I exit the building onto River Avenue and flip my collar high around my ears, pulling my neck in like a turtle in his shell. The café is only half a block downstream but I’m a frozen fish when I arrive. At the counter, I order a large mocha house blend and wheat toast.
“To go please,” I tell the girl, “with extra butter and cream.”
She is shy and plump and moves like deliberate molasses. Her name is Chloe or Joni or something like that. She doesn’t wear a nametag and I can’t understand Mosca when he lays his bad English on her. Her straw-blond hair is short with a splendid slash of emerald veering across the one side. I imagine her an artist in the outside world. She wears pink glasses - ‘SW#6857 Pink Moment’ the paint chip sample book would reveal and wide rimmed. They frame beautifully warm eyes. I wonder if she knows how beautiful and warm they are or if anyone has ever told her that. ‘Burnt Sienna’, I’d say; a standard color but not standard for her by any means. She doesn’t look me directly in the eye, which tells me she may like me. Or maybe she is self-conscious about my eye, the left one that droops a bit. It’s just lazy, that’s all. I think she may find it rude to stare. She exudes a certain style, displays a confident palette; I can tell by the way she serves customers, efficient with a clean counter and orderly napkins and silverware.
Man, it’s snowing like a million angels exploded out there. The flakes are the size of downed feathers. The city plowed the streets yesterday and created huge snowdrifts along the walkways. There aren’t too many fools out in the cold. The ones that are, slip along in the narrow grooves that act as walkways. I damn near break my neck maneuvering the icy channel back to work and it’s not because I slipped. I’m laughing too hard. Up ahead, two approaching people have fallen. They stand again; the man and woman paw and grope each other for balance. They’re drunk as hell. Two steps and he is down. The woman bends and yells at him, expecting something impossible. He rises like a zombie, barely stable, and then it’s her turn. She falls straight-legged sideways like a tree in the forest. My eyes hurt. I shouldn’t laugh. I may be next. Tears freeze like clear glue on my face and I can’t see. I dab my eyes with the sleeve of my stiff overcoat. It leaves a glistening stain.
I enter the building and Claire is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She’s leaving for an appointment. She’s decided to have a cigarette first. The most interesting thing about Claire is her hair. It’s jet black and shrouds around a white oval face, a little egg in a nest. It cascades in a pool, splashes over her shoulders. It’s quite beautiful really, even when it’s up.
“I wish we could run away,” she says, blowing smoke against the windowpane.
I nod and look at my feet. The snow melts around my shoes, bleeding an ever- spreading puddle.
Claire has a boyfriend. I’ve never met the guy. I never ask too many questions. I wonder what he doesn’t have that I possess. I wonder what she sees in me? She hasn’t said. I’m cool with that. I work in the paint department. I’m not that colorful. I’ve been there five years and I’m not even manager.
Claire’s a nice girl, smart and attractive in an ordinary way. She holds a safe managerial job - executive assistant. She’s been with the company for almost a year. We hang out a bit. Privately. She prefers it that way. We’ve never been intimate. I have seen her in a bathing suit though.
She lives in a two-story house on a decent street with shady trees. She rents the bottom floor suite. I wonder why the boyfriend of three years doesn’t live with her. The landlady, a Ukrainian woman occupies the upstairs and is particular to guests hanging about. “He’s a nice boy,” Claire says up the stairs and a door closes. She gives me a smirk.
It’s a blistering summer day, the kind where the humidity wears your skin out, squeezes your body like a wetsuit.
“I’m going to change,” she says. “Make yourself at home.”
Her apartment is ordinary with dark wood floors, a plain taupe carpet. The walls are a darker taupe and pictureless. She doesn’t entertain much of a color palette. A couch and chair look new, sleek black, straight from a CB2 catalog. The coffee table isn’t clear. It’s covered with travel magazines.
Claire exits her bedroom wearing a bikini. It is celadon green, though brighter, ‘SW#6705 High Strung’, I’d say. A saturated splash of yellow overtakes it. It shouts ‘SUMMER!’ It screams ‘you can fuck me!’ I love that color. I could give you its mixed color values. I want to paint my bedroom that exact color. I’ve never considered her like this. Her achromatic breasts sway freely inside the full halter and I see her hips dance, suggesting that I do something. She stands with her knees turned slightly inward and she bows as she wrestles her hair up into a ponytail. “God it’s hot out there, don’t you think?” She glances up sideways; a coy smile parts her lips.
“I wish we could run away. Go some place warmer, different. Away from here.”
She stares out onto the street. I wait.
“Would you go?”
I wonder if it’s a question or a request. The brown bag holding my toast is weightless. My coffee is cold mocha. Chloe is happy to give me a refill. The drunken couple has arrived and stopped in front of the door. Their arms rotate, pinwheel through the air. Stiff hands claw for purchase. They grasp at snowflakes, floating angel’s wings. Then they fall.
Aug 14, 2011
Jul 6, 2011
Motel 6
Room 205
In between long tasty tokes on a reedy blunt, Benny Kaz allowed his thoughts to bounce down the hall to the dude in Room 203. The unshaven man - older, sixties maybe, white shirt and dress pants - had given him the ‘shifty eye’ scan as they’d passed in the hallway, a scan any hustler knew suggested one of two things: keep walking or move for the hardware. The man had carried an over-sized briefcase - heavy by the way he two-handed it – and Benny K was positive it contained something valuable like money or drugs or better still, both. Benny, now strung out and twitching for relief wondered if this man was a better score than the one he was waiting on - a hook up with the delivery maid and his much needed supply. He lit another reed, a new score orchestrating in his head, his thoughts swirling around the older man; there was something else going on here… like maybe the dude was the big cheese with all the goodies… the delivery maid just the mouse with crumbly samples and he, Benny the K… the recipient of a golden opportunity. Benny rolled off the bed, pulled on his jacket - the snub-nose weighted heavy in the pocket - and went to the door.
Room 203
“Guy wuz’ a punk,” Powell grunted as he threw the oversized briefcase on the bed and popped the side clips; he’d better watch his back. Inside the open case lay eight neat rows of crisp twenties, a family of Jackson’s staring back like a repeating Warhol pop art piece. Powell smiled a shark’s grin and stretched, feeling the coolness of the gun nestled under his shirt, snug against his lower back, then went to the window and looked out into the steady rain; the parking lot sat quiet except for a couple of young preppies quickly unloading golf bags from the back of their dripping station wagon. “Ahh… a not so relaxing getaway,” he chuckled. His own getaway from the bank he’d robbed across the line a week ago had been a rather smooth one. He pulled a flask from the case and took two long tugs, decided quickly that he needed ice, recalled an ice machine just outside his door.
Room 201
Kreskie swiped the door key and entered. He went to the window, scanned the parking lot, then pulled the drapes closed as his rookie partner Digby lugged in the golf bags and dropped them with a ‘thunk’ onto the bed. “Manager says our man’s down the hall in 203.” They’d tracked him quick after HP saw him pass, recognized the APB car description and done the smart thing and called in the FBI. Kreskie unzipped the first bag and pulled out the M4 and fed the magazine. “We’re not waiting for backup…this guy’s going down quick before any more people die,” and he turned for the door.
Room 202
Stella Beem quickly finished cleaning the bathroom, opting to skip a set of fresh towels and soap bars for the shower. She was nervous about the drug drop; there was always the chance of these things going bad. It was a sweet little deal though: Hugo supplying and setting up the connection, she making the drop and collecting the cash. A few more of these and she’d have enough put away to vanish out of this place, reappear in dreamy California somewhere and a new life. Stella went out into the hallway and stood still for a moment, glancing up and down the hallway’s tunneling emptiness. She squatted in front of her cart, parked next to the floor’s vending machine and was about to pull out a towel folded around a fat bag of crystal when a door clicked open to her right; she froze, her eyes dropping to her Colt laying beneath a set of clean towels.
Room 204
Kyra Downs stepped out the door, faltered as the baby kicked - hard this time - and she uttered a tired groan. Gently rubbing her stomach, she padded across to the ice machine, ice bucket in hand. She noticed two men at the end of the hall walking slowly toward her with what she thought were closed umbrellas. There was a click at her feet and she saw a maid kneeling by her cart, the maid’s eyes not registering on her but focused wide just beyond her shoulder. Kyra turned, sensing someone close behind, the air defined by the distinct sweet odor of weed. There was another click then - a door opened from the room opposite them - and an older man stepped into the hallway, one hand now reaching behind his back and someone yelled, “FREEZE!”
Room 206
Simon Dennis was quite pleased with the progress of his novel. His old nemesis - writer’s block - had hounded him for weeks and his wife’s idea to getaway to a private location and perspective had been the perfect remedy. His characters were finally coming to life - the cops and the robber, the girl on the run, the shady druggies…all of it. Simon stared out into the motel’s parking lot, the rain falling heavy now. The lot was empty save for his old Volvo and two passing police cars. He looked at his watch – it was time to check out - and he went to the door and stepped out into the hallway.
In between long tasty tokes on a reedy blunt, Benny Kaz allowed his thoughts to bounce down the hall to the dude in Room 203. The unshaven man - older, sixties maybe, white shirt and dress pants - had given him the ‘shifty eye’ scan as they’d passed in the hallway, a scan any hustler knew suggested one of two things: keep walking or move for the hardware. The man had carried an over-sized briefcase - heavy by the way he two-handed it – and Benny K was positive it contained something valuable like money or drugs or better still, both. Benny, now strung out and twitching for relief wondered if this man was a better score than the one he was waiting on - a hook up with the delivery maid and his much needed supply. He lit another reed, a new score orchestrating in his head, his thoughts swirling around the older man; there was something else going on here… like maybe the dude was the big cheese with all the goodies… the delivery maid just the mouse with crumbly samples and he, Benny the K… the recipient of a golden opportunity. Benny rolled off the bed, pulled on his jacket - the snub-nose weighted heavy in the pocket - and went to the door.
Room 203
“Guy wuz’ a punk,” Powell grunted as he threw the oversized briefcase on the bed and popped the side clips; he’d better watch his back. Inside the open case lay eight neat rows of crisp twenties, a family of Jackson’s staring back like a repeating Warhol pop art piece. Powell smiled a shark’s grin and stretched, feeling the coolness of the gun nestled under his shirt, snug against his lower back, then went to the window and looked out into the steady rain; the parking lot sat quiet except for a couple of young preppies quickly unloading golf bags from the back of their dripping station wagon. “Ahh… a not so relaxing getaway,” he chuckled. His own getaway from the bank he’d robbed across the line a week ago had been a rather smooth one. He pulled a flask from the case and took two long tugs, decided quickly that he needed ice, recalled an ice machine just outside his door.
Room 201
Kreskie swiped the door key and entered. He went to the window, scanned the parking lot, then pulled the drapes closed as his rookie partner Digby lugged in the golf bags and dropped them with a ‘thunk’ onto the bed. “Manager says our man’s down the hall in 203.” They’d tracked him quick after HP saw him pass, recognized the APB car description and done the smart thing and called in the FBI. Kreskie unzipped the first bag and pulled out the M4 and fed the magazine. “We’re not waiting for backup…this guy’s going down quick before any more people die,” and he turned for the door.
Room 202
Stella Beem quickly finished cleaning the bathroom, opting to skip a set of fresh towels and soap bars for the shower. She was nervous about the drug drop; there was always the chance of these things going bad. It was a sweet little deal though: Hugo supplying and setting up the connection, she making the drop and collecting the cash. A few more of these and she’d have enough put away to vanish out of this place, reappear in dreamy California somewhere and a new life. Stella went out into the hallway and stood still for a moment, glancing up and down the hallway’s tunneling emptiness. She squatted in front of her cart, parked next to the floor’s vending machine and was about to pull out a towel folded around a fat bag of crystal when a door clicked open to her right; she froze, her eyes dropping to her Colt laying beneath a set of clean towels.
Room 204
Kyra Downs stepped out the door, faltered as the baby kicked - hard this time - and she uttered a tired groan. Gently rubbing her stomach, she padded across to the ice machine, ice bucket in hand. She noticed two men at the end of the hall walking slowly toward her with what she thought were closed umbrellas. There was a click at her feet and she saw a maid kneeling by her cart, the maid’s eyes not registering on her but focused wide just beyond her shoulder. Kyra turned, sensing someone close behind, the air defined by the distinct sweet odor of weed. There was another click then - a door opened from the room opposite them - and an older man stepped into the hallway, one hand now reaching behind his back and someone yelled, “FREEZE!”
Room 206
Simon Dennis was quite pleased with the progress of his novel. His old nemesis - writer’s block - had hounded him for weeks and his wife’s idea to getaway to a private location and perspective had been the perfect remedy. His characters were finally coming to life - the cops and the robber, the girl on the run, the shady druggies…all of it. Simon stared out into the motel’s parking lot, the rain falling heavy now. The lot was empty save for his old Volvo and two passing police cars. He looked at his watch – it was time to check out - and he went to the door and stepped out into the hallway.
May 18, 2011
The Cold Locker
It is a place of dusty dreams. The twisted light cord hanging from the center is gallows rope, its naked light bulb, an abandoned blackening body when lit, barely gives life. The floor grades down to a centered sewer hole for plumbing that was never finished. Stagnant water encircles it, left from old rain that drips in and stays for weeks. Nobody comes down here much but when they do, it is for jars of fruit in the room buried in the far corner; the ‘cold locker’ the young boys call it. It is cold, as cold as a tomb.
A tower of boxes near the stairs seems to shift. Bundles of yellow newspapers stacked next to them huddle like crooked gnomes; they reek something grim. There are paint cans and open tins of varnish near a barren worktable. Long hooks grip it, holding it tight against the wall. Rows of cigarette burn decorate its edge. I remember them. The burns. The partially sealed room next to the worktable allows no light. It is the old coal chute.
A newspaper lays crumpled on the worktable, open to a page, damp with age, wrinkled like old skin. Cold air seals the headline news and photos of the Garrisons. There is a photo of Red Garrison being led handcuffed from the house. There is a picture of his wife Cora, slumped in the back seat of a police car. A blanket partially covers her head. In the corner, a picture of Beale, their oldest daughter, head crooked to the camera, her eyes – shark eyes – staring dead into the lens. Their faces are grainy black and white. Their faces are the same face I see reflected back on the glass jars in the cold locker. My face. No. That’s not true. My face is different. The eyes are the same. Maybe. There are no photos of me. Only reflections.
Beale Garrison moves about upstairs, pattering alone with the cats. I sense their smell. They sense me too and they don’t come down. Beale comes for the baskets of fruit stacked along the wall in the cold locker. She doesn’t venture to this side of the basement. She returned to the house after Red and Cora were sentenced to prison. She was never implicated. I know better. I know what she did. What they did to the child.
Ruth was her name. My name. Time muddles memories. The years meld and twist, bind up in a foggy dream. It feels like a dream. I don’t know if it is. There’s no one to set it right. I am happy to be her, to be Ruth, to be someone. Ruth is gone. She didn’t survive. It says so in the newspaper under the stairwell. Every moment is thick, fuzzy as if looking through a cocooned web. My thoughts come down to me, dream-like, a milky gray and then blackness.
They burn me. Tie and cut me in the coal chute where it is private. I am born different. Deformed. “God’s mistake!” echoes in my dream. “God’s mistake!” There hands are eager. Deliberate. Impatient. There is hurt and blame. I read it in the paper. I don’t know how that is possible. I don’t know how to read. It said I died when I was two. I don’t remember dying.
Red Garrison built this house. He was a craftsman, the newspaper said. He was good with his hands. He made a hobby of carving intricate wood pieces, birds and animals, innocent creatures. I was his hobby too. I remember his fingers. Long. Agile. His hands would harden. Turn dangerous. Cora knew. The doctors at the hospital rebuilt her cheekbone. She said it was an accident while working on the house. We know the truth.
Two neighborhood boys sometimes visit Beale. They are young too. They’ve heard the stories. They’ve been told to stay away from this house. Young boys don’t listen. They are curious. They come to taste the peaches that she preserves in jars. I want to play with them when they come to the cellar. They don’t want to stay. They are afraid. They lurk together, watching the darkened corners. The edges are black cement, an abyss. The minimal light never ventures far. ‘Spider-child’ I hear them say. ‘In the coal chute. Where the spider-child was kept.’
I’m drawn to the cold locker. The baskets stacked along the wall hold the fresh fruit - apples, peaches, pears. They smell sweet. Alive. The light glows on their skin. They were taken from the tree. A tree of life. I know that somehow. I sense it. The fruit did not die. It was given a second life. A new life. The light is warm. It sparks bright on the golden glass jars. I watch the boys gather them, full of the fruit I’ve never tasted. I see their faces as they open the tops and slip out the dripping wedges. ‘She won’t know,’ they whisper licking their fingers. ‘Sweet,’ they say. I wish to taste too. I wish to eat with them. I wouldn’t hurt them. I hear Beale shout for them not to dawdle if they know what’s good for them. Their eyes quickly dart about. They don’t stay long. They gather the jars, then quickly scramble up the stairs, clawing over each other, neither wanting to be the last up. They think something like a hand is reaching for their leg. It is.
My withered arms are bent at the elbow, my hands hooked down, but yesterday I managed to climb to the top of the cellar stairs for the first time. At the far end of the kitchen, the two boys sat waiting. I stood in the darkened frame of the cellar door as Beale moved past. I filled the doorway. I’ve grown some. I don’t know how. She didn’t feel my breath kiss against her neck. She was carrying a bowl of peaches. They were soured. I wanted to reach out and touch her. Tonight I will. Tonight.
Clarence Downe was waiting by his truck when Hawkes showed up. Two other men leaned against a flatbed parked behind, smoking harsh hand-rolled cigarettes.
“Moanin,” Hawkes said as he spilled out of his Suburban. A wide Panama hat covered his round bald head; a pair of blue bib-overalls did their best to stretch over his massive frame. He puffed when he spoke.
“You must be Clarence,” he said, stretching out a beefy hand.
Clarence gripped it and gave it a fair shake. He was a short stocky man with a tall shock of ‘70’s curly black hair and his skin shone black as oil in the morning heat.
“Yes sir, Mr. Hawkes, pleased to meet you,” he said, his steel blue eyes peering at the sky. “Looks like it’s ‘gonna be a blister peeler.”
It was a cloudless day, cicadas already beginning to sing. Hawkes nodded at the flatbed behind Clarence’s truck.
“Brought the bruiser I see. I think we’re going to need it.”
A large Cat bulldozer, school bus-yellow sat dirty on the flatbed. It had seen better days.
“Yep. She’s all primed and ready to do business. Brought a couple of my boys along too.”
He nodded toward the two smokers, then to the house.
“What we got here?”
Hawkes reached awkwardly through the cab window and pulled a rolled document from the cab of the Suburban and waved it at Clarence.
“It’s the old Garrison place. Got a court order here to tear her down, the whole she-bang.”
He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
“I figure if we set the Cat over in the west side corner there we can get her started, get her going. Should start to collapse I hope.”
Hawkes moped his face with a rag.
“Sure as hell don’t want to go in there,” he said.
Clarence surveyed the property.
“She don’t look so bad. What’s wrong with the place?”
“You ain’t from these parts I see,” Hawkes said.
He took a long, silent look at the house.
“It belonged to the Garrisons some years back,” he said. “Place never seen anything but misery.”
He paused and spat, as if the words had been distasteful in his mouth.
“They killed their little girl in there. Ruthie.”
Clarence looked up at him, his head slightly cocked, his eyes thin.
“Got them life in prison for it. Their oldest daughter Beale got off. Couldn’t pin nothing on her.”
The other two men had stamped their cigarettes and moved closer.
“Beale came back and took up residence again,” Hawkes continued. “There was a public outcry but well,” he paused, “it’s a free country for the supposed innocent, ain’t it? Turned out to be a big mistake.”
He stepped towards the house and stopped at the fence, ran his hand along the gate.
“Where is she?” Clarence said. “This Bea person.”
“Beale,” Hawkes said. “Well she’s dead now too.”
Clarence squinted up at him.
“There were two young neighborhood boys used to visit her,” Hawkes said. “They didn’t know no better, just kids, told to keep away but they didn’t. Beale murdered them. Poisoned them. Used some tainted fruit she was luring them in with I guess.”
He paused.
“Then she hung herself in the basement.”
Hawkes shook his head.
“Cops found her swinging down there.” He paused, rubbed his slack jaw.
“Didn’t make sense though.”
“Why’s that?” Clarence said, studying him.
“Cops couldn’t figure how she did it, hanging herself I mean. There was nothing beneath her feet for her to stand on. Nothing near her at all.”
Hawkes stood unsteadily at the gate.
“It’s as if she was put there.”
A tower of boxes near the stairs seems to shift. Bundles of yellow newspapers stacked next to them huddle like crooked gnomes; they reek something grim. There are paint cans and open tins of varnish near a barren worktable. Long hooks grip it, holding it tight against the wall. Rows of cigarette burn decorate its edge. I remember them. The burns. The partially sealed room next to the worktable allows no light. It is the old coal chute.
A newspaper lays crumpled on the worktable, open to a page, damp with age, wrinkled like old skin. Cold air seals the headline news and photos of the Garrisons. There is a photo of Red Garrison being led handcuffed from the house. There is a picture of his wife Cora, slumped in the back seat of a police car. A blanket partially covers her head. In the corner, a picture of Beale, their oldest daughter, head crooked to the camera, her eyes – shark eyes – staring dead into the lens. Their faces are grainy black and white. Their faces are the same face I see reflected back on the glass jars in the cold locker. My face. No. That’s not true. My face is different. The eyes are the same. Maybe. There are no photos of me. Only reflections.
Beale Garrison moves about upstairs, pattering alone with the cats. I sense their smell. They sense me too and they don’t come down. Beale comes for the baskets of fruit stacked along the wall in the cold locker. She doesn’t venture to this side of the basement. She returned to the house after Red and Cora were sentenced to prison. She was never implicated. I know better. I know what she did. What they did to the child.
Ruth was her name. My name. Time muddles memories. The years meld and twist, bind up in a foggy dream. It feels like a dream. I don’t know if it is. There’s no one to set it right. I am happy to be her, to be Ruth, to be someone. Ruth is gone. She didn’t survive. It says so in the newspaper under the stairwell. Every moment is thick, fuzzy as if looking through a cocooned web. My thoughts come down to me, dream-like, a milky gray and then blackness.
They burn me. Tie and cut me in the coal chute where it is private. I am born different. Deformed. “God’s mistake!” echoes in my dream. “God’s mistake!” There hands are eager. Deliberate. Impatient. There is hurt and blame. I read it in the paper. I don’t know how that is possible. I don’t know how to read. It said I died when I was two. I don’t remember dying.
Red Garrison built this house. He was a craftsman, the newspaper said. He was good with his hands. He made a hobby of carving intricate wood pieces, birds and animals, innocent creatures. I was his hobby too. I remember his fingers. Long. Agile. His hands would harden. Turn dangerous. Cora knew. The doctors at the hospital rebuilt her cheekbone. She said it was an accident while working on the house. We know the truth.
Two neighborhood boys sometimes visit Beale. They are young too. They’ve heard the stories. They’ve been told to stay away from this house. Young boys don’t listen. They are curious. They come to taste the peaches that she preserves in jars. I want to play with them when they come to the cellar. They don’t want to stay. They are afraid. They lurk together, watching the darkened corners. The edges are black cement, an abyss. The minimal light never ventures far. ‘Spider-child’ I hear them say. ‘In the coal chute. Where the spider-child was kept.’
I’m drawn to the cold locker. The baskets stacked along the wall hold the fresh fruit - apples, peaches, pears. They smell sweet. Alive. The light glows on their skin. They were taken from the tree. A tree of life. I know that somehow. I sense it. The fruit did not die. It was given a second life. A new life. The light is warm. It sparks bright on the golden glass jars. I watch the boys gather them, full of the fruit I’ve never tasted. I see their faces as they open the tops and slip out the dripping wedges. ‘She won’t know,’ they whisper licking their fingers. ‘Sweet,’ they say. I wish to taste too. I wish to eat with them. I wouldn’t hurt them. I hear Beale shout for them not to dawdle if they know what’s good for them. Their eyes quickly dart about. They don’t stay long. They gather the jars, then quickly scramble up the stairs, clawing over each other, neither wanting to be the last up. They think something like a hand is reaching for their leg. It is.
My withered arms are bent at the elbow, my hands hooked down, but yesterday I managed to climb to the top of the cellar stairs for the first time. At the far end of the kitchen, the two boys sat waiting. I stood in the darkened frame of the cellar door as Beale moved past. I filled the doorway. I’ve grown some. I don’t know how. She didn’t feel my breath kiss against her neck. She was carrying a bowl of peaches. They were soured. I wanted to reach out and touch her. Tonight I will. Tonight.
Clarence Downe was waiting by his truck when Hawkes showed up. Two other men leaned against a flatbed parked behind, smoking harsh hand-rolled cigarettes.
“Moanin,” Hawkes said as he spilled out of his Suburban. A wide Panama hat covered his round bald head; a pair of blue bib-overalls did their best to stretch over his massive frame. He puffed when he spoke.
“You must be Clarence,” he said, stretching out a beefy hand.
Clarence gripped it and gave it a fair shake. He was a short stocky man with a tall shock of ‘70’s curly black hair and his skin shone black as oil in the morning heat.
“Yes sir, Mr. Hawkes, pleased to meet you,” he said, his steel blue eyes peering at the sky. “Looks like it’s ‘gonna be a blister peeler.”
It was a cloudless day, cicadas already beginning to sing. Hawkes nodded at the flatbed behind Clarence’s truck.
“Brought the bruiser I see. I think we’re going to need it.”
A large Cat bulldozer, school bus-yellow sat dirty on the flatbed. It had seen better days.
“Yep. She’s all primed and ready to do business. Brought a couple of my boys along too.”
He nodded toward the two smokers, then to the house.
“What we got here?”
Hawkes reached awkwardly through the cab window and pulled a rolled document from the cab of the Suburban and waved it at Clarence.
“It’s the old Garrison place. Got a court order here to tear her down, the whole she-bang.”
He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
“I figure if we set the Cat over in the west side corner there we can get her started, get her going. Should start to collapse I hope.”
Hawkes moped his face with a rag.
“Sure as hell don’t want to go in there,” he said.
Clarence surveyed the property.
“She don’t look so bad. What’s wrong with the place?”
“You ain’t from these parts I see,” Hawkes said.
He took a long, silent look at the house.
“It belonged to the Garrisons some years back,” he said. “Place never seen anything but misery.”
He paused and spat, as if the words had been distasteful in his mouth.
“They killed their little girl in there. Ruthie.”
Clarence looked up at him, his head slightly cocked, his eyes thin.
“Got them life in prison for it. Their oldest daughter Beale got off. Couldn’t pin nothing on her.”
The other two men had stamped their cigarettes and moved closer.
“Beale came back and took up residence again,” Hawkes continued. “There was a public outcry but well,” he paused, “it’s a free country for the supposed innocent, ain’t it? Turned out to be a big mistake.”
He stepped towards the house and stopped at the fence, ran his hand along the gate.
“Where is she?” Clarence said. “This Bea person.”
“Beale,” Hawkes said. “Well she’s dead now too.”
Clarence squinted up at him.
“There were two young neighborhood boys used to visit her,” Hawkes said. “They didn’t know no better, just kids, told to keep away but they didn’t. Beale murdered them. Poisoned them. Used some tainted fruit she was luring them in with I guess.”
He paused.
“Then she hung herself in the basement.”
Hawkes shook his head.
“Cops found her swinging down there.” He paused, rubbed his slack jaw.
“Didn’t make sense though.”
“Why’s that?” Clarence said, studying him.
“Cops couldn’t figure how she did it, hanging herself I mean. There was nothing beneath her feet for her to stand on. Nothing near her at all.”
Hawkes stood unsteadily at the gate.
“It’s as if she was put there.”
Apr 18, 2011
Reigning Cats and Dogs
I have to say right off that I’m not much of a dog person. It’s not that I don’t like dogs. I just feel uneasy when around them and I’m not sure where this stems from. I was never attacked or chased down by dogs as a child, never had any negative experience at all really. But when I encounter one - particularly a dog whose head is at groin level or a breed with an unfortunate killer reputation - I sense a deeply inbred intelligence, a yearning to dominate and challenge. There’s an overwhelming feeling of being observed with an instinctual malice. Perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe they just want to play, to engage me as if I were a walking plaything. Or chew toy.
My friends, Henry and Frank own a pair of beautiful Border Collies named Mamie and Bess. They are devoted to them and as with most people who own dogs, treat and pamper them like they are their children. These are kind and loving relationships between dog and man but the ‘dog bug’ has never bitten me.
-2-
On a visit to Henry and Frank’s house, my knock on the door is greeted with the double barking and ruckus of Mamie (May-me) and Bess as they barrel down the stairs to engage the intruder. Once they see it’s me, they quiet down and allow me to peaceably enter. I too relax but still entertain a lingering memory of Frank and Henry telling me on first meeting the dogs specifically, not to stare at Mamie.
“Don’t stare at Mamie,” they said in unison. “She’s had a history of snapping at people’s faces. It’s a territorial thing. Something like that. Just ignore her.”
Border Collies are very smart. I hear they’re very good at herding sheep, cows and the elderly. Henry said she’d never hurt anyone. It was just a precaution. I began to wonder how she got the name ‘Mamie’.
In the beginning, I did my best to stare at the ceiling fan if the dogs were in the room. Frank said I didn’t have to go to such an extreme. He explained there was an easy way to tell the dogs apart. Though both dogs looked exactly the same to me, Bess had a white spot on the top of her head. Or was that Mamie?
My nervousness grew. Every once in a while, I’d drop my eyes and try to get a quick bead on where the dogs were lurking. There... one was off in the corner of the kitchen, pretending to sleep, and the other... Christ! right beside my foot! her muzzle barely touching my toe, eyes raised, fixed lazily on me! Boy, they were smart. Were they testing me? Gauging my every move?
I’ve heard that dogs can smell fear and if that was the case then I reeked of ‘Eau I’m Bleeding’. This was ridiculous. I wanted very much to reach down and pet the beast (Good Girl!!) and put an end to my paranoia but then realized I wasn’t sure which dog it was. Mamie or Bess? White spot, no spot. I didn’t want to examine or stare at her head trying to locate a spot. She might misinterpret this. Moreover, my heroic effort to connect would end in a snap with me staring at the pink stump of Spam that used to be my writing hand, which I had unwittingly used, in quick reflex to protect my face.
I entertained another approach.
"So... does Mamie sleep a lot... back there in the kitchen?" My voice was high and lilting like a young girl. Then I remembered once hearing that you should talk in a low voice around dogs. Or was it a high voice? Maybe that was around cows. No, a low voice for dogs. Yes that was it. Or did that sound too much like a growl? How about a normal voice.
“Come Mamie.” Frank said. “Time to eat.” With that, Mamie darted from my foot, joined by Bess, and tails wagging devoured their bowl of meaty Kibbles.
-3-
“We’ll leave the collars and treats by the front door,” Henry said in a short instructional phone conversation. Doing this favor was privately a big step for me. I didn’t tell them that I had some reservations about taking the dogs for a walk. It’s like when someone asks you to baby-sit their child for an hour. That I can handle, having a child of my own. With children, you can discuss, reason and if necessary, clobber to stay in command. Dogs are a different breed. A child may test your patience but a dog can take your leg.
“What do you mean they’re gone?”
It was my worst nightmare scenario. Somehow, this simple task of going for a walk would end with the dogs getting loose and I’d be left, limp leash in hand, staring at the two faint dots disappearing on the horizon, the whoosh of the highway just beyond.
“Ha! Gee, you’ll never believe what happened!” I’d say, holding up my self-inflicted stump of pink Spam.
“I guess they really wanted their freedom! Those dogs sure were smart!”
When I arrived to pick them up, they came barking and hurling at the door. I quickly announced ‘Walk! Do you want to go for a walk!’ an instruction Henry had suggested, at which point both dogs settled and calmly waited for the coronation of the collars. (Who’s the boss now!!!)
Out the door, they immediately proceeded to tow me along the path toward the beach, sniffing and peeing along the way. (Boy, were they strong!!!) There was no way that I was going to go to the beach where there was a good chance of meeting up with other dogs so I steered them around several houses and after much lurching and tugging, gradually made my way back to the house. Along the way, they had vacuumed the underside of every bush and examined every moving blade of grass and previous dumpsite around. I had nervously scanned the area, looking out for other dog-walkers. (Don’t dogs attack each other when they get together?)
Once back inside, I uncollered them and dealt out the treats, all the while assuring them that Frank and Henry would be back soon to give them a ‘real’ walk. I was panting. I tossed a few extra treats down the hall. As they spirited after them, I quickly slipped out the door, locked it and went home.
“Oh they were just great. No problem. Yeah, it was fun! Great exercise! They sure are strong dogs.”
It’s a Saturday evening at Henry and Frank’s home and I’ve had a cocktail or two. I find myself at ease in a chair and staring at Mamie. Is she still a challenge? Who has control here, the beast or me? My relaxed state of mind tells me to keep on staring. She wouldn’t snap. Not now. I feel pretty sure that she knows me. We’ve bonded.
The dog doesn’t hold my gaze, most likely bored by my presence, shifty frown and delusional mind game.
I smirk and allow a fleeting sense of superiority, then think that maybe, as usual I’ve been staring at the dog with the white spot on her head.
My friends, Henry and Frank own a pair of beautiful Border Collies named Mamie and Bess. They are devoted to them and as with most people who own dogs, treat and pamper them like they are their children. These are kind and loving relationships between dog and man but the ‘dog bug’ has never bitten me.
-2-
On a visit to Henry and Frank’s house, my knock on the door is greeted with the double barking and ruckus of Mamie (May-me) and Bess as they barrel down the stairs to engage the intruder. Once they see it’s me, they quiet down and allow me to peaceably enter. I too relax but still entertain a lingering memory of Frank and Henry telling me on first meeting the dogs specifically, not to stare at Mamie.
“Don’t stare at Mamie,” they said in unison. “She’s had a history of snapping at people’s faces. It’s a territorial thing. Something like that. Just ignore her.”
Border Collies are very smart. I hear they’re very good at herding sheep, cows and the elderly. Henry said she’d never hurt anyone. It was just a precaution. I began to wonder how she got the name ‘Mamie’.
In the beginning, I did my best to stare at the ceiling fan if the dogs were in the room. Frank said I didn’t have to go to such an extreme. He explained there was an easy way to tell the dogs apart. Though both dogs looked exactly the same to me, Bess had a white spot on the top of her head. Or was that Mamie?
My nervousness grew. Every once in a while, I’d drop my eyes and try to get a quick bead on where the dogs were lurking. There... one was off in the corner of the kitchen, pretending to sleep, and the other... Christ! right beside my foot! her muzzle barely touching my toe, eyes raised, fixed lazily on me! Boy, they were smart. Were they testing me? Gauging my every move?
I’ve heard that dogs can smell fear and if that was the case then I reeked of ‘Eau I’m Bleeding’. This was ridiculous. I wanted very much to reach down and pet the beast (Good Girl!!) and put an end to my paranoia but then realized I wasn’t sure which dog it was. Mamie or Bess? White spot, no spot. I didn’t want to examine or stare at her head trying to locate a spot. She might misinterpret this. Moreover, my heroic effort to connect would end in a snap with me staring at the pink stump of Spam that used to be my writing hand, which I had unwittingly used, in quick reflex to protect my face.
I entertained another approach.
"So... does Mamie sleep a lot... back there in the kitchen?" My voice was high and lilting like a young girl. Then I remembered once hearing that you should talk in a low voice around dogs. Or was it a high voice? Maybe that was around cows. No, a low voice for dogs. Yes that was it. Or did that sound too much like a growl? How about a normal voice.
“Come Mamie.” Frank said. “Time to eat.” With that, Mamie darted from my foot, joined by Bess, and tails wagging devoured their bowl of meaty Kibbles.
-3-
“We’ll leave the collars and treats by the front door,” Henry said in a short instructional phone conversation. Doing this favor was privately a big step for me. I didn’t tell them that I had some reservations about taking the dogs for a walk. It’s like when someone asks you to baby-sit their child for an hour. That I can handle, having a child of my own. With children, you can discuss, reason and if necessary, clobber to stay in command. Dogs are a different breed. A child may test your patience but a dog can take your leg.
“What do you mean they’re gone?”
It was my worst nightmare scenario. Somehow, this simple task of going for a walk would end with the dogs getting loose and I’d be left, limp leash in hand, staring at the two faint dots disappearing on the horizon, the whoosh of the highway just beyond.
“Ha! Gee, you’ll never believe what happened!” I’d say, holding up my self-inflicted stump of pink Spam.
“I guess they really wanted their freedom! Those dogs sure were smart!”
When I arrived to pick them up, they came barking and hurling at the door. I quickly announced ‘Walk! Do you want to go for a walk!’ an instruction Henry had suggested, at which point both dogs settled and calmly waited for the coronation of the collars. (Who’s the boss now!!!)
Out the door, they immediately proceeded to tow me along the path toward the beach, sniffing and peeing along the way. (Boy, were they strong!!!) There was no way that I was going to go to the beach where there was a good chance of meeting up with other dogs so I steered them around several houses and after much lurching and tugging, gradually made my way back to the house. Along the way, they had vacuumed the underside of every bush and examined every moving blade of grass and previous dumpsite around. I had nervously scanned the area, looking out for other dog-walkers. (Don’t dogs attack each other when they get together?)
Once back inside, I uncollered them and dealt out the treats, all the while assuring them that Frank and Henry would be back soon to give them a ‘real’ walk. I was panting. I tossed a few extra treats down the hall. As they spirited after them, I quickly slipped out the door, locked it and went home.
“Oh they were just great. No problem. Yeah, it was fun! Great exercise! They sure are strong dogs.”
It’s a Saturday evening at Henry and Frank’s home and I’ve had a cocktail or two. I find myself at ease in a chair and staring at Mamie. Is she still a challenge? Who has control here, the beast or me? My relaxed state of mind tells me to keep on staring. She wouldn’t snap. Not now. I feel pretty sure that she knows me. We’ve bonded.
The dog doesn’t hold my gaze, most likely bored by my presence, shifty frown and delusional mind game.
I smirk and allow a fleeting sense of superiority, then think that maybe, as usual I’ve been staring at the dog with the white spot on her head.
Mar 31, 2011
The Catcher in the Rye- What Happens Next
I’m not going to tell you much, only that I didn’t go back to school. Those morons didn’t want me back anyway. Mr. Antolini, my old English teacher talked it up with the faculty at old Pencey about my potential but I’d be crazy to go back. To tell the truth, I wasn’t in the mood. You got to be in the mood to try something again especially if it didn’t work out the first time. I don’t miss any of those lousy creeps anyway. I bet if I went back, Old Stradlater for one would still be combing his gorgeous locks in front of that same goddam mirror. He spent half his life in front of a mirror. I swear he did.
I decided instead to come out to Hollywood and stay with my brother D.B. for a while. I probably told you about him. He’s a Hollywood writer and writing a new movie. I’m staying at his house. It’s not some crumby place either. It’s all organized and everything with a pool that looks out onto the hills. That’s what they call the mountains out here. The Hills. That kind of thing drives me crazy. It really does. Some rich bastard probably woke up one day and decided it would be smart to start calling mountains hills. Like it was a brilliant idea. Maybe his phony wife thought it was sophisticated. Strictly for the birds. I can tell you everything in Hollywood is phony. It’s all make-believe. That’s what they do out here for a living. They make up corny stuff. Everyone is a show-off too. Some dopey looking guy in the movies isn’t just an actor. He’s known as a celeb. I could puke every time I hear that word. That’s what they call them. Celebs. The actresses fall all over themselves trying to become lousy celebs themselves or a girlfriend of some hotshot celeb. D.B. says that’s just the way it is in Hollywood. It’s the new thing. Most people aren’t that bad. I wouldn’t argue with him. Why bother. These morons wouldn’t know a mountain from a molehill even if they stepped in one.
I’ve been hanging out by the pool. It’s pretty small. It’s got a bunch of cactus plants sticking out of giant pots around it. Real California. The weather’s not bad either. Much better than New York. D.B. advised me to work on my tan. He’s says I look sickly. He should look in a goddam mirror. His English girlfriend hangs out sometimes. She’s pretty sexy I have to admit. D.B. pretty good at that sort of thing. Girls I mean. She’s all skinny all over and wears those big sunglasses all the time. It’s a phony Hollywood thing. Every jerk and their brother out here wear sunglasses. They’re real grand she says. God I hate that word.
D.B. says he wants to write a script about me. About all that boring stuff that happened in New York. That knocked me out. I told him it wasn’t such a good idea. Besides, who would want to be in a picture like that? To tell the truth, it was all kind of depressing. In New York I mean. I didn’t tell D.B. about meeting a prostitute. It was too embarrassing. I wouldn’t want any sexy parts to be in a movie anyway. Not that there were any. Then I thought about that dirty crooked bastard Maurice punching me. We had a disagreement over money. For the prostitute I mean. He got all bent out of shape and took a swing at me. I guess I cried a bit which I wasn’t too crazy about. I tried not to show it. I wouldn’t want some phony crying on the big screen. Maybe a flit like James Dean. How depressing would that be? Then I thought about old Spencer, my history teacher and to tell you the truth, an actor like Melvyn Douglas could play him exactly, only bony and wheezy and all. The thing is, I couldn’t think of anyone to play Jane. Jane Gallagher. She’s a girl I know. I wouldn’t want anyone to anyway. I don’t think there’s even one actress that could play her. Not in all of Hollywood I bet.
Anyway, D.B. said he’d work on it all. I can stay at his place as long as I want. He said whatever he wrote he would let me read first. I wasn’t going to stop him. If something like that became a movie, I’d be real surprised. I swear to God I would be. The goddam movies. They can ruin you. I’m not kidding.
I decided instead to come out to Hollywood and stay with my brother D.B. for a while. I probably told you about him. He’s a Hollywood writer and writing a new movie. I’m staying at his house. It’s not some crumby place either. It’s all organized and everything with a pool that looks out onto the hills. That’s what they call the mountains out here. The Hills. That kind of thing drives me crazy. It really does. Some rich bastard probably woke up one day and decided it would be smart to start calling mountains hills. Like it was a brilliant idea. Maybe his phony wife thought it was sophisticated. Strictly for the birds. I can tell you everything in Hollywood is phony. It’s all make-believe. That’s what they do out here for a living. They make up corny stuff. Everyone is a show-off too. Some dopey looking guy in the movies isn’t just an actor. He’s known as a celeb. I could puke every time I hear that word. That’s what they call them. Celebs. The actresses fall all over themselves trying to become lousy celebs themselves or a girlfriend of some hotshot celeb. D.B. says that’s just the way it is in Hollywood. It’s the new thing. Most people aren’t that bad. I wouldn’t argue with him. Why bother. These morons wouldn’t know a mountain from a molehill even if they stepped in one.
I’ve been hanging out by the pool. It’s pretty small. It’s got a bunch of cactus plants sticking out of giant pots around it. Real California. The weather’s not bad either. Much better than New York. D.B. advised me to work on my tan. He’s says I look sickly. He should look in a goddam mirror. His English girlfriend hangs out sometimes. She’s pretty sexy I have to admit. D.B. pretty good at that sort of thing. Girls I mean. She’s all skinny all over and wears those big sunglasses all the time. It’s a phony Hollywood thing. Every jerk and their brother out here wear sunglasses. They’re real grand she says. God I hate that word.
D.B. says he wants to write a script about me. About all that boring stuff that happened in New York. That knocked me out. I told him it wasn’t such a good idea. Besides, who would want to be in a picture like that? To tell the truth, it was all kind of depressing. In New York I mean. I didn’t tell D.B. about meeting a prostitute. It was too embarrassing. I wouldn’t want any sexy parts to be in a movie anyway. Not that there were any. Then I thought about that dirty crooked bastard Maurice punching me. We had a disagreement over money. For the prostitute I mean. He got all bent out of shape and took a swing at me. I guess I cried a bit which I wasn’t too crazy about. I tried not to show it. I wouldn’t want some phony crying on the big screen. Maybe a flit like James Dean. How depressing would that be? Then I thought about old Spencer, my history teacher and to tell you the truth, an actor like Melvyn Douglas could play him exactly, only bony and wheezy and all. The thing is, I couldn’t think of anyone to play Jane. Jane Gallagher. She’s a girl I know. I wouldn’t want anyone to anyway. I don’t think there’s even one actress that could play her. Not in all of Hollywood I bet.
Anyway, D.B. said he’d work on it all. I can stay at his place as long as I want. He said whatever he wrote he would let me read first. I wasn’t going to stop him. If something like that became a movie, I’d be real surprised. I swear to God I would be. The goddam movies. They can ruin you. I’m not kidding.
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