THE WRONG RUB

 

This is going to rub some of you wrong, so in advance, I apologize. Fretting is over, I won’t allow it. Times come to face up to my liabilities.

Many of them were my friends…or so I thought, and with time you realize they are dwindling down to a few…or, until, they dump you, and you don’t know yet, I guess that’s my scenario, more times than not. Dumped.

(he rants)

        It’s hot.  Anybody hot? Gees, it’s stifling in here!

   

(…then back to ‘normal’)

That does not, however, come between me and my job, My job is, my Job! Where were we? What was the topic?…I’ll pick it up from there. Clue me in. Wait, I know, “Where was I the night she died?”

(There was a long pause, He stirred back and forth, and grew agitated.)

I don’t have to account for anything. I do not know this person, and she, is not known to me! And I can understand the confusion but …wait…Paige Kent? Is this about Paige Kent?

Oh lord, not Paige…..

(pauses)

It’s a real shame. She was one of those ‘discarded friends’ I ‘portended’ previously, about Paige. Hadn’t seen her in ten months, and ‘lost’ her Face page a couple of months after that. Not exactly a saint, if you prefer sinners. Poor baby.

(he rants)

IS IT HOT? IT’S HOT! Goddamn I’m bein’ cooked alive, I swear!

(…then back…)

Can we close this deal so I can get some air?

Paige was a delightful girl. She was beautiful and intelligent …and worldly, in a mannered way. She was never ‘involved', unless you want to charge her for the ‘one time’. You know…the time. But that was a time when everything was so fucking illegal. War On Crime, my ass. But I can tell from the looks on your faces, that you have no idea of what I speak, so…forget it, For-Get-It!

You might want to get me sober before any more questions…I don’t make much sense  to myself. I’m taking the drunk defense. Let me sleep it off and I’ll talk tomorrow, or, pursue legal counsel. If I had to speak tonight I’d say I was guilty, but I do not offer that up as the Truth. Therefore, I have no choice, but to recant.

Forgot what I said. Can you read the transcript back to me?

V

DAISY CONFLICTED

 

Daisy was conflicted. It was not an unusual occurrence, but today’s "conflict-ion" was more conflicted than most. 

If not for the hats, she’d be in a serious dilemma. Daisy was cantankerous, but baffled, and the more confused she got, the angrier she was. And when she was angry, she went from 'zero to pissed'.

She was down to three hats. Straw, linen, and “sporty”.  The straw was wide brimmed and provided needed protection. The Linen was a chic, drooped- over-the-eye mysterious, and the sporty was just that -  to a tee. Country girl, city girl, or active girl.

  

She hated this bullshit. The hats were the easy part, but the pants, the top, the shoes…oh my god, the shoes. She was loosing it!

Darrell called, which did not help. He offered to come over and ‘put something together’ for her. She declined. She didn’t need this mania to spread…or be suppressed, for that matter. She didn’t need a man to manage her wardrobe, even if he was a gay man with loads of taste, the answer was still ‘no’. No chance. She her "disengaged" her cell, cutting him off in mid-sentence. She needed to get past this herself. 

Goddamn him for even trying. Now she’ll have to think of way to say ‘I’m sorry’, but, then that’s a thought for another day. Right now she was in panic mode. She had a bout with IBS, which was painfully unpleasant, and 'emerged' with even less time to prepare. She was meeting men with jodhpurs and riding crops…the women, wore what, garters and gussets? Who knew? 

It was all getting so time-consuming and tiresome...

Two hours later, she called Darrell and asked what he was doing. He was a bit pissy from their prior conversation (and had right to be), but she told him she had decided not to attend, after all.

“A Major Client Faux Pas, but that’s what ‘staff’ is for. They’ll think of something, and bring in someone at the last minute. It won't be easy, but it’s their job.”

"Oh, no! Is she alright?....All our prayers go out...well wishes for a speedy recovery...poor, poor, Daisy..."

She asked him, pointedly, if he needed a drink, and he said, “Lord, yes! ” and that was that. They planned an early dinner, nothing special, very casual, sunny patio, and most of all, loose attire.

“Every now and then, I’m allowed to be casual on the weekend,” she declared, and then proceeded to be very.

V

COLD MOON

 

It was a cold, silver spoon, kind of moon, full of itself, and out-shined the stars on a sharp, chill, desert night. Ralph lay huddled in a shallow ravine, pressed against the warm clay wall, it’s day spent baking in the sun, and it radiated like a brick oven. Discovery of the phenomena has significantly altered Ralph’s daily existence by allowing him to endure the cold and stay warm. Then the winds picked up and skimmed the tip top of the bluff, scattering sand and tumbleweed overhead, like a surfer in the tube, he tucked inside the warm cusp of the crease just below the curling, swirling, blasts, enduring only a hint of the pending sandstorm, and finally he drifted off to slumber.

Next thing he knew, he was jarred awake by a noise he did not recognize. Something snapped him from his deep sleep and his consciousness rose quickly, to break through the surface of reality. His eyes shot open to reveal the moon, now hovering overhead like some light-bulb in the sky. The night now grown still, but much, much colder. He listened hard, anticipating an echo to return, in hopes of recognition. It did not. He lifted his head above the short ridge and smelled the sulfurous waft of smoke drifting by at it’s own pace. Had the wind been up, the scent would be in Arizona by now, but in this desert stillness, smells linger, only to fade, like every other thing, in it’s own time. Still fresh, it had to have come only a short way away, in the wake of that sound - Gunshot.

Someone was out here shooting. Wait for another shot, but it never came. Why only one shot? Could be their last round shot off, closing out a clip, or a load. A hunter on his way back from Utah, making sure he did not take a loaded gun back home, popping one off. Of course there could be another, darker option. He  resisted the thought that perhaps it was the only shot the shooter needed. The mission may now be complete. Both scenarios were viable explanations. Maybe some drunken kid, or kids…but still, just that one shot? Why come all the way out here? That’s when it struck him - it had to be the darker option. Out here is exactly where that would be. Even in the full moonlight, who was around to see?

But had he? He thought he heard it, but cannot swear to it. He smelt the residue of the crime…if there was a crime. And there’s no crime without the body. Was it his job to substantiate this? This what? Ralph slid back down and curled up fetal. He had to think about that awhile. Was it his job to seek out someone else’s atrocity? And who could he tell that wouldn’t look at him askew and wonder. If it was suicide, then they’ll have to wait. But what if there’s a ‘shooter”, and where was the shooter this minute?  Then the engine roared, in answer to his question, and the vehicle rumbled it’s way back to the highway. Ralph could only see the taillights, and they were in no hurry. It would do no good to call out, it was too far gone and would only lead to trouble.

He waited for daylight, sleepless with the grim prospects of the task awaiting him. 

V

FLOCK

 

They can’t blame this on the Rapture, it was far too rapacious, but the Beings being brutalized, suffered in silence, because they Believed. Pity their souls, giving all their worldly possessions over to the cleric, heretic that he was. He was not in the business of giving back the bounty and would soon be out of town before they ‘returned to earth’ and realized they’d been fleeced. They were his flock, and due for a fleecing.

And there'd be Mutton for dinner. Tough old meat, but cooked long enough, the rich juices flow, from deep within. The fervent broth, it can be intoxicating…

A flock don’t tarry, ‘til it’s been fleeced, and that’s when they become wayward. …’til the next Shepard  comes along. But this stock don’t-got-squat…gave it all to the last fella’, passed through here.

And, can you think of anyone more deserving, than this, Servant Of The Lord?

Hell No! ….no, you can’t. 

V

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