NOTABLOG / g.g. Nota - Nothing longer than a lazy Sunday drive, or as quick as a glance - there is no chronology or explanation, just snapshots, visual and verbal. Feel free to meander through the MENU in the drive-through ARCHIVE. Above all, enjoy the ride.
Given a blank canvas,
there was nowhere for her to go.
So she froze
like a hose in winter.
Un – able
or un-willing...
to push it
her ice still chilling...
the potential to surpass
her preconceptions
not facing the promise
but overboard
for a false anchor
gradually sinking
she succumbed
to the mundane
the daily
the more common
the slack
a racked back
she cried out
too late for
the fates
of yesterday.
V
There's
a long dolly shot, shot down a long sooty hallway - low angle,
smooth, steady, purposeful. It is a skateboard shot.
A door opens, the dolly stops in a clumsy style.
A pair of bare feminine legs sweeps past cam. - the scene is wiped by the 'white trash bag' she totes - swish...
Reverse shot as she walks bare-ass by, bearing bag back down the hall in the direction from which he had just come.
She stops halfway, just long enough to drop the trash bag down the chute.
And returns.
She is unperturbed by her skimpy attire, sweeps briskly past cam. to the security of her doorway.
Flips cam. 'the Finger' ... then SLAMS! the door.
He realized he had been holding his breath the whole time.
I mean...How hot can you get?
He stumbled there near the floor, groping for the wall, his arm buckling, folding hard head-first into the old brick masonry. He lay for a time before 'the faint' passed, and as he wobbled to reality he wiped the sweat, and a little blood, from his brow, breathed deep and sat upright but woozy for a while.
While chewing on ginger and jerky from a hip bag, along with coffee in a thermal cup clipped to his belt, he navigated the streets/rooftops/alleys/hallways/doorways, and private quarters ...his camera in hand. Imagined himself a ghost.
Only problem was, they could see him.
His business card read "Cocked and Ready"
No shit.
So it was this worm was collared as he relieved himself in an alleyway, pissing as a patrol car passed by, and directing into it's spotlight,
Caught him dangling his dingle?
Precisely.
Never assume you're a ghost.
Lesson learned.
V
They had written the obligatory obituary. It was short. A five minute phone call with an unidentified family member, who was, at first, very reluctant to speak to a junior level representative from the newspaper. They answered a few questions, the basic facts, no more than a few sentences long. The entire 'interview' took no longer than five minutes, and ended with “...he was a good worker...very punctual”.
That was the best they could offer. When asked if they could expand and ask a few more questions, the family member hung up. Such was the man's legacy. The burial was not well attended, as was expected, since the word did not go out regarding the event or it's timing which was vague and much too late for the eight or so may otherwise attend. It was more a function of expediency for the undertaker, but at a bargain's rate, who's to complain?
Clara tipped and sipped the milk from a cracked bowl of cereal, slurping the last of it down, but saving enough fluid to allow the crack, one last tear...to drop. It was among the few remaining items she'd encounter, with a quick thrashing through the fridge...the cabinets – the last thing edible, and once it was gone she opted to trash the meager remainder rather than pack it. The cabinets were void, almost empty with only two boxes 'todo' goods worth salvaging, and that includes 'the wormy ones' which she'd “donate to a good cause”.
She was at once saddened that these two meager boxes accounted for the man's existence, but relieved, in truth, it was all she could deal with and it would take too much of her time because at the time, she had much more immediate things to deal with.
The
funeral? It was a most minimal farewell sparsely attended. No one but
her to mind his business, pay the preacher from a meager draw, but
she expedited the ceremony in under a half hour and received her
discount. It mattered.
V
Polly met the parson at the end of the paved road near the blue-gated entrance to the Peete estate. Although both were looking forward to the opportunity, but they found that that afternoon’s surprising weather was less than welcoming, and growing to be less hospitable with each passing minute. Disappointed as they found themselves, but reveling in the spontaneity of the moment, they eagerly agreed to meet again, perhaps after services and somewhere more secluded allowing for a more private conversation. The parson, being respectful of his own wife’s passing, had waited a full year before venturing forth gingerly into the realm of relationships. Drenched by now, they each scurried off in opposite directions, laughing and yelling “Run!”
But it was anticipation that ran high at the blue gate that day.
V
Ethan's holiday wasn't long enough. He was slack and dejected as he packed his old cardboard suitcase. No need folding old laundry, just jam it in and shut the lid. He sat on the edge of his bed, the sun just rising, premature as usual, but already in anticipation, his bus wasn't due for another two hours, right about check-out time. So much stress. He thought to go the 24 hr. diner next door for a quick breakfast, but then thought his stomach might not travel well, and finally made an ill fated choice - taking a tuna sandwich along on his trip might not be such a bad idea. Yes, indeed.
As it turns out, his holiday coincided with the peak of dreary season on the seashore, which he now reasoned was reflected in the very-off-season bargain rate. It was his birthday weekend and all he could afford on his meager paycheck, but now it all came into focus.
Gloomy fog ruled the day, every day, with drizzle in the morning, drizzle at night, and drizzle intermittent in between, with a glint of sun. But, so be it, packed tight but insufficiently bundled himself, Ethan ventured into this dense haze of morn in search of his tuna sandwich.
He took a stool at the counter and studied the tired menu, knowing in advance what he could afford, but toying with his decision for sport. Menu skimming while pretending it was an open book. The meatloaf tempted him, but how fresh could it be at 7 AM? Odds are it was a leftover from yesterday, if not the day before.
He had a coffee while he waited. It too, was miserable, warmed overnight on the back-burner, rendered down to a thick black bitter mess. The waitress, that nondescript amorphous being, appearing, disappearing, on cue, slipped the check under the brown paper sack.
“Take your time,” she said, slipping away again.
“You waiting for the bus?” came the voice, from the dim light of the back corner.
“I am. Who wants to know?” Then from the shadows a man emerged, walking gingerly, slouched badly, come walking toward him.
“Anybody sittin here?” He tapped the empty stool next to Ethan with his cane.
The kid looked around. “I dunno, place is pretty busy...”
This drew a chuckle from the old-timer. “Headed East or West?”
“West, Why?”
“I think I may have bit-off a bit too much, thinking I could manage this trip on my own...”
“Where to?”
“Central Valley. California.”
“Whoa, that's a far drive...”
“Too far?”
“Never far enough. You need a driver? California here I come.”
“You sure, son. I gotta trust you the entire route...can't be backing out”
“Dad, the gates of heaven just opened so wide, I am...I'm awestruck!”
“A simple 'trust me' would suffice.”
“At your service, Sir.”
They shook on it.
“Now order some breakfast. It's a long day and a long road to go. I'd suggest “The Big Mama”...
“Huh...oh, sure, whatever you say. I am wide open.”
“ Best maintain a tight grip on that.”
“I..wha?”
“ Never show you hand.”
“Ah! Didn't see that one coming.”
“We'll have plenty of time to work on our communication ...and education.”
Ethan surprised himself and consumed the entire Big Mama. It sat heavy in his belly, but once they hit the road he loosened his belt, and was constantly assured it would endure the day's voyage. Now, we'll see if the old man can endure the resultant gastronomic gases. Could be, 'windows down' halfway to Oklahoma, but it was his suggestion, so he must be aware of the consequences.
“How'd you know about The Big Mama?
“Used to pass through here on a regular basis. Always ignored the place, but had occasion to stop, and once I stopped, I never stopped anywhere else in the region.
Part of my many problems is my gut give out. Now I got to eat baby food strained through a goddamn diaper!'
“ooohhhhhh....”
“I didn't say it would be easy. So, yes, I know the joint by heart. Hell, I helped closed it up one Christmas.”
“They actually closed on Christmas?”
“Just that one year. Turns out a bunch of us where snowbound and isolated so we got to drinking, a lot, because there was a lot of time to kill, and during which we managed to convince the also-inebriated owner that no one was going to travel this road in a snowstorm, so he best take the opportunity to make a break, soon, when they project a short clearing between storm fronts and get home to his family. Those of us who could, all because traffic westbound would only follow the slow moving storm, well, we half-joking offered to mind the place until help arrived. He was a trusting soul, or a lost one, but he surprisingly agreed. We watched as he worked frantically, wiping the bar, straightened the shelves, taking the money box, and locking up 'the good stuff' with a lock that wasn't worth a squat. Last minute precautionary measures, complete.
“Last one out...” as he started out.
“Get's the lights!” was the refrain.
“...and locks the door.”
We acknowledged his command, and wished him well. He was so trusting no one had the heart to disappoint him, although most, if not all in attendance, were highly tempted. But any thoughts of disorderly activity in said bar, curiously dissipated as a whistling wind whipped the door shut behind him, and found us in a silent moment, before it fractured in bawdy laughter.
He was headed to his in-laws, where he would have a lousy time, get snowed in yet again, then followed a snowplow down the mountain at 20 mph, with long and frequent stops. Ten hours of driving, and five days late, they arrived. Over the course of their extended stay he had much time to reflect on his actions. Yes, he could be in a lot of trouble he came to realize, and regretted ever leaving the place behind, in the hands of a rowdy crew of strangers and regulars and not sure he trusted either.
So the dread followed him as he returned. He pulled into the empty lot. Stepped out of the car and examined the exterior of the long low building. No damages he could see.
He found the door locked and secure, as requested and sighed some relief. He pulled out his key-chain and addressed the lock. It complied. Entering in morning light, the place was quiet as a church, as if in anticipation of the expected recognition of it's immaculate condition. It was spotless and orderly. He was struck. And on the bar was a tall beer glass stuffed with bills and a note on a napkin that read:
“Thank You, Sir, for your trust – peace be with you.”
V
Ester turned on the light, though she knew she would not be home tonight. Before she locked-up her tight little pad she scanned the drab space and sighed . One never knows how the night might turn. Could be carnal, it could be drab, or it could be polite. She wasn't sure she wanted 'polite' tonight. One might yearn for the safety of home, instead of an eve of debauchery. Options open, she ventures out, anticipating a mate or two, a drink or two, a drug or two...or maybe three, and at that juncture, who cares who joins in. She was aggressive, seeking someone, something, to slug it out with her, and not bemoan the outcome no matter how bloody. She damn well deserved to own her debauchery. Walk away clean, but roughed up. Mean, but willing to retreat, comforted by defeat. Or she might opt for the consolation of her own pad to lick her injured paws and swollen brow, in case things got out of hand.
After all, pain came with the game.
V
