The Blank Corner

It became clear to her that this madness was hers to deal with alone. Adele stopped right there. Jim had gone, the girls avoid her, and Peter couldn’t get out of the house fast enough after high school. 

It wasn’t her fault Jim took the bullet, it was his gun, his hand, his mouth…sitting in the old desk chair, the two, worn down…facing the cellar corner…cold, gray, concrete, the last thing he’d see, and maybe that’s what he needed. Blankness. Now his blood splash like a Pollock swash, not something to wash. Sponge, but Leave it where it soaked. The trace…the stain, of it. Visit it. Not a shrine, but a sentence. The chair collapsed as the big man lurched sharply to the left with parts of his brain... The rickety legs stood not a chance, collapsed with his mass. The bullet's glance, once past his skull, took a chunk of block, as well. But, the block just ricocheted.

She’d heard it in the night, half awake…unaware…but thought the furnace flues might be buckling, 2 floors under. So dull the sound. She chose slumber.

She swore to herself she wasn’t the reason. The business went down, his fragile affair admitted and over...he pleaded…forgive me...and, she, now left as his sole support...the only one he really needed. ...but...She was not capable. She couldn’t carry him…she’d counted on him…and, now?...she couldn’t take him, wouldn’t cradle him, hear his pain, or his broken vows. Heal him, or hear him explain...it really didn't matter.  She'd shriek his name in anger, echoed in an empty space, with no trace of an excuse.  It was too much and not what she signed for. 
It had only been good when things were fine, and that was just fine with her. She required the stability…the routine…the simple chores, nothing laborious!...you hire out for that….or, you once did. But, this?!…how does one handle this? The shrinks, the meds, the blank canvas, her head - incapable of picking up a brush...never a plan...could not begin to choose a color…or even with a hint of a sketch..or, where to go from now on. She stared…and stared…and stared some more...(fuck you, Jim, for choosing this dank cold place, you selfish bastard) ...but months went..when, finally inspired, she meticulously painted those walls, blood stained, minor details...'chunk' and all. 
Her canvas. His brain. Her path. His splatter. Their Madness...hers alone...still hangs overhead.

THE EXTRA DEGREE

Adrian folded the sleeper sofa after Lenore left that morning. He sprayed it with a  disinfectant spray that smelled overtly clinical and proved to be quite effective in defuncting the funk from his bunk. Today, he’d leave the window open a crack, air the place out. By nightfall it would be ‘springtime fresh’ like it said, but for now, his eyes stung, sinuses swelled, as did his throat, and thickening his tongue. He held his breath the best he could, grabbed his coat, his satchel, and escaped quick out the door, finally gasping aloud in the hall, while locking up. Miss Newsome in ‘18’, popped out, head cocked.

“You okay, Adrian? Whew! What’s that odor? …never smelled it before. Is that you, Adrian? Is everything alright in there?”

“Sorry, yes, Miss Newsome. A touch of mold from an old wet rag…gave the place a stank from the sink, so I had to spray…threw the old rag away.”

“A bit overwhelming! Whew! ”

“I’ll say. I think I’m allergic, but we do what we need to do, in order to be sanitary. Better than mold spores, don’t you agree?”

“Indeed.”

“Okay, then, I must scurry or I’ll miss the bus again, and this time it could be big trouble!”

“Then scoot! Don’t be yacking with the likes of me!”

“Thank you Miss Newsome. See you soon. B’bye!”

“Goodbye, Adrian! Be careful!” she called down the hall as he descended the stairs.

He wondered what he should be careful of, but she was right, once on the street you had to be ready for anything in this neighborhood. It wasn’t the roughest, but it could, on occasion, be quite rude, and tussles were not uncommon. Most were only vocal, but some turned physical, and that’s a department where Adrian came up short. Oh, he was quite crafty with the verbal jab, but that particular skill often pissed others off, frustrated them, resulting in their outright rage, so Adrian learned the finer points of the quick escape. Today was smooth sailing, thank goodness, because he simply didn’t have the time to waste in getting to work on time. He wondered if Lenore would acknowledge him…embarrass him…tip off the crew to their dalliance. He wondered if they already knew. He knew that others had been there before, and two were excused…both good family men that Lenore had seduced, and caught red handed with no good excuse, on the streets they landed. He wondered how Lenore endured, but then he knew, too, that she had to have dirt on Mr. Durst and that could cripple the division and all their livelihoods, so the lid was firmly put on that simmering pot, so it won’t boil over, that way no one gets hurt. Let the old goat get off, who cared, as long as the checks cashed? But, if Durst caught wind of Adrian, he too, was a goner…a younger man, a junior, really, could not compete with The Big Cheese upstairs. Lenore, would almost contemptuously file her nails, looking bored, while Durst solemnly issued orders to staff, or addressed the Board.  He persistently denied any hint of the defiling, but he did it, we all knew. And it would seem from that point on, from our collective point of view, he was the one that was being screwed. She had ‘the goods’, and she used them to get the goods on the old geezer, alright. Oh, He enjoyed it, and at his age who wouldn’t? (Hell, at my age I did!) So he kept her close…odds are, (…and the office joke). there’s a quickie in the closet, if she’s not at her post. But, as good as she was at giving him ‘trim’ she was left wanting, this shark had to swim, so she worked the pool of office boys and yanked their junior staff members, just for fun and to make up for Him. She preferred them younger, she had come to learn, and would say so in memos, how much she yearned, but warned, “…once you read this, be sure it gets burned. … if not, you do.”

I got that message late one afternoon, then She got Me, “...after hours…mailroom”. Now, when she’s overcome with the Urge…that Need…I am obliged, if she buzzes me. And, so very thankful I received my degree, she assures me I'm so well equipped, that I'm bound to succeed.

The WASH

SPREADING REBECCA

Hello I am Raymond. I was sent by FETEMEET.

Hello. I am Rebecca, I was sent by FETEMEET.

Happy to meet you, Rebecca.

Happy to meet you, Raymond.

May I say, You have lovely FEET?
Thank you...likewise… I …

Yes?

I wonder....

Yes?...Is something wrong?

Oh, no. Nothing wrong with you Raymond but I'd like to stray from the script. Do you mind?

Oh. You saw ‘the Tutorial’, too…

I did. I got the app and I played the script but I just get so tense. I have a stomach ache…One shouldn't have to work this hard. You know?

I think. Yes, I understand. If I make you uncomfortable perhaps...

No! Please. I thought I stated that quite clearly. There is nothing wrong with you Raymond, it's just the script ! I can't get with the stupid script. I'm no actress. This is me, not ‘Level Four’.

I’m a newbie. I never got to ‘Level Four’. I didn't know there WAS a Level Four. Wow. There's a script for that?

Not for ‘the Act’, itself, Raymond…but, yes...for the foreplay?...there is. After that you’re…we’re…on our own.

But the FETE script…they say it’s binding…

Look, I'm sorry, these are my feet and if I am going to let a stranger...in this case, I sense a very gentlemanly stranger...however, if I should allow them to caress my feet, then I should allow myself to determine the conduct and the pleasure. Besides, who knows what kind of creep writes this stuff? Whoever it is, he's not getting between the cracks of my toes, I'll tell you that!

Wow.

Ah, gees…sorry Raymond. I didn't mean go off like

that…

Are you kidding? That was great! I came quite close to ‘going off’ myself...heh...heh..um...

OH! You’re blushing! Well there you go! We just buried the script in that little moment right there.

Now?

Now is fine.

They kissed passionately. A tad clumsy, as most first times tend to be. There are bodies, awkward angles, and protrusions… noses…chins, teeth, tongues... There are soft lips, thins lips, loose and tight lips...eyes open? Eyes shut?…all that to deal with...but, if you Get Lost in that kiss, you got a chance....if you both Get Lost, you just got lucky. Raymond dropped to his knees as Rebecca took a seat, perched on the lip of the thick cushion in anticipation of the private view. She extended her right foot...the good one, the pretty one, the ‘better ankle’ … her best angle, and Raymond gasped in adoration as she expected he might…not the first to do so.

What do you do Raymond? - she cooed.

I make my own peanut butter....

Is that a euphemism?

I don't think so, I use a blender and nuts, mostly....roast them myself…

Raymond?

Yes?

Enough about your nuts for now. Say hello to my toes....please.

Raymond, not needing to be asked twice, dove headlong into his task, pouncing upon each peachy pinky and devoured them from pearlescent blue pedi to the musty cusp of the crease.....

Then Raymond reached for his attaché.

Raymond? What are you doing?

It’s my secret treasure box. (click) I'm going to take my homemade peanut butter – mmmmm - and apply it, with this ebony handled spatula…beautiful isn’t it? …between each delicious toe, as if mortar between golden bricks, then dust them lightly with fine chocolate powder and flakes of gold leaf…

OH!

Then I shall suck them clean...spotlessly clean in every nook, cranny and cuticle.

Raymond you DO know you are driving me mad, don't you? ….just talking like that...oh!

Shhhh, no more talking....

Ohhhh....and when you are through....what will you do?

I will bathe your feet, massage them, dry with this fine chamois, then rub them in these fine lotions....

Yes?! And then...?

Then I will go home.

You will go home?!

Yes. As is my custom. Tidy up and go home…

What about Me?

Yes…?

What are you going to do about me?

But I tried to explain. This is not about you.

Well then what the hell is this about?....YOU ?!

Noooo. Not exactly.

Well then that leaves....!?

That's right. This is all about the peanut butter.

I don’t know if I can play by those….OH! RAYMOND!

When it was over Rebecca craved a cigarette for the first time in 12 years.

May I offer you a cookie instead? – Raymond asked, holding a small silver platter.

Oh, yes! Are they…?

Yes, they are…

You know, Raymond…I, too, have a blender and utensils, perhaps you could make your butter here….?

Oh, no. I have prime nuts shipped in weekly from Virginia and utilize my own custom roaster. It’s quite a methodology I’ve perfected over the years…I-I-I couldn’t…I’m sorry.

Well, I suppose I am rushing this a bit…

Oh, but it was enjoyable! The best I ever had!

You’re not just saying that?

Oh, no. I take it much too seriously to jest. They were Simply Delectable!

Oh…(tee-hee)…are you busy Fridays?

Fridays? Perfect! I roast my nuts on Fridays! Friday evening my butter is silky smooth and still warm.

In that case, Raymond, Fridays shall be Our guilty secret.

UNFOLDING IRVING

I first met Irving at a dress rehearsal. My first impression was that he did not fit ‘the part’… and secondly, he definitely did not fit the suit. You see, Irving was to play the part of “The Troll Residing Under The Bridge”. Not only did the suit not suit him but the bridge was three feet tall at the peak of it’s arch, so there had best be some nifty fitting all the way around. In reality, Irving was just shy of 6 ft. and just out of grade school.

No one. Not Irving, the actors, the students, the parents the teachers, the janitors, the passers by….no one, believed this horrible miscasting, including I, but the final decision rests with Miss Christie and she put her foot down and insisted, and when she put down it was a heavy sound. She had a vision. We can only assume, in her mind, she saw Irving folded just right, like some origami crane, tucked tight under flimsy little bridge, taut in that short little tunnel only to Emerge!!!! Unfolding gracefully to become a most magnificent bird! A heron. A crane. But this crane collapsed, and of course it was all a disaster.

But within the calamity caused by the crashing crane, there was a transformation of sorts, even though the dust had not settled, Irving took to stage front and addressed the attendees and apologized with grace. “I’m oh so sorry, I just can’t fit in that space!”

The audience roared in appreciation and gave Irving a standing ovation. Is was as festive as it could be, for all in attendance, except Miss Christie.

Find your own stature in life. Stand tall. Don’t let someone try to squeeze you, where you know you don’t belong.

RAVENS / CREEK

The Cellist's Cove

There was a young fellow that had claimed a very nice spot on the corner of the boulevard. Right near the intersection and crosswalk. Much foot traffic. When the weather turned inclement, as it grew so today, he would retreat to a freight door of a business that had been boarded up for months during delayed renovations. The freight door included a portico…a place of shelter from the elements when need be, but also, he found, an excellent funnel of acoustical sound. So from time to time, many times, he'd duck inside and play, invisible from the street yet his music took to the air and, like a phonic horn projecting melody....swept by the wind ...capable of being heard twenty stories above. 

At first she presumed it was Muzak, or a radio in someone’s cube, she was tempted to ask them to turn it down. It persisted. Her concentration was shifting, drifting, waning  as the melodic replaced her realistic, and muddled some highly calculated impressions formulating in her brain. She was momentarily lost…

She could not allow that. Her job was Focus. Hard, cold....FOCUS. Goddamn it.

Annette?

Yes?

Is it me or someone playing music a tad loud out there?

Music?......noo...I hear nothing.

Nothing from the bullpen? The cubes?.

Like street music? Somebody got their bass too big?

What?

I'm thinking it might be one of those cars...you know the big loud speakers? Maybe down on the streets...?

Not unless they know Mozart

Anything is possible

But not the right decibels...sounds real...not amplified. She stood up from her desk and approached the plate glass wall that overlooked Hempstead. It's true, there was traffic down there and there were canyons between sheer buildings, through which any wind could stir sound....her own windows would whirr with enough of a gust...unsettling in itself. But this sound, was both on the wind but of the ground, she sensed it. She sensed it...him...or her, playing it ....the strum, the stroke. She could hear it now, clear above all other noise, she had found her focus and it was the source. Where was the source? Who was the source?

Shouldn't you take a coat?

I'll only be minutes. That noise has driven me to distraction!

Why don't I send one of the interns...?

Send a child out into the street?

Send a senior vp?

This is up to me. It's personal. I want to know.

Oh. In that case....you're in a meeting.

Yes I am.

“It's blustery out there Ma’m…” the doorman cautioned

She said “I understand, and if I'm not back soon send help.”

“How long ma’m”

“Let's say 10....”

“Very well. Where is it you go?”

“I don't know. Do you hear that sound?”

“Sound all around. That's all I hear. Can't wait for the quiet at the end of my day...."

"This is musical....lyrical..."

He laughed and said all he heard was noise. “In my sleep I hear this street. Music? Never! Ha!”

“It's out there somewhere”, she replied.

A block over she saw a boy. He was seated on his heals with the neck of a cello cradled on his lap. As she approached a half block away he suddenly disappeared from view.

Then within seconds she heard it anew with a new resonance that grew as she passed the entrance of a long dark alley way....and  knew this was the source.

She entered cautiously, on guard, wishing she had brought her pepper spray, as her father’s caution "…looking for trouble" popped into mind.... But she followed the sound...approached the maw of a dark doorway. She backed away and stood against the opposing wall, shivering in the wind-chill blowing up the narrow tunnel....that tight Steel canyon.

The playing stopped. He stepped into the light and faced her. She saw now, he was slight of build, but he was older, with some gray in the temples, perhaps prematurely so. 'Boyish', but no 'boy' was he. 

You alright?

Oh. Yes. I wanted to see where the music was   coming from.

Is that a complaint or a compliment?

Started out as one, but grew to the other.

Thank you and sorry. 

Vice Versa...and you're welcome.

Do you play in a quartet?

Actually a quint...we call it Our Chamber Pot.

That's unfortunate....Why?

Chamber music, boring parties, stuck in a corner or on some wet lawn, there to bring a little class to the old estate....set dressing. A pisser, if you'll allow me to say.

You just did. Yet, it pays.

We are two people standing in a somewhat public space...I am highly skilled, well trained and playing great music for pennies and insults. You are equally highly skilled, I am positive. I won't guess your pay, not my business anyway. I would also imagine, you have a different image of the world, from where you sit...and I mean you no personal offense…

I see. So, I am corporate. And, you?...do you solo?

I prefer to solo.

Hmm...Much more lucrative not splitting the pot with the Pot ?

Got it. But also the freedom to improvise. Who’s to know?...and I like the tone. Can’t beat this sound in a digital studio. All these clever fellows up here....

And Women....

Oh. I have no reason to doubt that! None whatsoever...so what brings the princess down from her granite tower?

Do not fuck with me, street person.

Stop. Please move on. Take the express VIP elevator UP to the penthouse and leap from the balcony. And I will serenade you as you fall, so the last fucking sound you hear is my High C!

Fuck. That was good. I'm freezing my ass off.

Come on, step in here. I don't have cooties.

Cooties?

...ah..you know... Germs? Bacterial infection?… social diseases, TB...

Okay, I get it.

She ventured in.

Ohh. This is different isn't it? It's sheltered. 

Cave like...

Yes! A cove…warm!

A Cove...Good. I like that.

It's odd isn't it? Right there. Just a few feet away is a busy blvd and we sit here invisible and toasty...

I see it as shelter with a window on the passing parade. But don't get me wrong for one second…less this sounds somehow 'twisted and idyllic'… it is hell dealing down here at street level.

Up there, my BP runs close to 200.

Down here, my BP runs below 102.

Yet you play for money? Is there not stress  involved in your day-to-day survival? ...I mean, my god...the danger...

You assume because I play down here...amidst the trash cans and poverty in the alley, that somehow I am needy and vulnerable? That's quite an assumption. There are people down here that appreciate and willingly accept the Masters. Consider it My gift to them…they need it, and frankly, so do I.

You're saying, on days like this, that you're willing to freeze your ass off for your art and some free concert for the down-trodden? ...excuse me, but that sounds like total BS to me.

See that vent? Can you See that vent?! Can you imagine how much heat a building this size expels into the air? Wasted....when people freeze on the street huddled on the sidewalks outside? Invisible to a thousand windows overhead. Besides, I get some slack from the cops during the day, and a deal with the guy-at-night. Actually this is the second guy-at-night, because the first was stabbed for his stash...and this prime real estate. Can you image the desperation in that? Killing to stay warm?

Maybe just a mean street rat with a need for blood...

Or that...

So you’re not homeless?

I am mysterious. And chose to remain that way.

I see. Okay, Drama Boy, I have business to attend to, You have cost me too much time...!

Yes...and Trouble.

Can you keep it down?

Pardon?

Your instrument!

Pardon?

The Cello?!

Oh. That....

She walked briskly back out to the sidewalk and was immediately swept from view by a major gust, sending her sliding, slipping down the slightly sloping sidewalk back toward the Lobby entrance. She was not so much ‘walking’ as she was ‘sailing away’.

The doorman saw her coming and alertly grabbed her arm as she slid by, then steadied her.

Are you Okay Miss?

She heard only the cello that accompanied her on her dizzy dance and still swirled with the wind as she came out of her trance.

Ma'm?

Yes. Sorry. Please ring my office and tell them I'm okay, but that I've been delayed. Nothing to worry about. No reason to be afraid…

He reached into his kiosk and offered her a lap blanket, which she readily accepted, as he draped it over her shoulders.

She then thanked the man, and returned to the cave and took a seat on a bottle-crate beneath the vent.

"Don't stop. Please play."