HIKE UP YOUR SKIRT

 

If you’ll hike up your skirt and lean over the table…

Why would I do that?

So that I might inject you.

While bent over a table?

It’s just a little prick.

Size aside, it’s the act I question.

I just need one buttock.

Good lord!

It’s preventative.

It’s perverse. One buttock, instead of two?

Don’t need two. But, you can have your pick!

My pick..?

Your pick of which buttock I prick.

Hold on. There are consequences, you know…

Ah! If it’s the side-affects that concern you…well, perhaps you’ll feel a bit lightheaded, some residual, minor…and I do mean “minor”… pain in the area.

Minor pain in the area?

There, there, nothing to get worked up about.

Any other side-affects?

Nausea…but, nothing of note…

Not by your notes maybe, but I think I might want to jot down a thing or two. And, I’m warning you…

Warning me? What on earth for?

Oh, I don’t know…Assuming the position, perhaps? …‘chose-a-buttock’? Or maybe we’ll just do with your ‘small prick’.

Ooohhh! Hah! Now I see where this came from. Good lord, you’ve got me red-faced…I’m afraid I’m just learning this game…profession…intern. I’m fairly new…

Oh?

The shot? I could have a nurse administer…

No, I think I’d want you administering.

It’ll be painless.

I believe you.

V

GRACE AT NIGHT

 

It might sound trite, but Grace felt safe at night. He knew the horror existed, he just didn’t recognize it.

One might add, “…until it’s too late.” 

Maybe, when, it’s "too late" he’ll know. But until then, you couldn’t convince him. 

“Just going after the Dark,” he’d say.

Didn’t make a lot of sense to me, then, or now. 
But if Grace was going to put in 14…18…30 hours a night, it wasn’t going to be in some fluorescent cubic box. He chose the street, where you can see, smell, taste…the decay.

There is no taste to ‘victory’. None whatsoever. There are no victory’s. Don’t delude yourself. You only get a “get by”, and that’s all you’re entitled to, so take it, and get on with it. 

If you feel you are entitled to something more, please check your receipt, 
it outlines the DO’s
...DO NOT’s...

and most importantly, 
 ...your ODDS OF WINNING . 

( - spoiler alert - ... odds are nil.) 

BUT, it’s there in black & white, and if your Mama didn’t pass one on, I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.

Apparently Grace had enough of that bad taste. The last thing he tasted was gun oil... inserting the barrel into his maw. Pulls the trigger... Nevermore.

It awaits pickup...the still figure, slumped in the night.

No rush. He’s not going anywhere.

V

RENO CARSON

“Reno Carson was no friend of mine. Let’s make that clear from the get go. Where he was headed or where he was destined, I have no idea, nor concept. He dealt cards with a higher order, and frowned upon those that couldn’t keep up. I was one of the latter. He shuffled off, is all know, and it’s bound to be all I can tell you.”

Another fella spoke up. Why he offered the information I don’t know, but I was grateful for it. “There was some said he headed north, but North of here is plenty far north. I don’t think you want to be caught North. My bets either, West…or East…or maybe, South.”

I thanked him for narrowing down the parameters. He said, think nothing of it, so I dismissed it. I had my hands full and no help getting a start.

“He may even be in a big city. Someplace back East. Sittin’ pretty.”

That thought had crossed my mind as well, and if that’s the case, I am at a loss. I simply do not have the men nor resources to carry out such a manhunt.

And would he survive in a Philadelphia, New York, or even Atlanta...Miami was out of the question, but New Orleans…? 

South was Mexico, and if he made it, he had it made, but that was long trek.

Out West, there was both solitude, and opportunity…he’d be ready for each.

I’ll sleep on it, but tomorrow just might find me on a westbound trail.

That was five years ago and the dust on the trail had settled to nothing. Nothing was stirring. I was piss outa luck. By this point, I had landed in a bar in Bakersfield where I had taken up semi-permanent residency, at least for the time being. The bar shall go nameless, which it was – Nameless. Which is lame, but just the same, coincidences happen, and happened to be at this bar. 

A guy comes in and sits down next to me…a couple stools down, and for the longest time we stare at our beer, raise the glass, then order another. Finally, I turned to look at him (all this time we were communicating, and very little, as reflections in a smudged mirror). I was struck...Reno Carson!

It turns out he was just released from a Canadian prison. He had tried to steal an auto-mobile, with little success, and had been incarcerated all along.  He was arrested as ‘Wendell Hamilton’, which, apparently, was his real name. All those years, and no one knew. No one had reason to check otherwise.

I told him my story. I made it the condensed version,

He shook his head and said, “Oh man, I’m sorry,”

“So am I.”

We sat there and drank, and, still do so, on a regular basis. 

"You still need to catch me?"

"No. The hunt is over…been over a long time. I just didn’t know."

V

THE PARTY

       

         

        Miss Riley was in a feisty mood, meaning, "Tonight!…the GALA?...will be what-it-is!  It’s simply, that simple! Simply Divine! "

But first she has all manner of things to tend to, not the least of which was ‘clean-out that old crows nest’…'plump the pucker on the old kisser’…’a cucumber peel should seal the deal’, and then 'take this old mane, and make something Majestic!’.

The morning was half gone, she best get started. 

Oh. Don’t mind the door slam. The Miss is usually under unusual stress while under construction.

I suppose it’s left up to me, to warn you, that Miss Riley can fly off the handle in a cat-quick manner. I mean, a mean, claws out, alley cat…if things don’t go exactly right. Be fare warned, the rest of the way is fairly messy...and private. 

Things applied, pushed, pulled, minimized and amplified. It won’t be pretty, and it is not your business, so best, leave it there, behind closed doors.

Of course, through the course of the day, she managed to be a real trooper (temper-tantrums aside), and she relinquished her body to tortuous demands of Fashion. 

The hours ticked by, both painfully slow, yet, panic-inducingly frantic. Could the Night really be  approaching so quickly?

The key was to pace one’s self. All is a work-in-progress until the work is done. But the patience it takes…the craft…

Worth it, when her moment comes, and she enters the room, the Orchestration playing in her mind, she makes her entrance, dripping with Class and Elegance.

But it was not to be. 

On her way out the door, she grabbed the invite, and with trembling hands, read that the party is tomorrow night…

Shall I close the door behind me as I leave, Miss Riley?

 V

BLANK CANVAS

 

Is “milky” a complexion? I mean, this dude was so ‘milky’, his skin looked skimmy. He had a shock of that white-blond hair , like a powder-puff-wig, with the eyebrows and lashes, that disappear into his face, like they didn’t exist or belong there in the first place. So, is that ‘picture’ enough for you? Chalk. Milk. Plain yogurt…white. A portrait would be a blank canvas.

And this isn’t a racial thing…no black & white thing. It’s just bizarre, an exception to the rule…like an albino in a snowstorm. And you talk to him and it’s like…snow, too, you know? You reach out and a flake lands, but it’s there one second, and melts the next. You don’t know what you’re getting. 

His words are within context but not connected. Nothing is connected. 

 

I didn’t touch him, no reason to really, he was approachable, but at a distance…a space…and a handshake was out of the question. That was understood.  But I sense if there were an embrace, it would be chilling, so, to be fair, I too, kept my distance.

There wasn’t any effort on his part to partake in idle conversation. No ‘shooting the breeze’ while we wait. He stood off to one side and was respectful, I’ll say that much. It was difficult… uncomfortable…the wait.

They dimmed the hall lights. Still we stood in solemn silence. No breaking this mood. 

They finally wheeled her out at 3:12 in the morning. The train leaves at 6:30. It would be close, but they’ll make it. She wanted to be Home. The iceman would escort the body. 

With little time, and a rushed goodbye, she was gone.

V

A DAY OF IT

 An outing was in order. Harley took the girls for ‘a day of it’. What “It” was, wasn’t clearly defined, so…they’d have a romp in the park…oh, and the zoo…out for burgers…a little TV, and possibly, hopefully, bedtime. Day One, then, was set. But what to do about the rest? Board games might be a hoot…(for an afternoon or two)…hmm. He sat perplexed. Maybe he was over-thinking this. Maybe it would take care of itself. But ‘they’ won’t, and ‘they’ were in his stead for the foreseeable future. It was the least he could do, his Ex now hospitalized for several weeks, and these were his off-spring after all, but the responsibility of twins was starting to dawn on him. There were adjustments that needed to be made. The accident was minor enough, they all thought, and the first trip to the hospital was strictly precautionary, in-and-out, but, then back-in again – something wasn’t right - complications arose. Complications arose in his life too. Take the girls for a night, or even a couple days…fine, but her ‘complications’ turned serious and then deadly, as a clot, undetected and untreated, made it’s way to her cerebellum and created all sorts of problems. After two weeks of struggling, and no sign of exiting the coma, she gave up the ghost, along with her daughters, to Him.

V

THE WHITE MALTESE

 

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not the dog’s fault. The dog was in the way, that’s all.

Gees, Lady, I understand you’re upset…

I know. I understand.

You have my sympathies…

He’s in a better place…

Too far? Okay, I’ll play it straighter. Not so contrite, but would you, please…I know…I am….I tried to….okay, I don’t give a shit about your dog. Happy?

He’d been driven there by her persistent, wailing attack, and although he truly felt terrible for the event itself  had the dog not “scampered” in front of the car… a white maltese…if only, it had been leashed… 

But yes, he was distracted, and to quite a degree, the result of  phone call from Marie. A phone call, ending it all. 

Could it be his life was starting to unravel? First the job, then Marie, and now the dog. 

He was on his way home after fetching his belongings at the office. They had ordered him to wait in the lunchroom while they went through his things. When he returned they had everything boxed and ready to go. He signed a receipt for six binders and a stack of papers, which he will be leaving behind, (…all deemed “eye’s only”).

The call from Marie came out of left field, which is to say it was totally unexpected, which is why he can’t believe what she’s saying, “…it’s just that, things aren’t the same with you, without the job, and I was thinking of leaving anyhow. I’ll grab my things and be gone.”

NO! Wait…

Then the dog dashed out, followed by the woman, still in her robe at this late hour, wailing and flailing her arms about. 

What was I to do? It was not as if I had a choice in the matter. But her voice…the shrill drill of it, it was just too much. I snapped. It happened. You can guess the rest. 

 Escorted ‘downtown’ by L.A.’s best.

V