He loved to hide in plain sight; security by ignorance, a faceless persona, an avatar; in the crowds at Grand Central, watching everyone going elsewhere, while he sipped coffee. Or in bars, chatting up dates, wanting shallow and finding it, as always. Or online, sometimes as Joe, or Igor, or Mohamed, or Saul. Ready to talk, but not about that.
And then they went and picked him.
Cabby exited the station at 45th, blinking in the sun that slammed down between the urban towers, and hustled north along Broadway, looking, scanning, absorbing. He preferred to walk as much as he could, to soak up whatever city he's in, which is why he left the subway rather than transfer underground to chase the slant of B-way uptown.
He passed a noodle shop, far from Chinatown but catching the trade near Times square. Through the window he saw four bespectacled Asians peering down through the steam obscuring their bowls. There were some white faces and some black; and someone who caught his eye and quickly looked away.
A bum sat back against a storefront, his tattered box full of change and small bills. DISABLED it's labeled in Sharpie. Below it, clumsily crossed out, Cabby can still make out FREE TIBET. Even his box is a castoff. In goes a subway card with his last ride; a curt nod is his reply.
He's reminded of his own country, where the junta had jailed and tortured many souls, reducing them to begging like this guy. His dad would have been one of them if picked up early. When they finally did come for him, his short-lived underground paper had a following, so his torture ended in death, relatives be damned.
Cabby sifts through early memories of his dad, caressing them like elephants do the long bones of their comrades at their secret burial grounds. He thinks of dinners together in their snug kitchen as the sizzling pans threw strong spices into the air; splashing in the lake in the summer; bellowing along with folk songs on the radio.
Next block has upscale clothing stores, Restoration Hardware, classy booksellers, the ubiquitous StarBux. He peered down side streets that turn onto shopping avenues containing gleaming, polished doors to appointment-only haberdashers. Doors opened gladly for his country's despots and their entourages, the oily pitchmen owners falling all over themselves hawking their latest collections.
Elly. He thinks of her often. More today, as they're due to meet. She didn't tell him her Mandarin name, as her Americanized name has stuck, even within her family, she said when she met him at a trade event he was covering. He didn't share his real name either because his short one has stuck too, a useful label for a citizen of the world. Both of their assumed names being more interesting than the usual Bob, George, Rita or Mary so many internationals took on. Something they had in common.
#
Two small diamond studs set in gold went into her earlobes. The natural double folds of her Asian eyelids reflect in the dressing mirror while she checked her makeup. Her tight red and gold silk dress slid over her head and hugged her toned figure. Just a classy camisole between her perky breasts and the silk; no underwear.
Done dressing, Elly closed the door to the walk-in closet full of perfectly tailored and pressed outfits ready for any occasion. One of the Stepford wife perks available to the fiance of a dry-cleaner. As a Chinese national fully comfortable in America, she was a much sought-after daughter of a high-ranking member of the consulate. Her father had been located in New York and sometimes Washington for years doing trade negotiations, his big win being garnering Most Favored Nation status for the regime. Her mother and then El do their duty as the perfect Mandarin representatives. Both are slim, alluring, flirty with the Americans and others who came to New York on business.
Elly was born in Shanghai to her mother, a child bride, while her father was on assignment there as the city began to grow. When El was four, his next posting was New York, where he fell in love with the stimulating environment, the large multi-national community, and an attractive secretary from the consulate, and had enough clout to remain here for as long as he wanted. El had been sent to NYU to learn communications and marketing to allow her to do summer internships with the trade councils and the U.N. She was introduced to her dry-cleaner upon graduation a couple of years ago.
She grabbed a stylish jacket on her way out of the door, something to cover her sleek dress and to hide it from her mother's eyes. An oversized Coach purse with some makeup and a change of clothes completed her ensemble, and she walked the short two blocks to the commuter station behind large dark glasses, head held high, long black hair shining in the sunlight.
Even after coming of age, her small circle of friends had to balance allure with tasteful composure for their families' sake. She had been allowed to attend NYU as it was so close and she could continue to assist at the consulate. Many of her friends had to attend small, rural colleges that had parietal rules and dorm monitors, boys strictly forbidden. For her, NYU senior year had been a time of freedom, of getting on the pill, on meeting lots of international students, on having and sharing secrets. Before then she had to commute from home, her arrivals and departures monitored. She had managed to wangle that one year away (a whole ten miles across the river, hah!) saying how she had to work with her advisor very closely.
And that was when she had met Mr. Ping, esquire, Man of the World, thank-you very much, an associate of her advisor, and a specialist in emigration and residency law. He was the one who had filed for her permanent residency without her family's knowledge, in exchange for long talks over wine and her virginity.
So now she stood on the train platform, on a big city tryst, with a college degree, some experience in relations both international and intimate, and the world in front of her. If she could figure out how to untangle herself from her fiance.
#
The lobby was empty save for the desk attendant at the far end. The tasteful looped soundtrack was between selections. The two entered from opposite ends of the high ceilinged, brass and glass room, he from the street, she from the polished elevator bank. They spotted each other immediately.
“Cabby!” she called.
“Elly. It’s been too long,” he replied.
They started to shake hands, then locked in a warm embrace.
“Join me over here in the bar,” El said, heading across the room while steering Cabby with her arm into the alcove. “It’s intimate, and we can talk.”
Settled into two wing backs, with drinks delivered by an obsequious waiter, the two caught up.
“Why are you in the city?” he asked.
“I came in for overnight adventure which my mom thinks is for a seminar and some shopping. Your text to hook up was a godsend. Life is dull beyond belief in Jersey. Are you here for an interview? Who is it this time?”
“Nobody. This time I’m the interviewee. Elly, they want me for the launch.”
“For an opinion from the international community? Al-Jezera or something?”
“No. To go.”
Surprise flickered across her face.
“That’s a big step. Why you? To represent a friendly foreign face to the U.S?” she asked.
“Most likely. I really don’t know.”
“Will the media play this up and use your real name? Or will they call you Cabby to make you more ‘palatable’ to Peoria?”
“I don’t know that either, and probably never will. I don’t plan to go.”
“Oh no, this is an opportunity of a lifetime,” she said.
“The risk is too high.”
“The risk of a crash? That's pretty small. Of getting the ultimate cabin fever? After all those space station missions, they know how to handle that stuff now – get you in shape, keep you active, in touch. I’ll be your most active Tweeter.”
“The risk of assassination.”
“What, you think you're fuckin' Trotsky or something? The long arm of Stalin never far?” she wise-cracked, then turned serious. “Tell me more about your Dad.”
Cabby squirmed, and took a long drink. The cold hurt his stomach, as the different liquids fought it out, like his emotions did in his head.
“He was a warm, caring man, with large rough hands worn from doing whatever had to be done. Digging in the earth, inking his little press, loading his old truck. He filled my entire childhood, not knowing my Mom, who died in childbirth with me. We were a small family, but it allowed him to include me in everything, only occasionally having to have my aunt care for me if he got very busy. And as I grew up, we had our small differences, but he remained important to me even as a shy teenager, when most kids would disappear all day to play soccer or throw stones at the patrols.”
“So what happened?”
“He had applied for a job at the big resort hotel outside of town, but it wasn't his turn or perhaps his bribe was too small. Anyway, he was tossed out of the office. Always someone who felt the sting of injustice, he started his tiny press, printing leaflets. The object was to slowly grow a base of people also injured by the regime, having them find others face-to-face and ply them with the broadsides. That way there would be no public gathering easily crushed. They wouldn't act until there were hordes of followers. But it backfired when someone spoke his name.
“They came at night, of course. I was just falling asleep. He was smoking in the front room, the blue rings slowly rising in the hot air. The door stove in, and two large men grabbed him with a shout. I was all man at nineteen, so I leaped to his aid in my pajamas, but one goon simply knocked me to the floor. That's how I got this,” he said in a whisper, running his finger over the bump on the top of his nose. “Took weeks to heal, but nothing compared to beatings and electric shocks. I never saw him again.”
“What a contrast to my life,” El replied. She slid her chair closer, the proper ninety degree conversational angle now turning more acute. Her leg brushed his lightly, her head tilted toward his, her pupils dilated. “I've had everything either prescribed, or proscribed, by my family.”
“Not so different. Both of us are controlled by a regime. It's simply that mine would prefer me dead, and yours brain-dead. If your eyes weren't up to standards, they would have made you have surgical folds done. They would have bound your feet if they could, I'm sure.”
The waiter came by, refreshed their glasses, and departed.
“What do you want, El?” he asked.
“No, what do you want, Cabby? It's time to come out of the shadows. You can talk about that, that which happened to your father and possibly might to yourself. See, you're doing it now with me.
“When I met you, you were covering our delegation's Spring trade announcement. The international equivalent of doing dumb-ass weather and birthdays on local TV.”
“It's a living. And it keeps my hand in journalism, and my limbs safely attached. A low profile that doesn't upset anyone.”
“You can do better,” says El.
Emboldened by the alcohol and the attention, his desire for her and the mission goes up. He fights it back down.
“Imagine what you could do as the spokesman for your country during the entire training and flight,” she reminds him.
He's a bit dazed now, the nearby warmth and soft skin belonging to someone he can respect, someone who's smart and sharp and has a purpose.
“I don't need a man to take care of me, like my stupid fiance, I need a teammate, someone I care about and who cares for me. And I think you do too, babe.”
That does it.
They leaned back in their chairs. Glasses nearly empty, both watched each other suck on the leftover ice. The waiter appeared, El scrawled her name and room number on the slip, and they left the bar.
The elevator doors closed on their frisky frottage, and she pulled away, giggling. At the room, the card key actually worked first swipe. Inside she dropped it on the floor along with her clothes.
And suddenly he was behind her, in her, thrusting, watching her dark hair sweep across her back, with the ends, cut by some talented queer who must have been thinking of him, perfectly aligned. And when they were done, they rolled and laughed and cried and hugged, until he thought nothing could be better than this, except to go to Mars, if just for her.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Sunday, June 06, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
Trip to Venice Florida
Sis's house.
Did someone say it's dinnertime?
Our private beach.
Night heron on our front lawn.
Did someone say it's dinnertime?
Our private beach.
Night heron on our front lawn.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Death in the Dark - Writer's Digest prompt
Wrote in response to WD prompt: You wake up standing over a body with a bloody knife. Piece together what happened.
Death in the Dark
Doug Stone
May 7, 2010
My eyes crack open. Even the dim light hurts, so I scrunch them closed, tight. I’m dizzy. I retch. I try my eyes again, better.
Standing up, the room spins a bit, forcing me back onto the floor. I lie near a wooden table, and right next to an overturned chair. On the floor, there’s a round thing a few feet away in the shadows. I hear very distant music, laughing, glasses clinking. But here I’m alone. There’s no feeling of immediate danger.
Close my eyes again, take stock. What’s my name? Jim. Good. Time to take a deep breath and go to my special relaxation place, but I can’t remember if it’s a place I’ve been or just imagined. Bad. Bile in my mouth; I gag and spit.
I open my eyes, see little. Patting down my body, there’s no major wounds or missing limbs. My head aches. Reaching back, there’s a large lump, with a bit of wet around it. Not good. Suddenly there’s a persistent vibration from my right hip, then it stops. Must be feeling my cell in its holster. Good.
I take the phone out, open it. I squint as the light burns my eyes. 12:15 am. One missed call. My last outgoing call went to voicemail at 12 am. I try to stand up again, but I’m still nauseated. Back to the floor. I start up the strobe in my cell phone camera. The light is blinding, but I quickly see that the round thing across the way is my ball cap. There’s a knife near my left hand, with blood around it. Picking it up, I can see it’s a large sheath knife, made of soft steel. I wouldn’t purchase anything that cheap. Ah, at least my long term memory is working. I kill the light when can’t bear it any longer.
Worn out, I lie back again and close my eyes. Okay, can you remember anything else? Yes, moved to New Orleans about 3 months ago due to a job transfer. Good. About a month ago I reported a chemical spill to the authorities after my employer wouldn’t. Good. Well, bad for my career. Costs them thousands per day until it gets cleaned up. Put on leave. This happened to another whistle-blower about a year ago who cost them millions; Conor’s still on leave. We’d met for drinks a few times, to share notes and drown our sorrows.
What else? One of my co-workers called yesterday. Wendy felt sorry for me, she did, and wanted to meet for a drink. We’d shared a double cubicle and she had been one of the bright spots in the relocation for me.
She recommended a cozy tourist spot on Bourbon Street, the home of the real pirate Jean Lafitte. Easy to find, it’s a place they’ve kept original, with unpainted wood siding, no electricity, and a rustic interior. A quiet piano bar, with candles in each room. Tours of the French Quarter gather here, with the tourists encouraged to spend money at the bar.
A latrine smell interrupts my thoughts. Whew, where is that coming from? I sit up, flash on the light, but don’t see anything. I hunch back down.
Recent events are coming back to me. I’d gone straight into an empty back room after getting a drink, to avoid the tourists. Wendy didn’t show up, and I tried to call her at midnight. The piano stopped; must have been his break. There was a creaking floorboard behind me, and the candle went out. Some thug walloped me pretty good.
I finally feel strong enough to stand up, for real. The smell is very strong now, and I want to vomit. I turn on the cell light again to find my way out. Off in the corner, I see a dark shadow. Using my light, I see it’s Conor. Blood has drained from a large chest wound. The pants are all stained and smelly. I retch over his body. How convenient – kill one enemy and frame the other for it?
The manager comes in with one of those wind proof super lighters to get the candle going. She sees me with the bloody knife leaning over the body, and screams.
Death in the Dark
Doug Stone
May 7, 2010
My eyes crack open. Even the dim light hurts, so I scrunch them closed, tight. I’m dizzy. I retch. I try my eyes again, better.
Standing up, the room spins a bit, forcing me back onto the floor. I lie near a wooden table, and right next to an overturned chair. On the floor, there’s a round thing a few feet away in the shadows. I hear very distant music, laughing, glasses clinking. But here I’m alone. There’s no feeling of immediate danger.
Close my eyes again, take stock. What’s my name? Jim. Good. Time to take a deep breath and go to my special relaxation place, but I can’t remember if it’s a place I’ve been or just imagined. Bad. Bile in my mouth; I gag and spit.
I open my eyes, see little. Patting down my body, there’s no major wounds or missing limbs. My head aches. Reaching back, there’s a large lump, with a bit of wet around it. Not good. Suddenly there’s a persistent vibration from my right hip, then it stops. Must be feeling my cell in its holster. Good.
I take the phone out, open it. I squint as the light burns my eyes. 12:15 am. One missed call. My last outgoing call went to voicemail at 12 am. I try to stand up again, but I’m still nauseated. Back to the floor. I start up the strobe in my cell phone camera. The light is blinding, but I quickly see that the round thing across the way is my ball cap. There’s a knife near my left hand, with blood around it. Picking it up, I can see it’s a large sheath knife, made of soft steel. I wouldn’t purchase anything that cheap. Ah, at least my long term memory is working. I kill the light when can’t bear it any longer.
Worn out, I lie back again and close my eyes. Okay, can you remember anything else? Yes, moved to New Orleans about 3 months ago due to a job transfer. Good. About a month ago I reported a chemical spill to the authorities after my employer wouldn’t. Good. Well, bad for my career. Costs them thousands per day until it gets cleaned up. Put on leave. This happened to another whistle-blower about a year ago who cost them millions; Conor’s still on leave. We’d met for drinks a few times, to share notes and drown our sorrows.
What else? One of my co-workers called yesterday. Wendy felt sorry for me, she did, and wanted to meet for a drink. We’d shared a double cubicle and she had been one of the bright spots in the relocation for me.
She recommended a cozy tourist spot on Bourbon Street, the home of the real pirate Jean Lafitte. Easy to find, it’s a place they’ve kept original, with unpainted wood siding, no electricity, and a rustic interior. A quiet piano bar, with candles in each room. Tours of the French Quarter gather here, with the tourists encouraged to spend money at the bar.
A latrine smell interrupts my thoughts. Whew, where is that coming from? I sit up, flash on the light, but don’t see anything. I hunch back down.
Recent events are coming back to me. I’d gone straight into an empty back room after getting a drink, to avoid the tourists. Wendy didn’t show up, and I tried to call her at midnight. The piano stopped; must have been his break. There was a creaking floorboard behind me, and the candle went out. Some thug walloped me pretty good.
I finally feel strong enough to stand up, for real. The smell is very strong now, and I want to vomit. I turn on the cell light again to find my way out. Off in the corner, I see a dark shadow. Using my light, I see it’s Conor. Blood has drained from a large chest wound. The pants are all stained and smelly. I retch over his body. How convenient – kill one enemy and frame the other for it?
The manager comes in with one of those wind proof super lighters to get the candle going. She sees me with the bloody knife leaning over the body, and screams.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Red Paint story
Red Paint
March 14, 2010
Doug Stone
2210 words
The slamming metal crash doors cut off Paul’s echoing sobs. The room was still. Kirby turned away from the closed doors, and faced the sculpture. Red paint pooled beneath the Buddha-like figure on the table.
“He had it coming. The entire work is derivative of Murakami’s set of figures, late 1990s,” Kirby spat. “Who’s next? Ah, Lily I see.”
Lily stood next to a large oil painting hanging on the dingy white wall. Mythical beasts such as manticores, as well as hybrids like centaurs and ligers were rampant on a background of modern symbols. She rubbed her hands nervously.
“Great use of figure and color, girl.” Kirby stepped closer for a good look at the background. “What are these symbols? Are they reminiscent of a Coach purse? Too commercial.”
Dipping a cheap brush into his quart of house paint, Kirby spattered red all over the background, covering a few stray beasts in the process.
“Now you know what to fix,” he said.
“Yes, yes I do,” replied Lily.
I’ve never been in a critique like this one, thought Amanda, a few feet from Lily. Senior seminar was challenging, and Professor Downing gloried in his paint, holding grudges against the world. Critiques were supposed to contain strong, yet constructive, criticism, with open dialog between master and student. Not this. This was raw antagonism.
The red paint. An art critic’s red pencil, Professor had said. This was simple house paint, Benjamin Moore Red latex. Not crimson, nor Sedona, but RED. Photoshop palette RBG 255,0,0. No subtlety here. Anathema.
Kirby walked over to the next work, Richard’s self-portrait, in dots.
“Give me a little back story, Richard,” he said.
Richard swallowed hard. “Well, sir, it’s a likeness of myself. I used a range of colors in the work, to show depth and shading.”
“Very well. But isn’t this a derivation of Seurat, the famous Impressionist?” chided Kirby.
“Well, well, sir, sir,” Richard stammered, “It’s now a well accepted technique.”
But Kirby was no longer paying attention to his answer. Taking up a fine brush, he dipped it into his quart of red and began connecting the dots. There being so many, he managed to easily find enough to draw a scowling face. The class tried to suppress shocked laughter.
Kirby stood before Amanda. “Still life. Shadows and depth in the fabric that wraps the fruit bowl, I see,” he said.
“Yes, I spent considerable time on that detail,” Amanda replied.
Kirby adjusted his glasses. He stepped back, gave the canvas a brisk up-and-down sweep of his eyes, then stepped in close to review the shadow detail. His index finger dipped into his quart, coming out red.
“Class, how many times have I told you to draw from life? Not from a photo? You want nothing hindering your representation of reality directly as you see it,” he said as his finger left ugly blotches here and there in the details.
“This was clearly painted from a photoshopped snapshot. See the shadows are not consistent, as she painted them from a printout where they have been copied and pasted over and over. Enough.”
Kirby gave Amanda a hard stare, but she held his eyes.
“Class dismissed.”
His long workday done, Kirby bent his tall frame into his tiny Civic, turned the key in the ignition, and exchanged his work glasses for driving glasses. He was always annoyed by the tight fit of the small, cheap cars he drove. He punched on the radio, and swamp boogie blues throbbed from the cheap speakers. A glance in the rear-view returned a view of his pale skin and thinning sandy hair along with a clear driveway behind him. Piles of art books in the seats shifted and bumped as he backed and turned out from his reserved space. One more day at Mercer County College gone, he thought. He was not getting any younger, in an art world that preferred the next young genius to the aging journeyman.
An uneventful ten miles later, he pulled into the driveway of his apartment complex. Leaving his car, he walked up the path from his space, grabbed the mail from the community box, and went inside his small one bedroom. Dropping the mail and keys on the beat up farm table in his kitchen, he went past the bedroom and used the toilet. That out of the way, he went back to the kitchen, adjusted an original Volkov pastoral that had shifted when he slammed the front door, and began to rummage in his fridge for dinner. Frozen pizza was all he was up to making tonight, after a long day and then his night class for seminar students too.
While the microwave buzzed and hummed, he thought about the past year. Seminar was over, the students having suffered their final critique tonight. Soon he would be teaching summer students, those trying to get their feet wet in the visual arts, or fulfill their arts requirement during the summer. He couldn’t bear another year of this, could he?
After dinner of cardboard with tomato sauce, he cleaned up after himself and did a quick scan of the news on the various TV channels. He turned down the sound, and thought about alternatives to his current employment.
Low on money, but at least I have a job, he thought. I haven’t sold anything for ten years now, and can barely bring myself to lift a brush or palette knife. On bad nights he kept reliving the same nightmare of his famous failure: at Cal Arts, near L.A., fifteen years ago, he was expelled. He had shown tremendous promise in the visual arts from childhood to grad student. Cal was a top school for animators, dance, and visual arts. For his final grad seminar, in his critique he had entered a raw, red head done in brilliant acrylics, with one ear in the process of being blown off. He also brought a handgun. The professor immediately admonished him for bringing weaponry to critique. Ashamed, Kirby had run out into the hall and fired the gun. A week later, he was contacted at home and told he was expelled. Not for carrying a weapon (he did have a pistol permit, after all) but for presenting a crassly derivative work. In 1971, student Chris Burden had an assistant shoot him in the arm for art’s sake. After his incident, Kirby was relegated to teaching at a local college after being blackballed.
He turned off the TV. Walking over to his work table and easel jammed into an alcove between the kitchen and living room, he took a long look at a still blank canvas.
The phone rang. He reached over and picked up the receiver.
“Kirby, it’s your mother,” came the voice from the other end. “I’m home with Dad, we’re wondering how you are doing.”
“I’m fine, fine. School year’s almost over, just have the final grades to get in. The kids are worse than ever this year.”
“Can you come over to supper tomorrow? We’re going to have spaghetti,” said his mom.
“Sure, sure,” Kirby replied. The spaghetti was not very authentic, just overcooked pasta and canned sauce, but it wasn’t cardboard and it was free.
“What are you doing for the summer? Do you have classes to teach?” she asked.
“Yes, I have a summer contract to cover the beginning studio art requirement for new students. Don’t worry, I won’t starve.”
“Good. Can you finish one of your works? I’ve heard about some big prices on regional works over in Pennsylvania, to say nothing of what they’re getting in New York these days,” she said.
“Um, I’ve tried hard, but nothing is ready right now,” he replied, glancing at his easel.
“Thank God you have that teaching job, Kirby. What would you do without that?”
Unseen by Mom, Kirby rolled his eyes. Middle class values would always be what they were, he thought.
“Okay, I gotta go. See you tomorrow. Say hi to Dad, “he said and hung up.
The next afternoon brought bright May sunshine to light up the lobby of the Princeton Art Castle. The museum was formally named for a local benefactor, but everyone called it the castle due to the stone turrets and crenellated parapets on the façade. Behind the lobby desk, Amanda glanced at the clock. A couple more hours and her shift would be over, she thought. She didn’t mind being busy, but having no visitors like this made the day drag.
Amanda had a beautiful cherubic face, and a model’s poise from years of Barbizon training. Her thin, toned body made her appear taller than she was at five feet seven inches. She was society’s vision of their physical ideals. Eating healthy now that she was getting older (20!), she worked out regularly and was not afraid to get her hands dirty remodeling a room or shoving freight around a warehouse. Sporting interesting bruises from minor mishaps (or something kinkier?), she would toss on some cover-up and hit the town. She had light brown hair she pulled back, and wore practical clothing except when she felt like flaunting it. Currently, she was very serious with school and her art career, and was not in a relationship. She did enjoy dating, but her problem was that she stayed close emotionally and physically to most of her lovers, which became much too time-consuming. Independent like her dad, she was doing her best to earn her own way through community college.
The lobby door opened, and in walked Professor Downing. Not Amanda’s favorite person.
Amanda smiled. “Hello professor. What brings you her today?”
“Hello, Amanda. I’m here to check out the new Kate Gilmore exhibit. I finally am getting a chance to now that the semester’s over,” he said. He showed his id and Amanda gave him a visitor’s sticker in exchange for a small donation. She noticed his sad demeanor and lack of companions.
“It’s very quiet today. I don’t expect anyone else before closing time. Perhaps I can walk through the galleries with you?” she asked.
“Suit yourself,” Kirby replied, and headed towards the new exhibit, Amanda following behind.
When they reached the gallery, they walked into a web of complex installations that intruded from the walls, hung from the ceiling, or protruded from the floor.
“I see nothing has changed with Gilmore’s work this year,” remarked Kirby, when confronted by a women’s shoe bursting through the sheetrock and called “Walk This Way.”
On her own turf, Amanda felt comfortable with stating “That has considerable impact. I like to see a strong female image. I think I’ll try something like that for my next work.”
“Be careful doing that. Semiotic deconstruction may be past its peak. So 2000’s,” said Kirby. “You know, ‘What does it mean?’ and all that.”
Amanda winced. “I’m still going to do it.”
“Amanda, can I give you some advice?” You have a long way to go before being able to make these artistic statements.”
She pressed on. “I’m tired of painting fruit bowls and nature scenes. I’ve got an old guitar, so I’m gonna have a female mannequin smash it over an amplifier. Girrls rock!
Kirby said nothing, and turned away.
Exiting the new exhibit, they passed through a gallery of traditional oil paintings, the mainstay of the castle’s collection of Romantic nature scenes and buxom women. They continued to make remarks about the works and their context, neither one listening to the other. Next, they entered a gallery of contemporary visual art, set pieces in an updated cubist style. Suddenly, they were back to the lobby.
Parting, Kirby said, “Perhaps I can draw some inspiration from what I saw today. Thank you for your time.”
Amanda shook his hand, and began clearing off her desk while Kirby walked out the door.
Arriving back at his apartment, Kirby dropped his keys on the table, and cleared away his old breakfast and lunch dishes.
They sure pile up fast, he thought. Methodically, he began the dish washing ritual. Hot water filled the sink. Detergent was sprayed in, then dishes and cutlery sunk beneath the sudsy water. Taking a sponge, he lifted one dish, wiped it carefully on both sides, dipped it in the suds again, then ran it under a quick rinse from the faucet. He placed it in the rack to dry. Fishing around in the suds, he found a saucer, and gave it the same treatment.
Like taking a shower, this kind of drudge work was great to let the mind wander. Lather, rinse, repeat. Kirby turned issues over in his brain. He hated his job. What would come next? He had few relationships, with his family or anyone else. Was he inspired by what he saw today? What if he was criticized again? He scrubbed a plate too enthusiastically and got suds on his shirt, but be barely noticed. And foolish Amanda, nothing seemed to stop her, especially not his red paint. But was that such a bad thing, eh?
Dished done, he dried his hands. He walked over to his easel in the alcove, and dipped a brush into Prussian blue. With a shaking hand, he began to paint.
March 14, 2010
Doug Stone
2210 words
The slamming metal crash doors cut off Paul’s echoing sobs. The room was still. Kirby turned away from the closed doors, and faced the sculpture. Red paint pooled beneath the Buddha-like figure on the table.
“He had it coming. The entire work is derivative of Murakami’s set of figures, late 1990s,” Kirby spat. “Who’s next? Ah, Lily I see.”
Lily stood next to a large oil painting hanging on the dingy white wall. Mythical beasts such as manticores, as well as hybrids like centaurs and ligers were rampant on a background of modern symbols. She rubbed her hands nervously.
“Great use of figure and color, girl.” Kirby stepped closer for a good look at the background. “What are these symbols? Are they reminiscent of a Coach purse? Too commercial.”
Dipping a cheap brush into his quart of house paint, Kirby spattered red all over the background, covering a few stray beasts in the process.
“Now you know what to fix,” he said.
“Yes, yes I do,” replied Lily.
I’ve never been in a critique like this one, thought Amanda, a few feet from Lily. Senior seminar was challenging, and Professor Downing gloried in his paint, holding grudges against the world. Critiques were supposed to contain strong, yet constructive, criticism, with open dialog between master and student. Not this. This was raw antagonism.
The red paint. An art critic’s red pencil, Professor had said. This was simple house paint, Benjamin Moore Red latex. Not crimson, nor Sedona, but RED. Photoshop palette RBG 255,0,0. No subtlety here. Anathema.
Kirby walked over to the next work, Richard’s self-portrait, in dots.
“Give me a little back story, Richard,” he said.
Richard swallowed hard. “Well, sir, it’s a likeness of myself. I used a range of colors in the work, to show depth and shading.”
“Very well. But isn’t this a derivation of Seurat, the famous Impressionist?” chided Kirby.
“Well, well, sir, sir,” Richard stammered, “It’s now a well accepted technique.”
But Kirby was no longer paying attention to his answer. Taking up a fine brush, he dipped it into his quart of red and began connecting the dots. There being so many, he managed to easily find enough to draw a scowling face. The class tried to suppress shocked laughter.
Kirby stood before Amanda. “Still life. Shadows and depth in the fabric that wraps the fruit bowl, I see,” he said.
“Yes, I spent considerable time on that detail,” Amanda replied.
Kirby adjusted his glasses. He stepped back, gave the canvas a brisk up-and-down sweep of his eyes, then stepped in close to review the shadow detail. His index finger dipped into his quart, coming out red.
“Class, how many times have I told you to draw from life? Not from a photo? You want nothing hindering your representation of reality directly as you see it,” he said as his finger left ugly blotches here and there in the details.
“This was clearly painted from a photoshopped snapshot. See the shadows are not consistent, as she painted them from a printout where they have been copied and pasted over and over. Enough.”
Kirby gave Amanda a hard stare, but she held his eyes.
“Class dismissed.”
His long workday done, Kirby bent his tall frame into his tiny Civic, turned the key in the ignition, and exchanged his work glasses for driving glasses. He was always annoyed by the tight fit of the small, cheap cars he drove. He punched on the radio, and swamp boogie blues throbbed from the cheap speakers. A glance in the rear-view returned a view of his pale skin and thinning sandy hair along with a clear driveway behind him. Piles of art books in the seats shifted and bumped as he backed and turned out from his reserved space. One more day at Mercer County College gone, he thought. He was not getting any younger, in an art world that preferred the next young genius to the aging journeyman.
An uneventful ten miles later, he pulled into the driveway of his apartment complex. Leaving his car, he walked up the path from his space, grabbed the mail from the community box, and went inside his small one bedroom. Dropping the mail and keys on the beat up farm table in his kitchen, he went past the bedroom and used the toilet. That out of the way, he went back to the kitchen, adjusted an original Volkov pastoral that had shifted when he slammed the front door, and began to rummage in his fridge for dinner. Frozen pizza was all he was up to making tonight, after a long day and then his night class for seminar students too.
While the microwave buzzed and hummed, he thought about the past year. Seminar was over, the students having suffered their final critique tonight. Soon he would be teaching summer students, those trying to get their feet wet in the visual arts, or fulfill their arts requirement during the summer. He couldn’t bear another year of this, could he?
After dinner of cardboard with tomato sauce, he cleaned up after himself and did a quick scan of the news on the various TV channels. He turned down the sound, and thought about alternatives to his current employment.
Low on money, but at least I have a job, he thought. I haven’t sold anything for ten years now, and can barely bring myself to lift a brush or palette knife. On bad nights he kept reliving the same nightmare of his famous failure: at Cal Arts, near L.A., fifteen years ago, he was expelled. He had shown tremendous promise in the visual arts from childhood to grad student. Cal was a top school for animators, dance, and visual arts. For his final grad seminar, in his critique he had entered a raw, red head done in brilliant acrylics, with one ear in the process of being blown off. He also brought a handgun. The professor immediately admonished him for bringing weaponry to critique. Ashamed, Kirby had run out into the hall and fired the gun. A week later, he was contacted at home and told he was expelled. Not for carrying a weapon (he did have a pistol permit, after all) but for presenting a crassly derivative work. In 1971, student Chris Burden had an assistant shoot him in the arm for art’s sake. After his incident, Kirby was relegated to teaching at a local college after being blackballed.
He turned off the TV. Walking over to his work table and easel jammed into an alcove between the kitchen and living room, he took a long look at a still blank canvas.
The phone rang. He reached over and picked up the receiver.
“Kirby, it’s your mother,” came the voice from the other end. “I’m home with Dad, we’re wondering how you are doing.”
“I’m fine, fine. School year’s almost over, just have the final grades to get in. The kids are worse than ever this year.”
“Can you come over to supper tomorrow? We’re going to have spaghetti,” said his mom.
“Sure, sure,” Kirby replied. The spaghetti was not very authentic, just overcooked pasta and canned sauce, but it wasn’t cardboard and it was free.
“What are you doing for the summer? Do you have classes to teach?” she asked.
“Yes, I have a summer contract to cover the beginning studio art requirement for new students. Don’t worry, I won’t starve.”
“Good. Can you finish one of your works? I’ve heard about some big prices on regional works over in Pennsylvania, to say nothing of what they’re getting in New York these days,” she said.
“Um, I’ve tried hard, but nothing is ready right now,” he replied, glancing at his easel.
“Thank God you have that teaching job, Kirby. What would you do without that?”
Unseen by Mom, Kirby rolled his eyes. Middle class values would always be what they were, he thought.
“Okay, I gotta go. See you tomorrow. Say hi to Dad, “he said and hung up.
The next afternoon brought bright May sunshine to light up the lobby of the Princeton Art Castle. The museum was formally named for a local benefactor, but everyone called it the castle due to the stone turrets and crenellated parapets on the façade. Behind the lobby desk, Amanda glanced at the clock. A couple more hours and her shift would be over, she thought. She didn’t mind being busy, but having no visitors like this made the day drag.
Amanda had a beautiful cherubic face, and a model’s poise from years of Barbizon training. Her thin, toned body made her appear taller than she was at five feet seven inches. She was society’s vision of their physical ideals. Eating healthy now that she was getting older (20!), she worked out regularly and was not afraid to get her hands dirty remodeling a room or shoving freight around a warehouse. Sporting interesting bruises from minor mishaps (or something kinkier?), she would toss on some cover-up and hit the town. She had light brown hair she pulled back, and wore practical clothing except when she felt like flaunting it. Currently, she was very serious with school and her art career, and was not in a relationship. She did enjoy dating, but her problem was that she stayed close emotionally and physically to most of her lovers, which became much too time-consuming. Independent like her dad, she was doing her best to earn her own way through community college.
The lobby door opened, and in walked Professor Downing. Not Amanda’s favorite person.
Amanda smiled. “Hello professor. What brings you her today?”
“Hello, Amanda. I’m here to check out the new Kate Gilmore exhibit. I finally am getting a chance to now that the semester’s over,” he said. He showed his id and Amanda gave him a visitor’s sticker in exchange for a small donation. She noticed his sad demeanor and lack of companions.
“It’s very quiet today. I don’t expect anyone else before closing time. Perhaps I can walk through the galleries with you?” she asked.
“Suit yourself,” Kirby replied, and headed towards the new exhibit, Amanda following behind.
When they reached the gallery, they walked into a web of complex installations that intruded from the walls, hung from the ceiling, or protruded from the floor.
“I see nothing has changed with Gilmore’s work this year,” remarked Kirby, when confronted by a women’s shoe bursting through the sheetrock and called “Walk This Way.”
On her own turf, Amanda felt comfortable with stating “That has considerable impact. I like to see a strong female image. I think I’ll try something like that for my next work.”
“Be careful doing that. Semiotic deconstruction may be past its peak. So 2000’s,” said Kirby. “You know, ‘What does it mean?’ and all that.”
Amanda winced. “I’m still going to do it.”
“Amanda, can I give you some advice?” You have a long way to go before being able to make these artistic statements.”
She pressed on. “I’m tired of painting fruit bowls and nature scenes. I’ve got an old guitar, so I’m gonna have a female mannequin smash it over an amplifier. Girrls rock!
Kirby said nothing, and turned away.
Exiting the new exhibit, they passed through a gallery of traditional oil paintings, the mainstay of the castle’s collection of Romantic nature scenes and buxom women. They continued to make remarks about the works and their context, neither one listening to the other. Next, they entered a gallery of contemporary visual art, set pieces in an updated cubist style. Suddenly, they were back to the lobby.
Parting, Kirby said, “Perhaps I can draw some inspiration from what I saw today. Thank you for your time.”
Amanda shook his hand, and began clearing off her desk while Kirby walked out the door.
Arriving back at his apartment, Kirby dropped his keys on the table, and cleared away his old breakfast and lunch dishes.
They sure pile up fast, he thought. Methodically, he began the dish washing ritual. Hot water filled the sink. Detergent was sprayed in, then dishes and cutlery sunk beneath the sudsy water. Taking a sponge, he lifted one dish, wiped it carefully on both sides, dipped it in the suds again, then ran it under a quick rinse from the faucet. He placed it in the rack to dry. Fishing around in the suds, he found a saucer, and gave it the same treatment.
Like taking a shower, this kind of drudge work was great to let the mind wander. Lather, rinse, repeat. Kirby turned issues over in his brain. He hated his job. What would come next? He had few relationships, with his family or anyone else. Was he inspired by what he saw today? What if he was criticized again? He scrubbed a plate too enthusiastically and got suds on his shirt, but be barely noticed. And foolish Amanda, nothing seemed to stop her, especially not his red paint. But was that such a bad thing, eh?
Dished done, he dried his hands. He walked over to his easel in the alcove, and dipped a brush into Prussian blue. With a shaking hand, he began to paint.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Monday, January 04, 2010
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Mt. Snow
Incident on Mt. Snow
DougStone
November 4, 2009
Calm blue water, close-cropped Bahama grass, then shimmering black asphalt ran in quick succession below Bonnie just before the turboprop’s wheels touched down. Now rolling on the runway, there was not much left to see in the grainy plane window but a reflection of her wispy brown hair and pale white face. She closed her eyes and squeezed her new husband Mike’s arm.
“We’re really here,” she whispered.
“Uh huh,” he replied sleepily. It had been a long flight from New York, and Mike had dozed the entire way. She had had to plan the honeymoon, and then shepherd both of them through all the connections. Finally on the trip, he was just like the helpless folks in her office, always needing something. She had hoped for a vacation from her daily gotta’s – gotta do this, gotta do that.
The cockpit door opened and the moist air brought in the odor of salt spray and decaying vegetation. They slowly made their way down the stairway and onto the tarmac. A wagon was already filling with luggage and they spotted theirs at one end of it. Mike was awake enough to grab both bags and pass one along to Bonnie. Old enough now at 51 and 50, Mike and Bonnie had learned to pack efficiently. They went even lighter for their tropical vacations. Besides, it gave them the opportunity to shop in the funky little Caribbean markets.
They packed into the oppressive arrivals hall, echoing with multilingual babble. Looking past a German couple whose skin was even whiter than theirs, she could see way up in front of her several counters manned by immigration and customs officers. Similar to a bank’s queue, ropes and standards divided the main queue into smaller queues for each counter. She waited, and waited, while the line sluggishly inched along. She thought back to when life was free.
Late at night, without permission, Bonnie led Royal Standard out of his stall into the aisle, and cross-tied him to the walls to prep for a run. He stretched; his front and back legs fully extended and his back arched. Her pulse quickened thinking about the risk of riding this thoroughbred again, alone in the dark. There was a small vertical scar below her left eye from when she had last snuck out with the frisky colt, catching an invisible piece of barbed wire with her face. At the doctor’s office, she lied to her dad, telling him a pitchfork had slipped while haying. Grimacing at the memory, she tugged harder on the saddle’s girth straps.
After tacking up, she unclipped him from the ties, traded his halter for a bridle, and led him out the barn door into the waning moonlight. The ghostly white rails of the track stood guard around its black dirt oval. Bonnie jumped into the saddle, and with a squeeze of her legs, guided him out at record speed, hooves flying, cool night air buffeting her face.
“Passport, ma’am?” prompted the immigration agent. Sweat from his large belly stained the front of his uniform shirt, contradicting any attempt at crisp formality.
Startled she was next in line, Bonnie looked up at the officer while her hands rummaged in her purse. No Mike in sight. Crap, she thought, where was he? He really is AWOL on this trip. And you’re not? she replied to herself.
“Here it is,” she replied, handing it over open to the photo page.
“Very well.” He matched her headshot to the face before him. “Hope your stay with us replaces that frown with a smile. Welcome to St. Somewhere.”
At least that is what it sounded like. She could never remember the real name of the island nor if it was British or French, or whatever.
“Are you traveling alone?” the official asked.
“No. I’m with my husband. Was he processed through before me?” she asked before she realized the agent wouldn’t know, their passports having different names.
“I’m afraid don’t know. Perhaps roll your things to the taxi line and you will find him,” he said with a vague wave towards the corner of the building. “Next!”
Bonnie caught sight of Mike and rushed to join him in the long line near the exit. A tall, thin gentleman with a goatee approached, doffed his frayed baseball cap, and offered his card.
“I am 007. Please come with me to the most fabulous 007 taxi company.” He gestured for them to follow him, and walked outside. All around them they could hear similar exchanges between tourists and other whimsical celebrities. Out at the curb was a long line of beat-up cars. Turning to the right, the driver popped open the trunk of a dented Impala, dropped in their bags, and slammed it closed while they climbed into the backseat.
They chatted a bit with 007 as the cab bounced along the ancient asphalt highway from the airport to town. The road curved around the entrance to a small park. At the far edge of the grass, Bonnie could see a marked trailhead. She interrupted him to ask where it went.
“That’s Mt. Snow, ma’am,” he replied. “They like to call it that as on top of the hill there is some white sand left over from an ancient beach. Pack a lunch and go for a hike. There’s a great waterfall with a large natural pool. And you don’t need a suit.”
“Is it safe?” Mike asked.
“Oh yes, Mon. No lifeguard, but stay in the shallows.”
“No, I mean from muggers,” said Mike.
“Oh yes, unless you mean how they’ll rob you at the little market they set up in the park on weekends,” he joked. “We have only one homeless guy on the island who gets a little too pushy asking for a handout, but he’s harmless,” said 007.
Around the next bend was an old fort, and another series of questions and answers began between Mike and the driver. The soft lilt of 007’s voice and the long flight had Bonnie space out again.
Weep! Weep! Weep! The monitors chanted, a Greek chorus repeating the tragedy of her mother’s failing organs to the four walls. Little else occurred in the private room. Nurses deigned to look in now and then; doctors avoided a patient they could not cure.
Bonnie sat in the chair next to her father. She read and reread the same page of Calc 301. Her mom was dying of terminal cancer, and taking months to do it. She was in a good university hospital, but it was also the same university where Bonnie was a junior. She felt obliged to be available, if not 24 hours a day, at least as near to that as possible. She studied here, ate here, slept here. Her Dad did the same. She loved her mom, at least what her mom had been before this. Long ago she wished it had been over quickly. But she would do whatever it took to control the cancer no one could control. Trying to focus back on her textbook, she watched the complex equations lay down and die before her teary, tired eyes.
The slam of the driver’s door brought Bonnie back to the island. Their bags were already at the curb, and Mike was digging through the pockets of his out-of-place dark business slacks for a tip. She must have dozed off. She popped out of the cab, giving the driver an embarrassed look. Hand in hand, the couple strolled up the brick path, past a private garden, and into the rented cottage, dragging their twee American rolling bags over the narrow threshold. Rays from the low sun bounced wildly off the brass hardware of the mahogany door as it slammed shut. Exhausted from the long flight, they curled up naked in the soft-spun sheets.
The next day Bonnie peeked out from the bedroom window at Mike sipping Jamaican coffee with his breakfast at the glass table in the garden. The cottage had come fully stocked with both American and Caribbean delicacies. She watched him slowly turn the pages of the local tourist guide, then take another sip. She had cursed him for having no energy, but today it was she who couldn’t get going. I’m fifty years old! And just getting around to marriage! What have I done with my life? And no hope for having kids at this age, she thought. An IT manager, she had spent her career doing computer coding and was now management. Events were always trying to through off her plans, so tight control of projects and people was essential. Tight, tight, control.
Outside, the sun moved higher. It picked out a steeple, then a lighthouse, then a mast in the harbor far below. Letting go of the lace curtain, Bonnie stood up. She tossed on light shorts, top, and sandals, then wrapped her hair in a bandana. After using the bathroom, she sought the safety of the king bed for just five more minutes. But one step away from her sanctuary, she just managed to avoid the raised pincers and waving tail of a scorpion. Doing an about-face, her skin flushed and palms sweaty, she strode out the door and plopped down next to Mike. Trying to stay in control and hide her overreaction, she looked in his eyes and smiled.
“Good morning, my love,” said Mike as he leaned in for a kiss. “I was worried you weren’t joining the world today.”
“Good morning. No, I’m fine,” she lied. “Um, let’s do a little daytrip after breakfast. Get to know the island.” And it would give the exterminator time to do his business.
“Great idea. You seemed interested in that Mt. Snow place yesterday. Wanna go there?”
“Sure. Hey, I just saw a scorpion near the bed. Perhaps we can call an exterminator while we’re gone?”
“What? The service promised to take care of everything before we got here.”
“Well they missed one. I’ve got their number in my cell. Will give ‘em a call after we eat,” she said.
“Okay.”
They both finished their toast and coffee, and while Mike brought in the dishes, Bonnie made the call. After applying some sunscreen, they hopped on the scooter the agency had provided, and went back down the airport road to the park. Upon arrival, they saw four older men at a card table playing dominoes and listening to a reggae beats on their beat-up radio. A short distance from the card players, a large man sat wrapped in a blanket. He was roasting a chicken on a stick, feathers and all.
“What a stink!” said Bonnie.
“I think he’s in a rush to eat his ill-gotten booty,” replied Mike. “Let’s go.” Leaving the scooter at the start of the trail, they started down it holding hands.
The couple’s lean, strong bodies ate up the mile of ascending jungle path. Soon they came upon the promised pool with its waterfall at the far end. The water spilled down about twenty feet onto a flat boulder. The sound rose and fell with the breeze. As promised, the shore was white sand, interspersed with large volcanic rocks. Bonnie slipped her hand from Mike’s.
“Race you to the falls,” called Bonnie, kicking off her sandals and pulling off her top before diving in.
“I’m gonna beat you,” called Mike, also peeling off his shirt and shoes and diving in. Both of them stroked hard and reached the boulder at the same time. Heaving up onto it, they kissed and lay still a moment to catch their breath.
After another kiss, they slid back into the warm water. For 20 minutes more they splashed and played, finally making their way back to the sandy beach. Bonnie was squeezing out her bandana and Mike was reaching for his wallet when the chicken man stepped out from the trees, holding a giant rock over his head. His eyes were glassy, his arms already shaking with fatigue. With him came the stench of greasy smoke and body odor. They froze.
“Eh now, lemme have your wallet,” he said, brandishing his improvised weapon and leering at Bonnie.
Mike still didn’t move. Bonnie wrapped the bandana around her chest.
“Is money what you want?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, here you go,” Mike answered for him. He began to toss his trifold, but Bonnie grabbed his arm.
“Wait. We can stand up to this guy.” She looked back at the bandit. “Look, we’re strong, we don’t care what you do,” she said.
At this, chicken man stepped closer and raised the rock. They both backed up. “Come on, don’t got all day for this crap.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, deciding to take a chance. “But what do you really need? A hot meal? A place to stay? Some dope? Maybe we can take care of your needs and ours too.”
Their mugger looked thoughtful for a moment. His arms weary, the rock lowered. “Some herb be good,” he answered, pronouncing the “h.”
“Okay, we can split our cash with you. Maybe get you some real chicken fingers, no more burnt bird. We can get you a place for the night. You must have family, or a special girl? We can help.” Bonnie continued to talk slowly and rhythmically until she could see the bandit losing focus, the rock slipping lower and lower, his eyes turning into slits from the fatigue and the drugs. She and Mike gingerly edged towards the trail.
“Now!” she cried. Mike tossed twenty dollars American in chicken man’s general direction, and they both fled down the trail. Looking back, Bonnie could see a startled bandit lose control of the rock in his haste to pick up the money.
Reaching the park winded and scared, the two jumped on their scooter and headed back past the erstwhile domino players. At the house, Mike called the police from his cell phone, while Bonnie changed.
The police stopped by to take their statements, said the mugger was known to them, and, yes, ma’am, he would be picked up, as where could he go on such a small island? Afterwards, they both fell into the soft sheets for a long nap after their adventure.
Bonnie woke up first, and tiptoed out to the private garden. She could see the sun sinking into the western waves of the harbor, and stars glowing in the darkening eastern sky. Things had worked out. Maybe taking a chance now and then was a good thing, she thought.
DougStone
November 4, 2009
Calm blue water, close-cropped Bahama grass, then shimmering black asphalt ran in quick succession below Bonnie just before the turboprop’s wheels touched down. Now rolling on the runway, there was not much left to see in the grainy plane window but a reflection of her wispy brown hair and pale white face. She closed her eyes and squeezed her new husband Mike’s arm.
“We’re really here,” she whispered.
“Uh huh,” he replied sleepily. It had been a long flight from New York, and Mike had dozed the entire way. She had had to plan the honeymoon, and then shepherd both of them through all the connections. Finally on the trip, he was just like the helpless folks in her office, always needing something. She had hoped for a vacation from her daily gotta’s – gotta do this, gotta do that.
The cockpit door opened and the moist air brought in the odor of salt spray and decaying vegetation. They slowly made their way down the stairway and onto the tarmac. A wagon was already filling with luggage and they spotted theirs at one end of it. Mike was awake enough to grab both bags and pass one along to Bonnie. Old enough now at 51 and 50, Mike and Bonnie had learned to pack efficiently. They went even lighter for their tropical vacations. Besides, it gave them the opportunity to shop in the funky little Caribbean markets.
They packed into the oppressive arrivals hall, echoing with multilingual babble. Looking past a German couple whose skin was even whiter than theirs, she could see way up in front of her several counters manned by immigration and customs officers. Similar to a bank’s queue, ropes and standards divided the main queue into smaller queues for each counter. She waited, and waited, while the line sluggishly inched along. She thought back to when life was free.
Late at night, without permission, Bonnie led Royal Standard out of his stall into the aisle, and cross-tied him to the walls to prep for a run. He stretched; his front and back legs fully extended and his back arched. Her pulse quickened thinking about the risk of riding this thoroughbred again, alone in the dark. There was a small vertical scar below her left eye from when she had last snuck out with the frisky colt, catching an invisible piece of barbed wire with her face. At the doctor’s office, she lied to her dad, telling him a pitchfork had slipped while haying. Grimacing at the memory, she tugged harder on the saddle’s girth straps.
After tacking up, she unclipped him from the ties, traded his halter for a bridle, and led him out the barn door into the waning moonlight. The ghostly white rails of the track stood guard around its black dirt oval. Bonnie jumped into the saddle, and with a squeeze of her legs, guided him out at record speed, hooves flying, cool night air buffeting her face.
“Passport, ma’am?” prompted the immigration agent. Sweat from his large belly stained the front of his uniform shirt, contradicting any attempt at crisp formality.
Startled she was next in line, Bonnie looked up at the officer while her hands rummaged in her purse. No Mike in sight. Crap, she thought, where was he? He really is AWOL on this trip. And you’re not? she replied to herself.
“Here it is,” she replied, handing it over open to the photo page.
“Very well.” He matched her headshot to the face before him. “Hope your stay with us replaces that frown with a smile. Welcome to St. Somewhere.”
At least that is what it sounded like. She could never remember the real name of the island nor if it was British or French, or whatever.
“Are you traveling alone?” the official asked.
“No. I’m with my husband. Was he processed through before me?” she asked before she realized the agent wouldn’t know, their passports having different names.
“I’m afraid don’t know. Perhaps roll your things to the taxi line and you will find him,” he said with a vague wave towards the corner of the building. “Next!”
Bonnie caught sight of Mike and rushed to join him in the long line near the exit. A tall, thin gentleman with a goatee approached, doffed his frayed baseball cap, and offered his card.
“I am 007. Please come with me to the most fabulous 007 taxi company.” He gestured for them to follow him, and walked outside. All around them they could hear similar exchanges between tourists and other whimsical celebrities. Out at the curb was a long line of beat-up cars. Turning to the right, the driver popped open the trunk of a dented Impala, dropped in their bags, and slammed it closed while they climbed into the backseat.
They chatted a bit with 007 as the cab bounced along the ancient asphalt highway from the airport to town. The road curved around the entrance to a small park. At the far edge of the grass, Bonnie could see a marked trailhead. She interrupted him to ask where it went.
“That’s Mt. Snow, ma’am,” he replied. “They like to call it that as on top of the hill there is some white sand left over from an ancient beach. Pack a lunch and go for a hike. There’s a great waterfall with a large natural pool. And you don’t need a suit.”
“Is it safe?” Mike asked.
“Oh yes, Mon. No lifeguard, but stay in the shallows.”
“No, I mean from muggers,” said Mike.
“Oh yes, unless you mean how they’ll rob you at the little market they set up in the park on weekends,” he joked. “We have only one homeless guy on the island who gets a little too pushy asking for a handout, but he’s harmless,” said 007.
Around the next bend was an old fort, and another series of questions and answers began between Mike and the driver. The soft lilt of 007’s voice and the long flight had Bonnie space out again.
Weep! Weep! Weep! The monitors chanted, a Greek chorus repeating the tragedy of her mother’s failing organs to the four walls. Little else occurred in the private room. Nurses deigned to look in now and then; doctors avoided a patient they could not cure.
Bonnie sat in the chair next to her father. She read and reread the same page of Calc 301. Her mom was dying of terminal cancer, and taking months to do it. She was in a good university hospital, but it was also the same university where Bonnie was a junior. She felt obliged to be available, if not 24 hours a day, at least as near to that as possible. She studied here, ate here, slept here. Her Dad did the same. She loved her mom, at least what her mom had been before this. Long ago she wished it had been over quickly. But she would do whatever it took to control the cancer no one could control. Trying to focus back on her textbook, she watched the complex equations lay down and die before her teary, tired eyes.
The slam of the driver’s door brought Bonnie back to the island. Their bags were already at the curb, and Mike was digging through the pockets of his out-of-place dark business slacks for a tip. She must have dozed off. She popped out of the cab, giving the driver an embarrassed look. Hand in hand, the couple strolled up the brick path, past a private garden, and into the rented cottage, dragging their twee American rolling bags over the narrow threshold. Rays from the low sun bounced wildly off the brass hardware of the mahogany door as it slammed shut. Exhausted from the long flight, they curled up naked in the soft-spun sheets.
The next day Bonnie peeked out from the bedroom window at Mike sipping Jamaican coffee with his breakfast at the glass table in the garden. The cottage had come fully stocked with both American and Caribbean delicacies. She watched him slowly turn the pages of the local tourist guide, then take another sip. She had cursed him for having no energy, but today it was she who couldn’t get going. I’m fifty years old! And just getting around to marriage! What have I done with my life? And no hope for having kids at this age, she thought. An IT manager, she had spent her career doing computer coding and was now management. Events were always trying to through off her plans, so tight control of projects and people was essential. Tight, tight, control.
Outside, the sun moved higher. It picked out a steeple, then a lighthouse, then a mast in the harbor far below. Letting go of the lace curtain, Bonnie stood up. She tossed on light shorts, top, and sandals, then wrapped her hair in a bandana. After using the bathroom, she sought the safety of the king bed for just five more minutes. But one step away from her sanctuary, she just managed to avoid the raised pincers and waving tail of a scorpion. Doing an about-face, her skin flushed and palms sweaty, she strode out the door and plopped down next to Mike. Trying to stay in control and hide her overreaction, she looked in his eyes and smiled.
“Good morning, my love,” said Mike as he leaned in for a kiss. “I was worried you weren’t joining the world today.”
“Good morning. No, I’m fine,” she lied. “Um, let’s do a little daytrip after breakfast. Get to know the island.” And it would give the exterminator time to do his business.
“Great idea. You seemed interested in that Mt. Snow place yesterday. Wanna go there?”
“Sure. Hey, I just saw a scorpion near the bed. Perhaps we can call an exterminator while we’re gone?”
“What? The service promised to take care of everything before we got here.”
“Well they missed one. I’ve got their number in my cell. Will give ‘em a call after we eat,” she said.
“Okay.”
They both finished their toast and coffee, and while Mike brought in the dishes, Bonnie made the call. After applying some sunscreen, they hopped on the scooter the agency had provided, and went back down the airport road to the park. Upon arrival, they saw four older men at a card table playing dominoes and listening to a reggae beats on their beat-up radio. A short distance from the card players, a large man sat wrapped in a blanket. He was roasting a chicken on a stick, feathers and all.
“What a stink!” said Bonnie.
“I think he’s in a rush to eat his ill-gotten booty,” replied Mike. “Let’s go.” Leaving the scooter at the start of the trail, they started down it holding hands.
The couple’s lean, strong bodies ate up the mile of ascending jungle path. Soon they came upon the promised pool with its waterfall at the far end. The water spilled down about twenty feet onto a flat boulder. The sound rose and fell with the breeze. As promised, the shore was white sand, interspersed with large volcanic rocks. Bonnie slipped her hand from Mike’s.
“Race you to the falls,” called Bonnie, kicking off her sandals and pulling off her top before diving in.
“I’m gonna beat you,” called Mike, also peeling off his shirt and shoes and diving in. Both of them stroked hard and reached the boulder at the same time. Heaving up onto it, they kissed and lay still a moment to catch their breath.
After another kiss, they slid back into the warm water. For 20 minutes more they splashed and played, finally making their way back to the sandy beach. Bonnie was squeezing out her bandana and Mike was reaching for his wallet when the chicken man stepped out from the trees, holding a giant rock over his head. His eyes were glassy, his arms already shaking with fatigue. With him came the stench of greasy smoke and body odor. They froze.
“Eh now, lemme have your wallet,” he said, brandishing his improvised weapon and leering at Bonnie.
Mike still didn’t move. Bonnie wrapped the bandana around her chest.
“Is money what you want?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, here you go,” Mike answered for him. He began to toss his trifold, but Bonnie grabbed his arm.
“Wait. We can stand up to this guy.” She looked back at the bandit. “Look, we’re strong, we don’t care what you do,” she said.
At this, chicken man stepped closer and raised the rock. They both backed up. “Come on, don’t got all day for this crap.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, deciding to take a chance. “But what do you really need? A hot meal? A place to stay? Some dope? Maybe we can take care of your needs and ours too.”
Their mugger looked thoughtful for a moment. His arms weary, the rock lowered. “Some herb be good,” he answered, pronouncing the “h.”
“Okay, we can split our cash with you. Maybe get you some real chicken fingers, no more burnt bird. We can get you a place for the night. You must have family, or a special girl? We can help.” Bonnie continued to talk slowly and rhythmically until she could see the bandit losing focus, the rock slipping lower and lower, his eyes turning into slits from the fatigue and the drugs. She and Mike gingerly edged towards the trail.
“Now!” she cried. Mike tossed twenty dollars American in chicken man’s general direction, and they both fled down the trail. Looking back, Bonnie could see a startled bandit lose control of the rock in his haste to pick up the money.
Reaching the park winded and scared, the two jumped on their scooter and headed back past the erstwhile domino players. At the house, Mike called the police from his cell phone, while Bonnie changed.
The police stopped by to take their statements, said the mugger was known to them, and, yes, ma’am, he would be picked up, as where could he go on such a small island? Afterwards, they both fell into the soft sheets for a long nap after their adventure.
Bonnie woke up first, and tiptoed out to the private garden. She could see the sun sinking into the western waves of the harbor, and stars glowing in the darkening eastern sky. Things had worked out. Maybe taking a chance now and then was a good thing, she thought.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Monday, January 05, 2009
limonchiki
Had a great time at a surf night on Friday after New Years. The visiting Russian band the Vivisectors did a great tune, mixing in Russian dance music with the surf. That's our own Negative Ed filling in on bass on the left!
Limonchiki
Limonchiki
Friday, November 28, 2008
Culture day
Finally found a day where we could take Katie and few friends to some art galleries.
Three are pretty close by, in western Massachusetts, about 100 miles from home.
MassMoCA had a new retrospective of Sol Lewitt.
MASSMoCA
Also did a quick stop in Williamstown at the Williams College Museum of Art. They were part of building the retrospective of Lewitt, by partnering with Yale to draw and paint the works. When you purchase or borrow Lewitt works, you receive instructions on how to paint them, so about 100 students worked for several months creating the works in a space larger than MOMA in NYC! If the work is exhibited elsewhere, it generally must be taken down or covered up while you display it.
WCMA
WCMA also has several displays going now, including Tina Barney's portraits of the privileged classes.
After an Indian meal on Spring Street, my old stomping ground, we quickly toured the Clark Art Institute, a wonderful place also in rural Williamstown where Sterling and Francine Clark moved their collection to protect it from atomic attack.
They have mostly old masters, much like a European museum.
Three are pretty close by, in western Massachusetts, about 100 miles from home.
MassMoCA had a new retrospective of Sol Lewitt.
MASSMoCA
Also did a quick stop in Williamstown at the Williams College Museum of Art. They were part of building the retrospective of Lewitt, by partnering with Yale to draw and paint the works. When you purchase or borrow Lewitt works, you receive instructions on how to paint them, so about 100 students worked for several months creating the works in a space larger than MOMA in NYC! If the work is exhibited elsewhere, it generally must be taken down or covered up while you display it.
WCMA
WCMA also has several displays going now, including Tina Barney's portraits of the privileged classes.
After an Indian meal on Spring Street, my old stomping ground, we quickly toured the Clark Art Institute, a wonderful place also in rural Williamstown where Sterling and Francine Clark moved their collection to protect it from atomic attack.
They have mostly old masters, much like a European museum.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Summer weekend
About to enjoy a sunny summer weekend in Connecticut.
Last week went to RI beach under slightly overcast skies, but that made it more pleasant without burning sun.
This weekend will be around the house.
Almost finished with my workshop setup. Pics to follow.
Training class and vacation almost here! Woot!
Last week went to RI beach under slightly overcast skies, but that made it more pleasant without burning sun.
This weekend will be around the house.
Almost finished with my workshop setup. Pics to follow.
Training class and vacation almost here! Woot!
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Simsbury parade
Here's a quick shot of the chopper bikes and '59 caddy waiting to go in the Simsbury Memorial Day parade. Perfect weather!
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Back at work
Home from Florida. Katie enjoyed riding Gloria, a friendly and very strong mare.
The wedding went well. Rutty is now married again!
The wedding went well. Rutty is now married again!
Thursday, April 24, 2008
WOW Characters started today
Writer's Online Workshops Creating Dynamic Characters workshop started today. Let's hope it's as good as their past ones have been.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Goodread
I discovered Goodread yesterday via NPR. I signed up and started a bookshelf and reviews. Click the sidebar images to link to my profile or reviews.
R.I.P. Arthur C. Clarke
Arthur C. Clarke passed away in Sri Lanka last week. He was best known as the author of 2001: A Space Odyssey as well as a scientist who advanced the idea of geosynchronous satellites.
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