aggie nodded nervously and forced herself to glance at the living room window.  Charlie laughed fretfully and said, “I almost pooped in my pants!”

Aggie and Charlie stayed curled up together in their chair until almost midnight.  They tried to play I Spy With My Little Eye but it was getting too hard to see with the candles burnt down so low.  Aggie’s anxiety started to wane a little as the weather subsided.  While having a little bed-night snack of cheese and red seedless grapes Charlie made a confession to his mother, “I know you always tell me I if I eat my broccoli even though it’s the yuckiest food in the whole wide world that I will grow up big and strong.  I believe you when you tell me that except I really hate broccoli and I hide it in my milk glass and pretend I eat it so you won’t get mad.  Sometimes I even hide it in my napkin and flush it down the toilet.” 

“Is that right?”  Aggie arched her eyebrow dying to laugh at him but kept a straight maternal face.

Charlie answered her worriedly, “Yes, Pastor Gary said that lying is bad and when you lie to your Mama it makes your ears double in size. I felt really bad and I like my ears so I thought I better tell you.” 

Aggie smiled at the irony of Pastor Gary’s comments, “I am very proud of you for being honest, Baby Duck.  How about this, because you told me the truth I won’t make you eat broccoli anymore but you will have to have a different kind of vegetable.  Something you like. How does that sound?!”

“Jellybeans!”  Charlie exclaimed jokingly.

“I’ll jellybeans you, silly rabbit.  Ok, time for bed.  It’s late and we don’t want to miss the Sand Man.”

“I better sleep in with you tonight just in case you get more scared. Just in case.”  Charlie moved lazily from his mother’s side, shuffled toward the bathroom, kicked off his rubber boots and brushed his teeth. 

Aggie checked all the windows and doors and peeked outside through the side door window.  She strained to see in the dark. The barn looked like it was doing good enough but the tree next to it was bent almost in an arch as if it was made of rubber.  She shivered and scuffed her slippers all the way to her bedroom just in case there were any stray toys littering the floor.  Charlie was already curled up on the pillow, “All tucked in, Mama.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked.

“I already took my rubber boots off.”  Charlie had a bad habit of forgetting to take them off before bed.

“Did you say your prayers before you tucked in?”  Aggie straightened out the opening of the blankets he haphazardly made for her.

Charlie bolted up, “Oops.  I forgot.  I’m pretty sleepy.”

“A quick prayer then off to dreamland we go, ok?”  Aggie and Charlie knelt by the side of the bed and pressed their hands into prayer position, closed their eyes and bowed their heads.

“Our Father who does art in Heaven … “ Charlie started his prayers this way every night and Aggie never had the heart to correct him.  He continued, “Dear God, before I say anything else I want to say sorry for what happened with the broccoli and I promise not to ever do it again.  Also, I really hope that Lily Weaver will forgive me for calling her a cuckoo bird. She said Jesus’ Mama Mary was married to Verge.  I tried to tell her that her husband was Joseph and that she was the Virgin Mary.  She gets mixed up sometimes.  Anyway, can you make sure Mama has a good sleep and happy dreams tonight after that crazy storm?  And maybe even help her not be scared anymore?  It makes me really sad when she’s afraid but at least I can protect her.  I hope you got the sky all cleared up so I can ride my bike tomorrow.  Please bless my favorite friends Pudge and Jacob, my new baby cousin Amelia, Granny Roop and Winston, her dog.  And most of all, bless my Mama.  I’m glad she’s my Mama because she’s fun. She takes really good care of me and loves me so much.  I love her so much too.  And now that my Daddy is in Heaven with you maybe he can tell you how to help Mama not be scared of the storms?  He wasn’t scared of anything, just like me.  He was a lot like Superman.  And maybe you could give him a hug from us too? We miss him a whole bunch.   Thank you for listening, my Lord. Amen.”  Charlie lifted his head, yawned and stretched oblivious that Aggie could hear every word he spoke because Lily Weavers told him one morning in Sunday school that even though you say your prayers out loud, your parents can’t hear you because you’re talking to God. “I’m soooo sleepy.” Charlie flopped down on his pillow and snuggled in.

Aggie tucked him in and gave him a kiss goodnight.  Charlie was snoring before she was settled in herself.  She watched her boy as he slept and whispered to herself, “Thank God for you, Baby Duck.  You are my hero.”

**

This makes short story number five in as many months!  Go, Nic!  I was surprised at how fast this one came to me after fighting with 'Half Windsor Knot' for so long.  The funny thing is, when I was combing through what I had finished up to last night, I was sitting in bed with my sheets and a red pen when this new character kept nudging me.  Whoa, Nelly.  I literally had to shush her.  She seems a little pushy and I think she will prove to be quite a handful.

I enjoyed writing 'Baby Duck'.  I didn't know anything about Charlie's Dad until he was saying his prayers.  That took me quite by surprise.  I had been thinking as I was writing about him, where he was but I trusted that if it was something I needed to know he/they would tell me and they did.  I choked up writing that bit.

I will admit, I am a little bit nervous about this writing marathon.  My fear is that whenever I am blocked it might kill me.  The floodgates opened when Mr. Joseph William Whistle called on me and it's been full steam ahead ever since.  I am the eternal optimist though and I know it isn't over until the fat lady sings.  She's too busy eating bagels to bother with me right now.  And for that I am grateful.

The Roops were a delight and I hope you enjoy.

In propinquity,
Nic

Half Windsor Knot

I’ve been working on this story for some time.  I waffled between tenses and asked for feedback way too early and succumbed to mixed reviews for various reasons.  Yes, I know this story, like some of the others, end on a note where you may want more and there may be a time when that happens but for now, Greyson’s story ends where it ends.  I am pleased to present him to you now as he is, slightly edited but not really.  I thought perhaps if I released him something else might evolve for him.  Does that sound silly?

Gosh, it’s March 11^th and this is only my second entry!?  What have I been doing?  I started work on another story (oy vey!) but something a little lighter and I look forward to its progression.  For now, here’s ‘Half Windsor Knot’ – the one character in all of the stories I’ve worked on thus far that made me a little crazy.

**

Half Windsor Knot

By all assertions, Greyson Anders Bennett is a perfect example of masculine composition and sophistication.  It is impossible for anyone to accuse him of being cold in appearance.  Today for example, Greyson impresses himself onto the world fully decorated in designer flare.  A crisp white button down shirt, dark wash denim jeans accented by a brown leather Ferragamo belt, sandy brown wool sports coat and the crown jewel, his tie.  Always with a tie and always Puccini, this ensemble is accented by an elegant cornflower blue paisley print.  He likes paisley for its time-honored Indian pattern, 16^th century, the image of the lotus leaf symbolizes good health and renaissance and Greyson would like the world to believe he is the embodiment of each.  On occasion, depending on the shirt he’ll complete his tie in a Pratt Knot but most days he opts for the classic and trusted Half Windsor Knot.  Greyson prefers a semi-casual slant to his fashion.  Not too polished but just enough style to entice others to stare.  This made certain lately by his footwear, taking a liking to UGG chukka boots, made of full grain leather with rich oil finished tops, lace-up style, imported from Australia.

Underneath the premium quality thread count of his attire, Greyson’s physique is sculpted to perfection; chiseled abs, flat stomach, perfect pecs, strong legs, broad shoulders, circumcised penis.  A form glazed in a flawless tan and an unadulterated sheen of arrogance, the kind where when a man knows he’s stunning and likes for you to know how painfully aware of it he is.  His dark hair, strong square jaw and piercing hazel eyes are often the subject of conversation of those whose own eyes fall upon him.  He is a wanted man.

Greyson makes a handsome wage, a heavy hitter at the top of his specialized field. With no set hours, no office to check into and an allusive superior whom he rarely sees, it’s an ideal set-up for a man who doesn’t like being told what to do, when and/or where.  He is connected, practiced and prosperous.  His vocation allows him to consort with a long line of beautiful women from all over the world and because he is so proficient, he is in high demand.  Greyson Anders Bennett is a high class male escort.

Stepping off of the snow encrusted city sidewalk, Greyson ducks into his favored men’s fashion boutique.  He moves casually around the pristine chrome racks, judiciously perusing the merchandise.  After an all-nighter which included a champagne breakfast with a regular client, he felt like spending a little bit of his hard earned money on his way home.  As he enters, the fashion-forward clerk standing guard at the door receives him feeling the winter chill from his sports coat, “Good morning, Sir.  Little brisk out there, do come in and warm yourself.”  He flashes a funny grin and bounces on his heels, “How may I assist you today?”  The clerk, tall and pronounced, sleek and stylish, sports an indigo blue suit, with peak lapels, a blue and white gingham check shirt and a solid indigo blue tie with a flat tip.  His ensemble was heightened by bold red shoes and a Dali moustache, thin and waxed, styled so that each of the outer tips point upward on either side of his nose, his jet black hair was slicked back and curled around his ivory ears, giving the impression he may be long lost kin to the zany artist himself or perhaps an oblivious doppelgänger . 

Greyson’s eyebrow arched at the eager atypical character with an air of antipathy, “Just browsing.” He utters flatly, continuing to look through the mirage of trousers feeling Dali catalogue his every step, anxious to pounce.

“I couldn’t help but notice your tie, Sir.  If I may say so, it is just gorgeous and a Puccini man, spectacular.  Could I interest you in a wee peek at our new arrivals, just in this morning?  There are some truly divine items that I am sure you’ll appreciate.” 

Greyson feels a pang of agitation move through him but indulges him his offer, “Knock yourself out.”

Sprinting ahead, the clerk who introduces himself as Henri, takes center stage, “Here we have an exquisite Jacquard weave tie pairing tiny white polka dots against a dramatic sapphire background; modern without the flash, excellent for any fashionable man’s wardrobe.”  Henri displays the tie draped across his arm, checking to see if Greyson is paying attention.  He was but senses tension building in his jaw.  “I also have this fabulous tie, clean and minimalist, Chevron patterned in cool shades of marine blue and silver.  This one couples nicely with our new line of navy blue cashmere sweaters, both in button down and V-neck.”  There was still little reaction from his customer.  “Oh! And our accessories are all new.  Hats, scarves, belts, wallets, pocket squares, cufflinks …” Henri pointed quickly as he inventories all of the new pieces.

Greyson dismisses him with a wave of his hand and says, “Wrap up the Chevron.  And a cashmere sweater, large.  V-neck.”

“Excellent choices, Sir.  Will these be for a special occasion?” Henri inquires carefully ringing in and packaging Greyson’s purchases.

“A meeting.”

Henri titters, comes around from behind the counter with the parcel proudly placing it in Greyson’s hand, “Your receipt is inside, Mr. Bennett.  It was such a pleasure doing business with you, do visit again soon. Enjoy that meeting.”  Henri flashes a flirtatious wink.

At home, Greyson prepares for his evening with Mariana Dillinger, his most regular client.  Home, a two level meticulously designed condo in a restored Gothic Revival-style Victorian.  Gourmet kitchen with granite counter tops, stainless steel appliances, vaulted master bedroom, marble en-suite with a jetted tub and free standing closet, heated floors throughout with antique cherry finish offset with custom crown molding.  The amenities are classic and decadent; he has two fireplaces to laze next to, a separate two car garage and access to an indoor heated swimming pool.  Flooded with south east morning light, nestled in a quiet community, Greyson takes sanctuary in his surroundings to offset the fast-paced nocturnal lifestyle he’s become accustomed to.   The 67” state of the art plasma TV occupying one whole wall of the living room was at one time his favorite thing.  He spent a great deal of time with his best friend Boz in front of it.  Friends since grade school, they drifted apart soon after Boz married his long-time girlfriend Selena.  Boz knew Greyson’s short-lived modeling career morphed into escorting and while enjoying his monogamous life with Selena, he was able to live vicarious through his best friend for the salacious things.  Selena was never a Greyson fan, she didn’t trust his arrogant nature and when she accidently discovered what he did for a living she gave Boz an ultimatum, “Him or me.”  Being a newly married man, Boz veered off the friendship course and followed his wife.  At first, the boys had secret lunches and beers but it quickly fizzled out to annual Christmas cards sent in the mail.  No calls, no contact.  Greyson won’t turn the TV on anymore, he misses his friend too much and watching a football game alone just isn’t the same. 

Greyson is very popular with his neighbors, mostly female, frustrated housewives and middle-aged but they are always dropping by with a piece of stray mail or a basket of muffins, just to get a glimpse.  One such neighbor, Mrs. Huffington, affectionately known as Toots by the rest of the street, will ring his bell with Kong, her pet Chihuahua under her arm and primp quickly; fix her lipstick with her finger, fluff her Lucille Ball red hair and adjust her generous bosom in the glare of the stained glass of his front door.  Usually her car won’t start or something needs fixing and Greyson will sometimes indulge her, playing it up to its full potential by appearing shirtless to unclog a drain or wink her way as he’s bent over surveying the problem under the hood of her Maserati; anything to touch a fast car.

Occupying his usual barstool at Hotel Diamond, Greyson nurses two fingers of Glenfiddich neat.  He catches his reflection in the mirror, his new tie tuft handsomely contrasting next to a freshly ironed shirt and the cashmere sweater purchased specifically for this appointment.   A younger California blonde with a sleek surfer body and airy attitude takes the stool beside him, a fellow escort from the agency.  “Greyson Anders Bennett, the Legend.  You are lookin’ mighty righteous tonight, Dude.”

“Thane.”  Greyson acknowledges him with an air of reproach.  They are getting younger and younger he mused to himself, the escorts, more reckless and unappreciative of their position.  Greyson takes his job seriously, for the profit but also because he is gifted and he likes being the best at everything he touches.  It takes a special kind of man to provide the highest quality of service to a woman. It requires a specific skill set, a great deal of stamina and sensitivity to date multiple women, pamper them, tend to their needs, make love to them and excite them.  Women of wealth aren’t looking for casual sex, there is usually something important missing from their lives; exhilaration, delight, surprise, companionship, orgasm.  She wants to rebel and sate the loneliness left by her fat philandering husband.  Greyson is an expert and looks down on the new guys who are pretty and naïve and greedy, they’ll never last.  But he will.  He knows the tricks of the trade and is expert at keeping the secret of his success to himself.

“Are you gonna hit the Silver Party tomorrow?  Lots of ripe cougars dripping with jewelry and hard cold cash.”  Thane desirous, rubs his hands together.

Greyson stares straight ahead and answers flatly, “I’ll pass.  The Silver Party is for amateurs.”

With a confused expression, Thane replies , “I don’t know anywhere else someone like us would want to be on Silver Party day.  It’s wall to wall cash cows!”

“You have your priorities, I have mine.” He says coldly.

Before Thane could come to his own defense, a striking middle aged woman in a tight black cocktail dress and six inch heels, dripping with diamonds slunk alongside Greyson and hooked her arm into his.

“Hello, darling.  Are you waiting for me?”

Greyson conceitedly turns his back to Thane and faces her, “Marianna Dillinger.”  He brushes his lips against her cheek and croons, “You smell delicious, good enough to eat.  You’re just in time, I’m starving.”  He grazes her ear with his teeth and her squeal turns into soft moan.  “Shall we?”

Greyson stands and gathers the beautiful woman in his arms and leads her toward the elevator leaving Thane to his own devices, dumbfounded.  On the surface, judging by their intimate behavior and body language, onlookers would merely assume they were a loving couple with an interesting age difference.  No one would suspect the refined woman was compensating her escort handsomely with expensive gifts and an hourly fee.  This is how it was supposed to look, how it was done. 

In the cool light of morning, Greyson stands in the hotel window staring down onto the quiet city pulling on his shirt, making a mental list for his day ahead.  Marianna stretches in the love stained sheets, “Come back to bed, darling.  It’s early.  We’ll have breakfast.”

Greyson leans down and places a kiss on her lips, “I wish I could, but Sundays are reserved for other things.”

“I hate that I have to share you with other women.  Bitches.  You are mine, dammit!”  She laughs and he tickles her playfully until she begs for him to stop.

“I will see you next Saturday.  We have reservations for 8pm at Chic then dessert here in this very bed.”  He grins and rises, tucking his shirt into his pants and zipping them up.

“Miss me until then?” she coos running her hands along the nakedness of her tummy and up over her breastbone, lingering.

He smoothes his hand across the front of his pants and cups his manhood firmly.  “Every inch of me will miss you.”

She squirms, giggles and covers her eyes, “Go on, get out of here before I tie you up and make you stay.”

Sundays are always spent with one woman.  Regardless of how much anyone offered him, he has a standing weekly date he refuses to break.  It was understood and reluctantly accepted Greyson is otherwise engaged.  His Sunday date is an hour outside of the city and secretly, it is the best part of his week, the drive; just Hera, the open road and his music.

Greyson loves his car, his most prized possession, bought and paid for by Marianna Dillinger.  A 2008 solid Venom Red Metallic Dodge Viper SRT.  8.4 liter aluminum V10 engine, full 600 horsepower, polished five spoke alloy wheels, grey leather interior and a sound system with two subwoofers.  She is aerodynamic, flashy, fast, and sexy as hell.  He calls her Hera after the Greek Goddess, wife to Zeus.  Naming his car after the Goddess of women he believes is suitable and directly proportional to his affection for the fairer sex. 

Greyson dresses himself carefully for his Sunday meet.  Black Bally bomber jacket, layered over a Blackbird cherry red silk knit tie weaved into the collar of a white dress shirt paired with a camel beige argyle sweater, white and pea marl green diamonds emblazoning the front and his favorite pair of Dolce & Gabbana jeans with a course matte finish, slim through the thigh with a slight boot cut, accenting the outfit with a pair of Ray Ban gunmetal aviator sunglasses.

He hits the road at 9am sharp with a momentary delay from his neighborhood fan club fighting over who believes he looks the best.  His travels carry him further and further from the city limits through calm countryside that during summer months is a sea of green pastures with brown and white spotted jersey cows grazing alongside farm fences, silos posing as the scenery’s skyscrapers.  In winter however, it is icy and lonesome but oddly peaceful.  He doesn’t mind the drive because it gives him time to breathe, to think and listen to music.  He listens to Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell’ almost three times by the time he arrives to where he is going.

The stately Oak Stone Manor has a long treed driveway that encircles a majestic fountain adorned with sweet-faced cherubs.  The heritage property situated on Lake Fader is six acres of gardens, tennis court, a heated indoor pool with a connecting clubhouse and a stable full of horses.

Greyson parks his car next to the stables and climbs the graceful stairs to the front door.  A porch swing sways in the breeze, squeaking.  Greyson checks his reflection in the window and enters the building without knocking and moves into the foyer.  He is greeted by Audrey, tidy, genteel but business-like, carrying a clipboard, “Mr. Bennett, good morning, so nice to see you I hope your drive was pleasant.  She’s in her room.  You can go straight up.”

“Thank you, Audrey.”  Greyson smiles, takes the stairs two at a time and walks the long hallway to the last door on the right.  He knocks softly and pushes the door open, “Nan?.”

“Punch!  Get in here and let me get a good gander at my grandson.”

Eunice Fudge, Greyson’s grandmother wriggles clumsily to get out of her chair to greet him.

“Nan, don’t break a hip getting out of that chair.”  He laughs and hugs her short robust form.

“Nothing gonna happen to these old bones, Punchy.  Lots of meat on ‘em, I’m padded good.”

Eunice Fudge, 85 and three quarters old if you ask her.  She’s lived in Oak Stone Manor for almost sixteen months and not a Sunday goes by that Greyson doesn’t visit.  It took her some getting used to, living in a senior’s home.  When her body started to rebel on her and her mind weakened, Greyson, her only living relative had no choice but to find somewhere for her to live where someone could watch over her all the time.  The decision was difficult to make until Eunice forgot to turn the burners off on top of her apartment stove and caught a dish cloth on fire, “The walls were just a blazin!” she’d say every time she re-told the story.  “Scared the shit clean out of my knickers.” 

It pained Greyson to have to put her away as she first referred to it.  She was always such a severe, independent woman.  Like the photos lining her bedroom walls depicted, in her younger days she was a looker and full of spunk.  As a girl, Eunice had long wavy butterscotch hair and porcelain skin, she was curvaceous and determined.  It was atypical for her not to get something she desired, it was always her will to achieve by any means necessary.  In the first few years of her twenties, she served as a flight attendant for American Overseas Airlines and claims it was on a trans-Atlantic flight where she met and enjoyed an ongoing dalliance with Rat Packer, Dean Martin.  “Dino always used to say to me, Euni, you’re my pretty as a picture good-time pally. He was a good egg, that Dean.  To be my Valentine, you have to have all your commas in the right place, and by Jesus his were firmly planted.”

Eunice plops back down in her easy boy chair and rests a crocheted blanket across her lap.  She peers at her grandson over her bifocals and asks, “What’s got your Berts and Ernie all twisted up today?  You have that look?  Sit down here and talk to me.”  She nods toward the empty white wicker rocker beside her.  Greyson sits, feeling the weakened chair creak and dip down under his weight.

Averting his eyes he replies, “I’m fine, Nan.” 

Eunice persists, “Now listen here, I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday, you’re sullen, you’re wearing it around your eyes.  Out with it.”

Greyson sighs, stretches and shakes his head, “It’s stupid.”

“Let me be the judge of that.  If you’re being an idiot, Nan will let you know, don’t worry about that. You got lips that tighten up worse than a draw string purse when you’ve got goings on, drives me to drink, Punch. You have to get that crap off your chest so you can breathe and straighten up those broad shoulders.”

It was true, Greyson has difficultly opening up and when she calls him unnecessarily and unapologetically male he just shrugs and takes it because he has no defense, he is gratuitously and blatantly male.  He has no intention of changing that about himself simply because he has no idea how.

In a moment of weakness and under her pressure he confesses, blurting out, “I’m lonely.”  Eunice studies her grandson with misgivings but before she can counteract he continues, “You’d think I’d be too busy to be lonely but … there is … there’s this hole in my gut.”

Nan leans over and puts her soft wrinkled palm on the top of his hand, “Punchy, that is precisely the reason you are lonely.  You’re too damn busy.  You need to slow down some, take in a picture, read a book.  More to life than advertising my good boy, you’ve got to take the time to smell the roses.  It wouldn’t hurt you to date once in a while either.  I’m not getting any younger and I’d like to see you settle down a little before I’m giblets in a brewer’s bucket.”

Eunice is oblivious to Greyson’s true occupation.  She has always been under the impression that his suave appearance, fancy car and hectic work schedule is attributed to a career in advertising.  His late nights, business meetings and frequent flyer miles all credited to being Don Draper instead of Don Juan.

“Punchy, let me ask you something.  You spend all your time with everyone wanting a piece of you for what you can do for them, wheeling and dealing, you’re always looking after everyone else.  Question is who is looking after you?”

The query surprises him, “I do.”

“Oh go on with yourself, cream puff.  Sure, you’ve got fancy suits and you drive a shiny car but that don’t mean a hill of beans.  You forget, I ran with the Rat Pack and I know a thing or two about a thing or two.  Punch, you can’t be all things to all people and have nothing left over for yourself at the end of the day.  Pleasing others is noble but if no one is pleasing you, hell, that’s just existing, that’s not living, no way, no how.”

Greyson is speechless, feeling the hole in his gut deepen and ache.  “I’m around people all the time, how can I be so lonely?”

Eunice emits a frustrated sigh and rolls her eyes, “Easiest place to feel lonely is in a crowd of strangers, Punchy.  Worst place to be lonely is in your own regrets.  I got a feeling that you’re experiencing a little bit of both.”

She is right.  He is.  Boz is gone and his clients aren’t his friends or girlfriends.  There is no real human connection other than that he provides a service and is paid handsomely.  It is work.  Working to meet their needs, stoke their desires and fulfill their fantasies.  In the meantime, there isn’t a soul to do the same for him. 

“You’re all I really have, Nan.”  Greyson sweeps his hand through his hair feeling a little too helpless and vulnerable by the direction of their conversation.

“You’re slow, crazy and Cajun if you think an old crone like me is all you’ve got.  We’re the only family we’ve got and that counts of course but you need more.  Skip a meeting, kiss a pretty girl, make a baby.  Go live.  Look at you, you’re almost as dashing as my Dino, God rest his soul, no need of a good man going to waste because he’s writing jingles for bunk we don’t need.  It’s nice that you think your legacy is writing commercials that everyone fast-forwards but you have a name that needs to be carried forward, you need people to remember you for more than your work because let’s face it, there are always younger bucks coming up behind you, leaving you in the proverbial dust.  You’re dispensable at work but at home you’d be revered. I don’t believe that’s your destiny.”

Greyson counters, “I don’t believe in destiny.”

Eunice looks at him a long time, straight in the eye and says in a fiercely serious but loving tone, “Then that is your biggest problem.”

 **

There you have him.  Phew.

It's a Monday.  A few days into losing an hour of sleep and I'm still feeling the sluggy after-shock.  It doesn't help that I stayed out a little too late last night on a work night paying tribute to a beloved musician.  It was worth breaking curfew for but I am a little slow moving today.

Hope your Monday is pleasant.

In propinquity,

Nic

 

Syntax of a Serial Prose Poem

Syntax of a Serial Prose Poem

I endorse it

the act of

transmuting

words into gold

the cut and paste aesthetic

qualifies a very lovely engagement

between

writers as allies

poets as paradoxes

when the native tongue

of a serial prose poem

is singing syntax

is singing syntax

I endorse it

the unadulterated awe

the translucent undertow

the formal element

when the native tongue

of a serial prose poem

is mellifluous

a traditional piece

outlined with fidelity

outlined with perception

all entries in this volume

are true accomplishments

from

acrostic to sonnet

privileged poems

potent storytelling

the book takes its title

**

On all levels, yesterday's artist date was magnificent.  Despite the wet snow showers, I maneuvered my way around downtown Halifax.  I started at The Wooden Monkey.  I enjoyed a mimosa and a Mexican brunch while pecking away at the edits on 'Half Windsor Knot'.  I didn't accomplish a lot in terms of actual edits but I thought a lot about him and some of the feedback received by the few who peeked at it.  I confess, early feedback got me a little off track with conflicting likes/dislikes but after a good bit from a fellow writer today I was able to re-focus my energy, correct some of the things that irked me and even added a small paragraph further explaining things (I hope).  While I was at The Wooden Monkey, eating and editing I was inspired for another story.  A little boy was sitting with his family behind me and his conversations with someone called Jennifer sparked something in me.  Next thing I knew I was jotting notes down and again dis-engaged from HWK.  I did get back on track, my pages are full of scrawled notes and red scratches and strikes.  After brunch, I took myself for coffee at Paper Chase and did a little card tag and got lost daydreaming, waiting to go to Neptune Theatre to see Glace Bay Miners' Museum.  And, just as I suspected, the show was absolutely stunning.  Just as wonderful as it was back in '93 when I was working at the theatre.  Every single thing about it was perfect.  The cast was riveting, the set was all-encompassing, the music pitch perfect and the lights expertly lit.  The direction and production was top notch.  I was in tears as I stood for the standing ovation at the end.  The story, originally a short story by Sheldon Currie and adapted for the stage by Wendy Lill, isn't a happy story but it's rooted in truth and honesty and heart.  It's painful at times but rings true for so many people connected to the mining industry.  I laughed and cried and I was completely covered in goose-bumps for the whole two plus hours.  If you live in Halifax and you have some time between now and March 17th, go see it.  It's masterful.

It's Sunday now, my first blog of March.  I went for a long peaceful walk today and came home to my stories and pages of poems.  I finished this one this morning drinking my tea so that's what you got today.  I also worked more on HWK and have been formally introduced to my new characters for the story inspired by the little boy yesterday.  I'm excited to put HWK to bed but I'm also excited to move on with something new.  I still have this one character nagging me but that'll have to be for something else because that character isn't right for what's next.  I'll stew a little and see what happens.

I'm going to let my noodle rest for the night, maybe watch something meaningless and do some relaxing.  

However you spent your day, I hope you spent it well.

In propinquity,

Nic