cbo

V

BACK INTO THE HILLS

 

It was a small office, a corner office, at the back of the building, over-looking the intersection of two narrow alleyways big enough for trash bins, and a truck to collect them. The windows opened, but the smell, especially in the summer, was brutal. Even the air-conditioned air stank of it, when the air conditioner worked, which was ‘sometimes’. It was a closet of an office, squeezed between two larger firms, but it was a corner. Third floor, of six, too close to the trash to matter. Other than that, it was of suitable size for one, and one is all there was. A desk, chair, a small sofa for guests, donated by a friend leaving town, folded down to a bed, but necessitated the desk being moved to accommodate it. Not that it mattered, he had a bachelor apartment, not much bigger than his office, but still ‘home’. But home was lonely, so he opted for the office to work from, and the occasional sleep over, when tax season rolled around. It was on such an occasion that he heard the sound. It was a muffled cry, about two A.M., he had just started to fold out the sofa and thought, at first, it may have been a function of the springs decompressing. He stopped and listened, but there was no further noise. He continued to unfurl the bed, when he heard the moan and knew his bed was not to blame. He went to the windows, there were two, each looking onto the alley, one to the south, and one to the east, but he could not see down directly, and from what he could see, there was nothing stirring. His instinct told him to ignore it, and tuck in. It had been a long day, but he considered his options instead. If he called the police, it would be hard to be specific. He didn’t know what he heard, and would be hard pressed to describe it.

“A moan…and a groan…nothing else…no, I saw nothing from my vantage point…probably some vagrant...but, still, do you think you could investigate…?”

It was starting to mist and the prospects of 'personally' going out to investigate were even less inviting than they had been a half hour before. He sat on the edge of bed and listened. Silence. Maybe he should forget it, and yet he knew he wouldn’t sleep until he knew for sure. He grew restless and paced his tiny space. The growing drizzle was unexpected, but unprepared as he was, out he went. Down the darkened hallways, he made his way to the elevator and descended. He used his key to open the building’s door and locked it behind him, which gave him a cautious pause  “…what if…” he wondered. He went out onto the empty street, and felt the chill. He ‘embraced’ himself against the weather, and proceeded around the corner to the alley. It was pitch black and uninviting. He pressed on, but cautiously. What he wouldn’t do for a flashlight...but no such luck. Half way down he was overcome by the notion that this was a terrible mistake, and he stopped. The drizzle was turning to rain, the skies grew darker, and the wind picked up. Still, he decided he had reached ‘the point of no return’, which, in itself, was delusional - of course he could return, head back to his office, and crawl into bed, as if nothing had happened. But he was soaked already, and would have to head home at some point to get dry clothing before the next work day, so he pressed on.   

He finally reached the juncture of the two alleyways, his heart beat, strong and rapid. “Hello?” he ventured, but no response. “Damn it…” he cursed his rotten luck. Then he heard it again, loud and clear, but decidedly not human. Cautiously, he made his way to a dumpster. Looking inside, he was overcome without so much as an exclamation. It snatched him and devoured him.

Satiated for the night, it would be off the streets before sunrise, and back into the hills.

 V

JUST PUTTERING IN THE YARD

 

His anger boiled up from within, but in order to get a-word-in-edge-wise, he had to leave the room, walk out his back door, out past the garage, the tired swing-set, and the elm, to the very back of the yard, and there, he had his say. He yelled and screamed to his hearts delight. A full blown rant…standing in the night.

He was mad, angry, pissed and, more to the point, pontificating, alone in the dark, as far away as he could go, about what annoyed Him about Her. Where else can you go without being either arrested or assaulted? You get no sympathy from strangers. Strangers think you’re mad. Friends…Family…they don’t need to know this. They think you’re per- …well, if not perfect…then a good couple, a solid couple, when actually you’re both mad as hatters, gone way around the bend. What can you say to explain this away? You can’t. So, no, no family, no friends.

Options are up…

Counseling was decades ago, and did no good. Divorce, ahhhh, divorce…if only they could afford it.

So they suffered through the stew the world threw at them. It wasn’t pretty. It got ugly. She deserved to rant and rave. So did he.

When he was done, he watered the begonias, shut the garage, and locked the backdoor.

It wouldn’t get any better, and it could be a lot worse.

“What have you been up to?”

“Just puttering in the yard.”

V

DELIVER...MOVE ON

 

To be honest,

he really did not have a sense

of wanting anything,

but to be left alone.

He didn’t ask for attention,

shunning it instead.

It was at his heart,

his nature,

not to divulge

his inner feelings,

they were his and his alone.

Should anyone get too close,

it was curtains,

drawn from the inside,

and they were no longer lit.

There was no ‘getting through to him’

because there was no target.

There might be,

at best, a tangent,

more likely a Wall,

and you would not storm

these bulwarks successfully.

So why try?

Time is valuable,

no time for this pot 
of stew to brew,

got things to accomplish,

not mess with matters

other than 
the chore at hand.

That’s what matters.

All that matters,

All else is hokum.

Pokin’ up a rectum…

butt nothing to see.

So he dances

from project to project,

relishing the prospects

of a job well received,

it’s all he needs,

be agile, 
use guile 
… nimble, lucid, articulate. 

Deliver…

Move on.

Deliver…

Move on.

V 

RANDOM ITALICA

The blog has a touch of Italica, and italicizes where it will. 

So be it.

A TRAIN TO CATCH

 

It was the kind of day that made you want to stay in bed. No good reason to start the day, but the paycheck, and that so measly, one had to wonder ‘Was it worth it?’ Damn frustrating, but he knew the outcome, and snoozed it ‘til he could no more. A chilly shower in his cold flat, got dressed, coat and hat, grabbed a banana, and headed down the hall. The day did not disappoint, as bleak and dark as he’d imagined, and the bite of the wind, out-the-door, was merciless. The line at the coffee shop, too long, so he hit the convenience store next door, which was more what he could afford anyhow. On the way out the door he passed the girl, and she stopped him in his tracks. He held the door open, and once she entered, didn’t know what to do. If he left there’d be a good chance he’d not see her again, and he wanted to. So he ducked back in and pretended to be most interested in the doughnuts and muffins, even though they were at least a day old, and lingered in the display case, waiting for a desperate buyer. She bought a caffeinated shot, and was quick to head back out.  He followed, feeling a bit like some pervert, but what choice did he have? At Sixth Street she turned right, which was the direction opposite of which he needed to go. If he missed his train he’d be forty minutes late while waiting for the next. Still he followed, now picking up the pace in attempt to catch up. When he finally did, he caught her off guard, because she was in a rush too, and was not prepared for this ‘stalker’.

“Excuse me, Miss, I know you’re late but could I have your number? I’d love to talk, and maybe take you for a date…lunch…something easy, maybe a drink after work…or coffee?”

She was taken aback but flattered.

“I’ve got a train to catch and not much time…” he pressed on desperately.

“In that case, you give me your number, and I’ll think about it,” she responded. He liked that, and fumbled for his card, not easy with a gloved hand, one holding his coffee, but he managed.

“I’ve got to run, but I hope to hear from you.”

“We’ll see,” she said, with a smile he deemed promising.

“Nice meeting you…” she looked at the card, “Raymond…”

“It’s Ray, I…I gotta run. Your name?”

“Laverne.”

“Laverne. Okay, I gotta go. Call me! Bye.” and he sprinted  desperately for his train, his heart full of the possibilities.

She smiled and tucked the card away. It was a flattering gesture, but with a husband and two kids at home, she’d never call, but all-in-all, a good start to Rachel's day.

Once seated on the workday train, he caught his breath, and then it dawned on him;
 
"Laverne is a bullshit name..."

V