Sunday, October 19, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
In the Pines, In the Pines(Pawn H1 to H3)
The night was dark, threatened rain again. In a quiet corner of downtown one bar sent its soft amber glow out into the sidewalks and a sole neon sign advertising a cheap Milwaukee lager flashed blue and red intermittently. Inside, smoke and the smell of a fryer and the crackle of pool balls. An old jukebox woefully shuffling away the hours until close.
"My girl, my girl, don't lie to me..."
Clay sat at the worn and pitted bar. Cigarette burns under old coats of varnish, the wooden edge worn smooth by generations of working class elbows, down-and-out forearms.
"Tell me where did you sleep last night?"
A small collection of shot glasses. A cigarette burning in an overflowing ashtray.
"In the pines, in the pines,
Where the sun don't ever shine,
I would shiver the whole night through."
Lacey stubbed another smoke out and leaned back on her chair. Cool blue light filtered through the small window that looked out onto the brick firewall across the alley. She held her hands against her face and her body shook again.
Outside her door, her employees listen to the sound of sobbing and the unending rhythmic squeak of a chair.
"My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I'm going where the cold wind blows."
Snow poured himself a single malt and loosened his tie. He fell into his leather recliner and turned on the television. Scotch had long since ceased to burn his throat. He savored its peat and smooth fire. It reminded him of Ireland, the moors and green fields and the sweep and scent of rain coming off the Atlantic waves. Maureen loved that smell, he remembered her with that smell, she was inseparable from that smell and the movement of the breeze in her hair. It was in Ireland where he'd really begun to understand her.
He hadn't been back since the affair.
"In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don't ever shine..."
Clay downed a fifth shot and asked for another. He wasn’t his father and his eyes watered, his face flushed, the room wobbled around his bar-stool. His fingers traced a pattern on the wood grain, played with the water rings, and drummed on the stained empty glasses.
A coaster lay torn in a hundred tiny pieces.
"...I would shiver the whole night through."
Bishop sat at her kitchen table, pouring over notes and accounts and a stack of black and white 8x10's. Leadbelly played on a little radio. His scratchy voice comforted her, helped her concentrate. She recorded a list of figures into a notebook and rubbed her eyes, unaware that her hands moved in time with the guitar. Between the pops and hisses of the old recording the rain began to tap on the roof, and she walked into the kitchen to open an empty fridge.
"My girl, my girl, don't lie to me,
Tell me where did you sleep last night?"
From the office the wailing had ceased, replaced instead with a low murmur as from a conversation that rose and fell in volume and in concert with the rain. It was long past midnight. One of the employees knocked on the door. Silence, then the murmur again, steady, rhythmic, hypnotic. The employees looked at each other, then picked up their coats and left. The one who locked the door did so quietly and carefully, as though he were sealing the lid of a heavy pine box.
"In the pines, in the pines,
Where the sun don't ever shine,
I would shiver the whole night through."
The news came on. Top story: another accident. Advocates up in arms. Traffic safety. Snow tipped the decanter. A golden brown cascade over ice, three fingers. Anna Murray died on the scene. Snow's head snapped around. Witnesses say the driver didn't stop. He slowly walked to the television. 911 calls indicate the driver ran a red light. He sank to his knees. How could this happen in broad daylight? Yes, how could it? How could it?
"My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I'm going where the cold wind blows."
The rain brought with it cold and though at first it kept Bishop alert, she soon rose to close the window. She reached over the couch and heard the tinkling of a homeless man's bag of recyclable cans. Otherwise, the streets were quiet. The window clicked when it latched.
"My girl, my girl, don't lie to me,
Tell me where did you sleep last night?"
Clay stared at himself in the restroom mirror until it shattered in a star pattern and blood ran from his fingers in rivulets. He stood there blinking stupidly, looking at his knuckles. A hand twisted his collar and gripped his shoulder and spun him around into the door frame. The taste of iron filled his mouth. The bartender threw him into the pool table and pushed him through the door and Clay fell down on the sidewalk into the arms of the soft receiving rain.
"In the pines, in the pines,
Where the sun don't ever shine..."
Snow was already working feverishly at his computer, the screen illuminating his furrowed brow. His planner lay open by his right hand, his left gripped a pen that he twirled absent-mindedly as he typed, took notes, and made calls to people whose displeasure at being woken up so early in the morning was repressed by the anguish in the old man's voice.
"...I would shiver the whole night through."
A frail wraith-like shadow slid down the downtown streets like a thief seeking the darkest corners. None could have guessed its purpose or the reason for its huddled, hurried gait. Night seemed to pour into it and become lost, trapped in a vacuum never to escape. Even the streetlight's sodium glare was unable to penetrate that closed, contained form, which held within it the dark ruined circles where late a bright star shone.
"My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I'm going where the cold wind blows."
With his left hand Clay dug his cell phone out of his right pocket. His right hand hung useless, bloody and inflamed. The numbers didn't come easily, to memory or to kinetics. His hand worked only as a model of potential energy, some wounded thing sleeping away a painful night from which dawn might draw peace, or yet more pain.
"In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don't ever shine -
She reached for her cell without taking her eyes from her notes.
"Hello?... What?
Where are you?"
- I would shiver... the whole... night through."
"My girl, my girl, don't lie to me..."
Clay sat at the worn and pitted bar. Cigarette burns under old coats of varnish, the wooden edge worn smooth by generations of working class elbows, down-and-out forearms.
"Tell me where did you sleep last night?"
A small collection of shot glasses. A cigarette burning in an overflowing ashtray.
"In the pines, in the pines,
Where the sun don't ever shine,
I would shiver the whole night through."
Lacey stubbed another smoke out and leaned back on her chair. Cool blue light filtered through the small window that looked out onto the brick firewall across the alley. She held her hands against her face and her body shook again.
Outside her door, her employees listen to the sound of sobbing and the unending rhythmic squeak of a chair.
"My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I'm going where the cold wind blows."
Snow poured himself a single malt and loosened his tie. He fell into his leather recliner and turned on the television. Scotch had long since ceased to burn his throat. He savored its peat and smooth fire. It reminded him of Ireland, the moors and green fields and the sweep and scent of rain coming off the Atlantic waves. Maureen loved that smell, he remembered her with that smell, she was inseparable from that smell and the movement of the breeze in her hair. It was in Ireland where he'd really begun to understand her.
He hadn't been back since the affair.
"In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don't ever shine..."
Clay downed a fifth shot and asked for another. He wasn’t his father and his eyes watered, his face flushed, the room wobbled around his bar-stool. His fingers traced a pattern on the wood grain, played with the water rings, and drummed on the stained empty glasses.
A coaster lay torn in a hundred tiny pieces.
"...I would shiver the whole night through."
Bishop sat at her kitchen table, pouring over notes and accounts and a stack of black and white 8x10's. Leadbelly played on a little radio. His scratchy voice comforted her, helped her concentrate. She recorded a list of figures into a notebook and rubbed her eyes, unaware that her hands moved in time with the guitar. Between the pops and hisses of the old recording the rain began to tap on the roof, and she walked into the kitchen to open an empty fridge.
"My girl, my girl, don't lie to me,
Tell me where did you sleep last night?"
From the office the wailing had ceased, replaced instead with a low murmur as from a conversation that rose and fell in volume and in concert with the rain. It was long past midnight. One of the employees knocked on the door. Silence, then the murmur again, steady, rhythmic, hypnotic. The employees looked at each other, then picked up their coats and left. The one who locked the door did so quietly and carefully, as though he were sealing the lid of a heavy pine box.
"In the pines, in the pines,
Where the sun don't ever shine,
I would shiver the whole night through."
The news came on. Top story: another accident. Advocates up in arms. Traffic safety. Snow tipped the decanter. A golden brown cascade over ice, three fingers. Anna Murray died on the scene. Snow's head snapped around. Witnesses say the driver didn't stop. He slowly walked to the television. 911 calls indicate the driver ran a red light. He sank to his knees. How could this happen in broad daylight? Yes, how could it? How could it?
"My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I'm going where the cold wind blows."
The rain brought with it cold and though at first it kept Bishop alert, she soon rose to close the window. She reached over the couch and heard the tinkling of a homeless man's bag of recyclable cans. Otherwise, the streets were quiet. The window clicked when it latched.
"My girl, my girl, don't lie to me,
Tell me where did you sleep last night?"
Clay stared at himself in the restroom mirror until it shattered in a star pattern and blood ran from his fingers in rivulets. He stood there blinking stupidly, looking at his knuckles. A hand twisted his collar and gripped his shoulder and spun him around into the door frame. The taste of iron filled his mouth. The bartender threw him into the pool table and pushed him through the door and Clay fell down on the sidewalk into the arms of the soft receiving rain.
"In the pines, in the pines,
Where the sun don't ever shine..."
Snow was already working feverishly at his computer, the screen illuminating his furrowed brow. His planner lay open by his right hand, his left gripped a pen that he twirled absent-mindedly as he typed, took notes, and made calls to people whose displeasure at being woken up so early in the morning was repressed by the anguish in the old man's voice.
"...I would shiver the whole night through."
A frail wraith-like shadow slid down the downtown streets like a thief seeking the darkest corners. None could have guessed its purpose or the reason for its huddled, hurried gait. Night seemed to pour into it and become lost, trapped in a vacuum never to escape. Even the streetlight's sodium glare was unable to penetrate that closed, contained form, which held within it the dark ruined circles where late a bright star shone.
"My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I'm going where the cold wind blows."
With his left hand Clay dug his cell phone out of his right pocket. His right hand hung useless, bloody and inflamed. The numbers didn't come easily, to memory or to kinetics. His hand worked only as a model of potential energy, some wounded thing sleeping away a painful night from which dawn might draw peace, or yet more pain.
"In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don't ever shine -
She reached for her cell without taking her eyes from her notes.
"Hello?... What?
Where are you?"
- I would shiver... the whole... night through."
Thursday, July 3, 2008
A Wet Dog (G7 to G6)
Hey, Preacher girl. How’s my pooch? D'you miss me? Yeah, I think you missed me. Woah, dog, you stink and you're wet. D'you go swimming?
Yo, you didn’t let her in the river, did you? Man, I told you not to. You know what’s in that river? Fuckin’ acid rain, man. Fuckin’ mercury and PCBs. DDT. You name it, the fish are swimming in it.
I should send you swimming, you bench hog. Scoot over. Yeah, well, fuck you. You would be too, you seen what I seen today. You hear about what happened downtown? No, the hit and run. You didn’t hear about it? Man, it was cold–blooded.
No it wasn’t. I don’t care what Kneecap say. Cap don’t know shit. This was cold man. Co-old.
Yeah, you know, I got that gig over there across from the bank. I told you about it before, didn’t I? Some crazy-ass dude – thinks he’s Deep-Throat or something – been paying me to keep track of when this guy leaves for lunch, how long he’s gone, who he hangs with, shit like that. Boring. But hell, I’ll take the money.
So I’m outside waiting for my mark to make an exit, and I’m just thinking that he’s kind-a late, ’cause the bank’s already closed – closes early on Saturdays, and he normally doesn’t take so long to lock up and get out of there. And I’m kind-a checkin’ out other folks on the street, people chillin’ on a Saturday. And I notice this chick on a bike pedaling past, and I don’t even know why my eyes follow her but they do. I remember thinking she looked really good on that bike, you know, like a natural, like in her element.
Oh, blow me. That’s ’cause you never been in your element, you wouldn’t know it if it rained on you.
Anyway, I see she’s coming to the intersection, and I also see this SUV – it’s a 4Runner, which I’d locked onto earlier, ’cause I like to keep tabs on the vehicles parked nearby – this 4Runner’s pulling out and the driver’s stepping on it, and just as I’m rolling my eyes thinking, oh yeah, hot rod there gonna gun it to the stoplight, he’s running through the light and plowing into this chick on the bike. And it’s like, “you asshole,” but I don’t even have time to think that. ’cause just like that, the bike’s flying and she’s flying and she’s flipping over the top of the SUV and man, I did not want to see what happened. But it’s like it happened so fast, I couldn’t even turn away and you know, her body’s falling and I swear I could hear bones snapping, but I know that ain’t true ’cause there’s all kinds of cars screeching and people screaming and shouting, even I’m screaming. Some guy’s running after the 4Runner hollering, but it’s like where’s a traffic jam when you need one? The driver just creams out of there. Another guy throws his coffee at it, but it don’t even come close. Fucking twisted rat bastard. But I’m thinking I don’t care, ’cause I got his number, man.
But man, that girl. You never seen anything so twisted. There’s a group of us, we’re all crowdin' around the body, but like I don’t know why, ’cause man, I did not want to see that. And it don’t seem real, man. It’s like I just seen this chick and she’s beautiful and then it’s like… like fuckin’ Picasso took a live body and mangled it for real instead of just on canvas. Face looking front and profile, limbs bent like they ain’t never supposed to be bent. A woman says she’s a doctor and people clear a path for her, but it’s like there’s blood leaking out this chick’s nose and mouth, and we all know it’s not a doctor she’s needing.
People been pouring out of the stores and apartments to see what’s going on. Cops ain’t nowhere to be seen yet, but everybody’s on their cell phones calling it in and shouting out, “Anybody catch the license plate?” and I hear myself chiming in like some Dudley Do-right, “I got it!”
But then I notice my mark’s finally come out of the bank. And it’s like at first, he isn’t even too interested in what’s going on, but then I see him ask somebody what happened. And then he’s pushing his way in to see the body. And then it’s weird what he does. ’Cause I swear he gets all pale and I’m thinking well what’d you expect, don’t look if blood makes you faint, you dickhead. But it isn’t like that. ’Cause then he’s looking all around, scared like, like suddenly everybody around him might have some contagious disease, and he just starts backing out and away from the crowd and then he’s got like his briefcase up to his chest and he starts trottin’ backwards, and I’m about to follow him, but there’s somebody pulling my sleeve saying, “This is the guy’s got the license number,” and next thing you know there’s this cop and he wants to know what I got written down, and so I’m stuck there trying to explain to him why I’ve got a notebook full of dates and times and license plate numbers and shit.
Jesus, what a day. What a fuckin’ day.
C’mon pooch. Let’s go get some din-din. Yo, thanks for watching her. I’ll catch up with you later. And man, I’m telling you, don’t go dunkin’ into that river. That shit will kill you.
Yo, you didn’t let her in the river, did you? Man, I told you not to. You know what’s in that river? Fuckin’ acid rain, man. Fuckin’ mercury and PCBs. DDT. You name it, the fish are swimming in it.
I should send you swimming, you bench hog. Scoot over. Yeah, well, fuck you. You would be too, you seen what I seen today. You hear about what happened downtown? No, the hit and run. You didn’t hear about it? Man, it was cold–blooded.
No it wasn’t. I don’t care what Kneecap say. Cap don’t know shit. This was cold man. Co-old.
Yeah, you know, I got that gig over there across from the bank. I told you about it before, didn’t I? Some crazy-ass dude – thinks he’s Deep-Throat or something – been paying me to keep track of when this guy leaves for lunch, how long he’s gone, who he hangs with, shit like that. Boring. But hell, I’ll take the money.
So I’m outside waiting for my mark to make an exit, and I’m just thinking that he’s kind-a late, ’cause the bank’s already closed – closes early on Saturdays, and he normally doesn’t take so long to lock up and get out of there. And I’m kind-a checkin’ out other folks on the street, people chillin’ on a Saturday. And I notice this chick on a bike pedaling past, and I don’t even know why my eyes follow her but they do. I remember thinking she looked really good on that bike, you know, like a natural, like in her element.
Oh, blow me. That’s ’cause you never been in your element, you wouldn’t know it if it rained on you.
Anyway, I see she’s coming to the intersection, and I also see this SUV – it’s a 4Runner, which I’d locked onto earlier, ’cause I like to keep tabs on the vehicles parked nearby – this 4Runner’s pulling out and the driver’s stepping on it, and just as I’m rolling my eyes thinking, oh yeah, hot rod there gonna gun it to the stoplight, he’s running through the light and plowing into this chick on the bike. And it’s like, “you asshole,” but I don’t even have time to think that. ’cause just like that, the bike’s flying and she’s flying and she’s flipping over the top of the SUV and man, I did not want to see what happened. But it’s like it happened so fast, I couldn’t even turn away and you know, her body’s falling and I swear I could hear bones snapping, but I know that ain’t true ’cause there’s all kinds of cars screeching and people screaming and shouting, even I’m screaming. Some guy’s running after the 4Runner hollering, but it’s like where’s a traffic jam when you need one? The driver just creams out of there. Another guy throws his coffee at it, but it don’t even come close. Fucking twisted rat bastard. But I’m thinking I don’t care, ’cause I got his number, man.
But man, that girl. You never seen anything so twisted. There’s a group of us, we’re all crowdin' around the body, but like I don’t know why, ’cause man, I did not want to see that. And it don’t seem real, man. It’s like I just seen this chick and she’s beautiful and then it’s like… like fuckin’ Picasso took a live body and mangled it for real instead of just on canvas. Face looking front and profile, limbs bent like they ain’t never supposed to be bent. A woman says she’s a doctor and people clear a path for her, but it’s like there’s blood leaking out this chick’s nose and mouth, and we all know it’s not a doctor she’s needing.
People been pouring out of the stores and apartments to see what’s going on. Cops ain’t nowhere to be seen yet, but everybody’s on their cell phones calling it in and shouting out, “Anybody catch the license plate?” and I hear myself chiming in like some Dudley Do-right, “I got it!”
But then I notice my mark’s finally come out of the bank. And it’s like at first, he isn’t even too interested in what’s going on, but then I see him ask somebody what happened. And then he’s pushing his way in to see the body. And then it’s weird what he does. ’Cause I swear he gets all pale and I’m thinking well what’d you expect, don’t look if blood makes you faint, you dickhead. But it isn’t like that. ’Cause then he’s looking all around, scared like, like suddenly everybody around him might have some contagious disease, and he just starts backing out and away from the crowd and then he’s got like his briefcase up to his chest and he starts trottin’ backwards, and I’m about to follow him, but there’s somebody pulling my sleeve saying, “This is the guy’s got the license number,” and next thing you know there’s this cop and he wants to know what I got written down, and so I’m stuck there trying to explain to him why I’ve got a notebook full of dates and times and license plate numbers and shit.
Jesus, what a day. What a fuckin’ day.
C’mon pooch. Let’s go get some din-din. Yo, thanks for watching her. I’ll catch up with you later. And man, I’m telling you, don’t go dunkin’ into that river. That shit will kill you.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Out on the Weekend (Knight B1 to C3)
Anna raced over the Hawthorne Bridge into downtown, pedaling her single-speed through light weekend traffic towards the Pearl. The streets were slick with rain, and in the still-gray morning gloom the orange safety cones resembled mushrooms freshly sprouted from the industrial earth. A long black car pulled up next to her, the window rolled down, and James Snow leaned out into the breeze.
She forced a smile and panted a greeting.
“Late again, Anna?”
“I might beat you there.”
Snow laughed. His hair was white, his teeth were white, his famous white shirt flapped in the breeze. “We’ll see about that,” he said. He waved to his driver, and the car sped up and pulled away. Anna flipped a finger towards the tinted rear window.
“Pompous asshole.”
She walked into the meeting at five after, all elbows and thin legs and hair matted to her temples from her bike helmet and her pants cuff still rolled up high. Snow was talking to other gallery owners in the corner, but looked up as Anna passed and sat across from Lacey. “You’re late again!” she whispered angrily. “You need to be here on time. Snow is pissed!”
Anna shrugged and mouthed the word sorry as Snow called the meeting to order. “First let me remind everyone of the need to meet our professional obligations to each other, and to treat each other as partners, and with respect. If some of you ran your businesses the way you attend these meetings, well then, I think you might find yourself running a “late” business, don’t you think?”
There were a few uncomfortable chuckles, as always. Anna wrinkled her nose and squinted. Lacey coughed into her first. “Sir, Anna was on assignment for me this morning, and it was my fault she was slightly late.” Which was the truth, but the omission burned in the silence like a flaming hoop.
Snow leaned forward on his fists. “Lacey, my dear, you’re a terrible liar. You might have been able to lie to men once, but you're not in show-business any more and you forget who you’re speaking to. I don’t give a shit about your projects. We’re here to make money, not run errands. Now, may we get started?”
This time there were no chuckles. Lacey smiled and looked at her notes, though Anna watched her ears redden and her chest flush in the triangle between the first button and her fleshy collar bones. Both women knew Snow could put their gallery out of business with his rent, and neither wanted anything more than to make it independently of this giant, who secretly and not so secretly controlled much of the art district’s property, both through his fortune and his connections to the business alliance, the artist’s community, and the city commissioners. Snow had begun talking about endowments and using space in what he called “his” galleries to highlight who he thought of as “his” artists. But Anna wasn’t listening; she’d tuned out the drone of the old man and was reliving last night’s mess of arranged fabrics and paint and Clay’s naked body. She jumped when she felt Lacey’s toes against her ankle.
Lacey’s mouth was straight and she stared pointedly at Snow while he rambled and she slid her foot up to Anna’s knee. Anna carefully removed her own shoe, and slouched in her chair to reach for Lacey's fishnets. She hooked her finger in her mouth and saw that Greg from 2Lip was trying to look like he wasn't staring. Snow, as always, was oblivious, even when Lacey sighed heavily, tilted her head back and bared her throat, and stretched her arms by locking her fingers together behind her head.
They met afterwards in the stairwell, alone. The stairs were wide and made of old recycled building beams and the walls were brick and original and supported by massive steel girders. Sunlight fell through skylights and on the second-floor landing Lacey turned to Anna and kissed her deeply.
“I miss you.”
“I can’t today. I promised him I’d be there.”
“Cancel, then. For me.”
“I can’t.”
“Then let’s get a quick drink. You can tell me all about it.”
“I don’t have time, I’m sorry. I really am. It won’t be much longer.” Anna looked away and stepped to the top of the stairs.
"Snow is getting suspicious."
Anna's head tilted to one side, her hair an auburn cascade in the sun. "Snow can go to hell. I'm doing this for us."
"Yeah. Right. Just how is Knight doing, anyway?"
Anna turned and came back and embraced her lover. She ran her fingers through her spiked hair and bent her mouth to her ear. "We need this. I know how hard it is. Just another week or so. I'm close, I know. He doesn't know anything.” She paused. “And I'm not falling for him."
"I miss you," repeated Lacey in Anna's neck.
"Ditto." Anna straightened up and let go. "You've got nothing to worry about."
"Call me?"
"Of course."
“He’s a biter too, huh?” asked Lacey. Anna touched her neck at the shoulder and smiled. “I’ve trained him,” she said, and she waved goodbye boss before disappearing down the stairs. Lacey watched her go and leaned on the polished banister, listening to the footsteps echo up the well. She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew the thin smoke towards the ceiling, where it rose steadily in the light until it, too, disappeared.
Outside, Anna unlocked her bike and hopped on the seat. Despite the argument she was happy. She was used to her boss’s insecurities; she found them endearing. The clouds had broken up and the sun was warm on her face, and she thought of the warmth of Lacey’s mouth, the warmth of her scent. She pedaled through the Pearl, past the big bookstore and towards the river. Pedestrians filled the sidewalks as the rain evaporated, mothers with strollers and men walking dogs, joggers in spandex, shoppers with expensive coats and large bags, teenagers in groups, some happy and some dangerous looking, listless and bored teens stuck with their parents, bikers with ponytails, hipsters in tight pants and wild hair, the homeless with their cans and carts, weekend-shift construction workers in dirty jeans and muddy steel-toes, skateboarders and handsome young professionals with beards and 70's button-ups and black glasses, a crew of rabbis all in black, the grocers in aprons and the store clerks in slacks, all the variety of the city on display as the sun cleared the dreary apartments and tenement hotels and high-rises and burbs and the pulsing streets grew vibrant with pigeons and people and reflected sunlight, the old city reflected in the new glass, the wide avenues and one-ways lined with beech and oak and from an intersection an SUV ran through a red light and clipped the front of Anna’s bike and she somersaulted over the hood, the glass reflecting the clouds, the clouds, the shattering clouds, the tall buildings rising steadily in the light until they too disappeared.
She forced a smile and panted a greeting.
“Late again, Anna?”
“I might beat you there.”
Snow laughed. His hair was white, his teeth were white, his famous white shirt flapped in the breeze. “We’ll see about that,” he said. He waved to his driver, and the car sped up and pulled away. Anna flipped a finger towards the tinted rear window.
“Pompous asshole.”
She walked into the meeting at five after, all elbows and thin legs and hair matted to her temples from her bike helmet and her pants cuff still rolled up high. Snow was talking to other gallery owners in the corner, but looked up as Anna passed and sat across from Lacey. “You’re late again!” she whispered angrily. “You need to be here on time. Snow is pissed!”
Anna shrugged and mouthed the word sorry as Snow called the meeting to order. “First let me remind everyone of the need to meet our professional obligations to each other, and to treat each other as partners, and with respect. If some of you ran your businesses the way you attend these meetings, well then, I think you might find yourself running a “late” business, don’t you think?”
There were a few uncomfortable chuckles, as always. Anna wrinkled her nose and squinted. Lacey coughed into her first. “Sir, Anna was on assignment for me this morning, and it was my fault she was slightly late.” Which was the truth, but the omission burned in the silence like a flaming hoop.
Snow leaned forward on his fists. “Lacey, my dear, you’re a terrible liar. You might have been able to lie to men once, but you're not in show-business any more and you forget who you’re speaking to. I don’t give a shit about your projects. We’re here to make money, not run errands. Now, may we get started?”
This time there were no chuckles. Lacey smiled and looked at her notes, though Anna watched her ears redden and her chest flush in the triangle between the first button and her fleshy collar bones. Both women knew Snow could put their gallery out of business with his rent, and neither wanted anything more than to make it independently of this giant, who secretly and not so secretly controlled much of the art district’s property, both through his fortune and his connections to the business alliance, the artist’s community, and the city commissioners. Snow had begun talking about endowments and using space in what he called “his” galleries to highlight who he thought of as “his” artists. But Anna wasn’t listening; she’d tuned out the drone of the old man and was reliving last night’s mess of arranged fabrics and paint and Clay’s naked body. She jumped when she felt Lacey’s toes against her ankle.
Lacey’s mouth was straight and she stared pointedly at Snow while he rambled and she slid her foot up to Anna’s knee. Anna carefully removed her own shoe, and slouched in her chair to reach for Lacey's fishnets. She hooked her finger in her mouth and saw that Greg from 2Lip was trying to look like he wasn't staring. Snow, as always, was oblivious, even when Lacey sighed heavily, tilted her head back and bared her throat, and stretched her arms by locking her fingers together behind her head.
They met afterwards in the stairwell, alone. The stairs were wide and made of old recycled building beams and the walls were brick and original and supported by massive steel girders. Sunlight fell through skylights and on the second-floor landing Lacey turned to Anna and kissed her deeply.
“I miss you.”
“I can’t today. I promised him I’d be there.”
“Cancel, then. For me.”
“I can’t.”
“Then let’s get a quick drink. You can tell me all about it.”
“I don’t have time, I’m sorry. I really am. It won’t be much longer.” Anna looked away and stepped to the top of the stairs.
"Snow is getting suspicious."
Anna's head tilted to one side, her hair an auburn cascade in the sun. "Snow can go to hell. I'm doing this for us."
"Yeah. Right. Just how is Knight doing, anyway?"
Anna turned and came back and embraced her lover. She ran her fingers through her spiked hair and bent her mouth to her ear. "We need this. I know how hard it is. Just another week or so. I'm close, I know. He doesn't know anything.” She paused. “And I'm not falling for him."
"I miss you," repeated Lacey in Anna's neck.
"Ditto." Anna straightened up and let go. "You've got nothing to worry about."
"Call me?"
"Of course."
“He’s a biter too, huh?” asked Lacey. Anna touched her neck at the shoulder and smiled. “I’ve trained him,” she said, and she waved goodbye boss before disappearing down the stairs. Lacey watched her go and leaned on the polished banister, listening to the footsteps echo up the well. She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew the thin smoke towards the ceiling, where it rose steadily in the light until it, too, disappeared.
Outside, Anna unlocked her bike and hopped on the seat. Despite the argument she was happy. She was used to her boss’s insecurities; she found them endearing. The clouds had broken up and the sun was warm on her face, and she thought of the warmth of Lacey’s mouth, the warmth of her scent. She pedaled through the Pearl, past the big bookstore and towards the river. Pedestrians filled the sidewalks as the rain evaporated, mothers with strollers and men walking dogs, joggers in spandex, shoppers with expensive coats and large bags, teenagers in groups, some happy and some dangerous looking, listless and bored teens stuck with their parents, bikers with ponytails, hipsters in tight pants and wild hair, the homeless with their cans and carts, weekend-shift construction workers in dirty jeans and muddy steel-toes, skateboarders and handsome young professionals with beards and 70's button-ups and black glasses, a crew of rabbis all in black, the grocers in aprons and the store clerks in slacks, all the variety of the city on display as the sun cleared the dreary apartments and tenement hotels and high-rises and burbs and the pulsing streets grew vibrant with pigeons and people and reflected sunlight, the old city reflected in the new glass, the wide avenues and one-ways lined with beech and oak and from an intersection an SUV ran through a red light and clipped the front of Anna’s bike and she somersaulted over the hood, the glass reflecting the clouds, the clouds, the shattering clouds, the tall buildings rising steadily in the light until they too disappeared.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Barefoot in the Mud (Bishop C8 to G4)
Who knew that “you’re disgusting” would be such a successful pickup line? Maybe it was the name she’d used preceding it. His father’s name. Yet he’d answered to it. Corrected her, but not immediately. As for herself, she’d given him her assignment name.
He’s not what everyone thinks; he may not even be what he thinks. What did he think, this unnervingly earnest young man?
They had gone to a bar of his choosing. He got points for “keeping it real.” It wasn’t one of the hipster spots where the current crew of loft artists hung out, but a chipped-tile hole in the wall with good grub and a decent assortment of microbrews. They sat in a booth in a dark corner and he ordered a beer while she’d asked for a martini, stirred.
“So we work for the same client. Are you a contract employee or regular hire?”
Donning a loose Mae West, she had answered, “Listen doll, there’s nothing regular about me.”
He smiled – was that a blush? “I don’t doubt it. You’re on assignment then.” Nodding to her camera bag. “Photographer?”
Her head tilted, assessing him. “When I need to be.” She seemed to be weighing something, and he noticed her arm, which rested casually over the envelope on the table, shift a fraction.
“And is that what our client needs you to be?”
The waitress brought their drinks and Bishop waited until he’d taken a swallow of his beer. “I saw one of your paintings today.”
“Really? Where?”
“I can’t remember what it was called. It’s of a young woman, a girl almost, standing in water near the bank of a river. Mud and silt squished between her toes. She’s wearing a skirt and a long sweater, and the sweater’s pockets are filled with rocks. She’s holding two smooth, flat stones in her hands and she’s looking out towards the middle of the river. And it’s when you follow her gaze that you notice the dying ripples of a skipped stone.”
“What were you doing at my mother’s house?”
“It was something like Sierra on the River’s Edge.”
“How do you know my mother?”
“No, not Sierra – Serena? No, was it Seanna? Something like that.”
“Sienna, at the River’s Edge.”
“Sienna. Yes. That was it.” She took a sip of her martini. “Was that her real name?”
“Do you ever answer other people’s questions?”
“Ahh. Well done! See what a nice trick it is? You ought to employ it more often; save a bit of yourself for you.”
“No. It was the color she reminded me of.”
His voice and eyes held a direct challenge, and it was then that she had made her decision. She stood, leaving the envelope on the table and nodding at him.
“I think you should have a look.”
He paused, his eyes still meeting hers, before picking up the envelope and pulling out a manila file. The top document seemed to be a report, the subject of which was… him.
“What is this? Where did you…”
“Go to the back.” At the bottom of the file a series of 8x10 photographs. Anna. The loft. His face flushed a deep shade of cabernet.
“Our client didn’t need me as a photographer. Apparently they have one already.”
“Who are you?”
She could only shake her head before turning to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”
He’s not what everyone thinks; he may not even be what he thinks. What did he think, this unnervingly earnest young man?
They had gone to a bar of his choosing. He got points for “keeping it real.” It wasn’t one of the hipster spots where the current crew of loft artists hung out, but a chipped-tile hole in the wall with good grub and a decent assortment of microbrews. They sat in a booth in a dark corner and he ordered a beer while she’d asked for a martini, stirred.
“So we work for the same client. Are you a contract employee or regular hire?”
Donning a loose Mae West, she had answered, “Listen doll, there’s nothing regular about me.”
He smiled – was that a blush? “I don’t doubt it. You’re on assignment then.” Nodding to her camera bag. “Photographer?”
Her head tilted, assessing him. “When I need to be.” She seemed to be weighing something, and he noticed her arm, which rested casually over the envelope on the table, shift a fraction.
“And is that what our client needs you to be?”
The waitress brought their drinks and Bishop waited until he’d taken a swallow of his beer. “I saw one of your paintings today.”
“Really? Where?”
“I can’t remember what it was called. It’s of a young woman, a girl almost, standing in water near the bank of a river. Mud and silt squished between her toes. She’s wearing a skirt and a long sweater, and the sweater’s pockets are filled with rocks. She’s holding two smooth, flat stones in her hands and she’s looking out towards the middle of the river. And it’s when you follow her gaze that you notice the dying ripples of a skipped stone.”
“What were you doing at my mother’s house?”
“It was something like Sierra on the River’s Edge.”
“How do you know my mother?”
“No, not Sierra – Serena? No, was it Seanna? Something like that.”
“Sienna, at the River’s Edge.”
“Sienna. Yes. That was it.” She took a sip of her martini. “Was that her real name?”
“Do you ever answer other people’s questions?”
“Ahh. Well done! See what a nice trick it is? You ought to employ it more often; save a bit of yourself for you.”
“No. It was the color she reminded me of.”
His voice and eyes held a direct challenge, and it was then that she had made her decision. She stood, leaving the envelope on the table and nodding at him.
“I think you should have a look.”
He paused, his eyes still meeting hers, before picking up the envelope and pulling out a manila file. The top document seemed to be a report, the subject of which was… him.
“What is this? Where did you…”
“Go to the back.” At the bottom of the file a series of 8x10 photographs. Anna. The loft. His face flushed a deep shade of cabernet.
“Our client didn’t need me as a photographer. Apparently they have one already.”
“Who are you?”
She could only shake her head before turning to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Marvin's Garden (Knight from G1 to F3)
"Mommy, what's that man doing?"
"He's drawing the rock garden, sweetie. Let's be quiet and leave him alone, okay?"
But the child pulled away and ran to Snow and stood in the sun, casting a shadow across the heavy ivory paper.
Knight looked up and smiled. "Hey there. What's your name?"
"I'm Marvin. Whatcha doin'?"
"I'm drawing a picture. Want to see?" Snow held out the sheet, hair and neck criss-crossed and shaded with charcoal, thick black lines curving into cheekbones and dark eyes.
Marvin looked down. "Mommy said you were drawing the rocks. That doesn't look like the rocks."
Knight paused and turned from the boy to the white sand carefully raked around small black pillars of stone. The evening sun cast long shadows and warmed the moss into vibrancy. Then Knight turned back. The boy's mother stood just behind her son.
"Marvin, how old are you?"
"I'm five years old and this many." He held up a hand, chubby fingers spread wide.
"Well, Marvin," said Knight slowly, "this is a picture of a woman who is almost 76 years old. She's my mother. She loves this garden. She loves to come here, but she can't now because she hurt herself falling down."
Knight paused. "In many ways this is her garden, and when I look at these rocks I think of her. So that's what I'm drawing."
"Oh," Marvin said. "But this is my garden."
Marvin's mother leaned over and took his hand. "Okay, sweetie, it's time to go. Let's leave the nice man alone." She smiled at Knight and turned away quickly when he smiled back. His eyes darted to her index finger and he let his gaze follow her as she led Marvin up the boulder-lined path above the rock garden.
"Bye," called Marvin. Both he and his mother waved. He waved back. She was still smiling as they disappeared behind a cherry tree.
When he looked back towards the garden the woman from the office stood a few feet to his right. She held a large envelope and her camera bag was slung over her shoulder. "Snow," she said, "you're disgusting."
The sun fell across her face, and Knight found he could not meet her eyes. Instead he looked down and saw her calves, the slender trunks of trees, and the antennae and spires of skyscrapers beyond, his father's among them.
"Who are you?"
"I wanted to ask you the same question."
"I asked first. You followed me here. Or at least you found me here." Knight set his drawing board carefully down and stood slowly. His eyes met hers level and steady. "And the name is Knight, Clay Knight. So?"
She held his eyes for a moment until the wind picked up and she ran her thin fingers through long hair. "My name is Bishop. Emily Bishop. We're working for the same... client. I saw you the other day at the office."
"Which doesn't explain why you're standing here now."
She tucked the envelope under arm and thrust her hands deep into her pockets. "I shouldn't be standing here."
"Then I suppose it doesn't matter if I ask you to have a drink with me."
Bishop glanced away but Knight saw a smile, just a slight upturn of her lip that he sensed was the first honest thing about her, the one thing he'd come to remember most about this first meeting, the first thing he fell in love with and most deeply.
"Yes," she said, "yes," and as Knight gathered his supplies, covering his drawing with paper and stuffing it all into a rucksack, she congratulated herself that the ploy had worked so easily.
"He's drawing the rock garden, sweetie. Let's be quiet and leave him alone, okay?"
But the child pulled away and ran to Snow and stood in the sun, casting a shadow across the heavy ivory paper.
Knight looked up and smiled. "Hey there. What's your name?"
"I'm Marvin. Whatcha doin'?"
"I'm drawing a picture. Want to see?" Snow held out the sheet, hair and neck criss-crossed and shaded with charcoal, thick black lines curving into cheekbones and dark eyes.
Marvin looked down. "Mommy said you were drawing the rocks. That doesn't look like the rocks."
Knight paused and turned from the boy to the white sand carefully raked around small black pillars of stone. The evening sun cast long shadows and warmed the moss into vibrancy. Then Knight turned back. The boy's mother stood just behind her son.
"Marvin, how old are you?"
"I'm five years old and this many." He held up a hand, chubby fingers spread wide.
"Well, Marvin," said Knight slowly, "this is a picture of a woman who is almost 76 years old. She's my mother. She loves this garden. She loves to come here, but she can't now because she hurt herself falling down."
Knight paused. "In many ways this is her garden, and when I look at these rocks I think of her. So that's what I'm drawing."
"Oh," Marvin said. "But this is my garden."
Marvin's mother leaned over and took his hand. "Okay, sweetie, it's time to go. Let's leave the nice man alone." She smiled at Knight and turned away quickly when he smiled back. His eyes darted to her index finger and he let his gaze follow her as she led Marvin up the boulder-lined path above the rock garden.
"Bye," called Marvin. Both he and his mother waved. He waved back. She was still smiling as they disappeared behind a cherry tree.
When he looked back towards the garden the woman from the office stood a few feet to his right. She held a large envelope and her camera bag was slung over her shoulder. "Snow," she said, "you're disgusting."
The sun fell across her face, and Knight found he could not meet her eyes. Instead he looked down and saw her calves, the slender trunks of trees, and the antennae and spires of skyscrapers beyond, his father's among them.
"Who are you?"
"I wanted to ask you the same question."
"I asked first. You followed me here. Or at least you found me here." Knight set his drawing board carefully down and stood slowly. His eyes met hers level and steady. "And the name is Knight, Clay Knight. So?"
She held his eyes for a moment until the wind picked up and she ran her thin fingers through long hair. "My name is Bishop. Emily Bishop. We're working for the same... client. I saw you the other day at the office."
"Which doesn't explain why you're standing here now."
She tucked the envelope under arm and thrust her hands deep into her pockets. "I shouldn't be standing here."
"Then I suppose it doesn't matter if I ask you to have a drink with me."
Bishop glanced away but Knight saw a smile, just a slight upturn of her lip that he sensed was the first honest thing about her, the one thing he'd come to remember most about this first meeting, the first thing he fell in love with and most deeply.
"Yes," she said, "yes," and as Knight gathered his supplies, covering his drawing with paper and stuffing it all into a rucksack, she congratulated herself that the ploy had worked so easily.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Snow in the dogwoods (Knight from G8 to F6)
She stopped in at The Dogwoods and ordered a beer. Her usual booth was taken so she sat on a stool at the end of the bar, near the phones. This occasional haunt was one of the few places that still had land-line booths installed against a wall in the back.
She laid the envelope facedown on the bar and let her fingers drum-roll the back of it. She had looked at the contents briefly before resealing it and taking it in with her to the meeting. She'd need to go over them in more detail of course, but would wait to get back to her office to do that. She went over what she knew.
Clay Gordon Knight, formerly Snow. He'd taken his mother's name and side, after his parent's very public divorce some years ago. Age 29. An artist. Now disinherited. Once, he could have capitalized on his father's connections but chose instead to try to make it on his own merits. With mixed results. Half the galleries in the city were afraid of risking his father's ire to hold shows for him, ironically, the other half found him too establishment.
One of the phones rang, interrupting her thoughts. She stepped off the stool and picked it up. The voice on the other end didn't identify itself, but then he never had. And she knew better than to ask where he was calling from or how he knew what she was working on, knew that any line of inquiry would only result in a dial tone and several weeks silence. She had come to learn that the information would be reliable and, with some shoeleather, verifiable. She had to be satisfied with that.
"He was in the waiting room. Did you see him?"
"How could I not. I'm sure it was no coincidence."
"Of course. Like you, they're using him. But don't underestimate him. Or Snow."
"You think his father's behind this?" She didn't usually ask himquestions. He didn't usually answer them.
His voice darkened with impatience. "Think, Bishop. Snow's either behind this or the target of it. Either way, don't let him fall on you. They're playing it soft. Like a human interest story. But keep your eye on the money and the bouncing check. Who closed thataccount? Get a copy of the surveillance tape and look at who else was in the lobby."
"I don't get Knight's role in all this."
"Don't think you know this kid, Bishop. A, he's no kid. B, he's notwhat everyone thinks; he may not even be what he thinks."
She laid the envelope facedown on the bar and let her fingers drum-roll the back of it. She had looked at the contents briefly before resealing it and taking it in with her to the meeting. She'd need to go over them in more detail of course, but would wait to get back to her office to do that. She went over what she knew.
Clay Gordon Knight, formerly Snow. He'd taken his mother's name and side, after his parent's very public divorce some years ago. Age 29. An artist. Now disinherited. Once, he could have capitalized on his father's connections but chose instead to try to make it on his own merits. With mixed results. Half the galleries in the city were afraid of risking his father's ire to hold shows for him, ironically, the other half found him too establishment.
One of the phones rang, interrupting her thoughts. She stepped off the stool and picked it up. The voice on the other end didn't identify itself, but then he never had. And she knew better than to ask where he was calling from or how he knew what she was working on, knew that any line of inquiry would only result in a dial tone and several weeks silence. She had come to learn that the information would be reliable and, with some shoeleather, verifiable. She had to be satisfied with that.
"He was in the waiting room. Did you see him?"
"How could I not. I'm sure it was no coincidence."
"Of course. Like you, they're using him. But don't underestimate him. Or Snow."
"You think his father's behind this?" She didn't usually ask himquestions. He didn't usually answer them.
His voice darkened with impatience. "Think, Bishop. Snow's either behind this or the target of it. Either way, don't let him fall on you. They're playing it soft. Like a human interest story. But keep your eye on the money and the bouncing check. Who closed thataccount? Get a copy of the surveillance tape and look at who else was in the lobby."
"I don't get Knight's role in all this."
"Don't think you know this kid, Bishop. A, he's no kid. B, he's notwhat everyone thinks; he may not even be what he thinks."
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Sleep Artist (Bishop from F1 to C4)
We started in the middle of things, the pale belly of the matter, and despite the art I don't know where it will end. Our feet and heads are often at odds. I think of this now while Anna sleeps in the loft, her red hair shocking in the moonlight, the curtain in breeze. Something of it reminds me of the painting I bought unfinished from a street artist in Florence – light blue sketch-lines ghost down from bright watercolor into open white paper, and a golden basilica and deep sky arch like a prayer above a lonely street – motion, space, the possibility of completion. But not tonight. Tonight something resisted all painting.
I climb quietly down the ladder to my study where the canvas stands as I left it, a dark emptiness in the night surrounded by tubes of titanium white and scarlet, my brushes lined up neatly and waiting.
Her face, her face and tapered neck and her coils of auburn hair! I only saw her for a moment, when I left the company's office and passed her in the waiting room. They want it finished, and on time. They will pay me only then. I suppose if you commission art you can be as secretive and rigid as you want. And I'm so hard up I’ll take any commission, even one I don't understand. Was that a camera bag under that envelope?
On the way to the kitchen I pause in front of the framed Italian painting. I can barely see my reflection. My fingers leave vertical marks on the glass, and I remember her legs, two swift lines of bare skin in the shape of a tall letter x, a red patterned dress pulled tight above her knee. Lips to match the dress, but glossier. A hand at rest. A ring?
I need a beer.
It’s hard to eat when you haven't had a sale in months. The beer goes right to my head and I know I won’t get any work done tonight. Sometimes a cigarette will do the trick, but not this time. I light another one and sit in the dim light of the kitchen, while the clock on the oven cycles through the blue hours, and the orange tip of the smoke darts periodically towards the ashtray like a small fish.
Then the bed-springs groan and I hear soft feet on the wood floor, and I know Anna is coming down. The ladder creaks. She’s wearing one of my favorite old button-ups, the light blue one flecked with paint. Her Irish legs glow as she pads up and wraps her long arms around my shoulders. Her breath is heavy with sleep when she kisses me, and her arms are tinged a delicate blue, and yet though her touch has the weight of a prayer, my mind holds still to the other woman, and the kitchen feels suddenly cold.
I climb quietly down the ladder to my study where the canvas stands as I left it, a dark emptiness in the night surrounded by tubes of titanium white and scarlet, my brushes lined up neatly and waiting.
Her face, her face and tapered neck and her coils of auburn hair! I only saw her for a moment, when I left the company's office and passed her in the waiting room. They want it finished, and on time. They will pay me only then. I suppose if you commission art you can be as secretive and rigid as you want. And I'm so hard up I’ll take any commission, even one I don't understand. Was that a camera bag under that envelope?
On the way to the kitchen I pause in front of the framed Italian painting. I can barely see my reflection. My fingers leave vertical marks on the glass, and I remember her legs, two swift lines of bare skin in the shape of a tall letter x, a red patterned dress pulled tight above her knee. Lips to match the dress, but glossier. A hand at rest. A ring?
I need a beer.
It’s hard to eat when you haven't had a sale in months. The beer goes right to my head and I know I won’t get any work done tonight. Sometimes a cigarette will do the trick, but not this time. I light another one and sit in the dim light of the kitchen, while the clock on the oven cycles through the blue hours, and the orange tip of the smoke darts periodically towards the ashtray like a small fish.
Then the bed-springs groan and I hear soft feet on the wood floor, and I know Anna is coming down. The ladder creaks. She’s wearing one of my favorite old button-ups, the light blue one flecked with paint. Her Irish legs glow as she pads up and wraps her long arms around my shoulders. Her breath is heavy with sleep when she kisses me, and her arms are tinged a delicate blue, and yet though her touch has the weight of a prayer, my mind holds still to the other woman, and the kitchen feels suddenly cold.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Albatross (D7 to D6)
The meeting had not gone as planned. She'd been prepared to state her case and walk out the door, resignation tendered. But she had underestimated their resolve and the degree to which this project mattered to them. She knew that she didn't matter. Her talent and worth were relative only in terms of "the project."
Still, she was unprepared for the baldness of their negotiation. No flattery this round. No fawning acknowledgement of her reputation in the field. But for all it's bluntness there'd been no honesty either. Just a cold display of power. We own you. Until this assignment is complete, you belong to us.
Not quite. A mere power play would have infuriated her. And she would have called their bluff, even though she couldn't be sure it was a bluff. Instead she'd paused. Paused and pretended to let a slow burn settle in her, while she eyed each of them coolly. Interesting. In a curious way, they'd just made the project more intriguing. Okay, there's something else here -- under the surface. Or was that what they intended her to think? Had that been the morning's strategy: Flex a phony strong arm to indirectly inflate the importance of the assignment?
Perhaps. But she wagered not. The envelope sat on the desktop between them, exactly where she'd placed it upon entering. With one finger, she slid it back across the glass towards her, then lifted it and, in what could only be taken as a f-you gesture, held it up to them before tucking it with exaggerated care inside her camera bag.
Now, walking briskly along Market Street past the suits with cell phones, she hoisted the camera bag further up her shoulder, and let a small smile play at the corner of her mouth. It was possible her albatross was morphing into a golden goose.
Still, she was unprepared for the baldness of their negotiation. No flattery this round. No fawning acknowledgement of her reputation in the field. But for all it's bluntness there'd been no honesty either. Just a cold display of power. We own you. Until this assignment is complete, you belong to us.
Not quite. A mere power play would have infuriated her. And she would have called their bluff, even though she couldn't be sure it was a bluff. Instead she'd paused. Paused and pretended to let a slow burn settle in her, while she eyed each of them coolly. Interesting. In a curious way, they'd just made the project more intriguing. Okay, there's something else here -- under the surface. Or was that what they intended her to think? Had that been the morning's strategy: Flex a phony strong arm to indirectly inflate the importance of the assignment?
Perhaps. But she wagered not. The envelope sat on the desktop between them, exactly where she'd placed it upon entering. With one finger, she slid it back across the glass towards her, then lifted it and, in what could only be taken as a f-you gesture, held it up to them before tucking it with exaggerated care inside her camera bag.
Now, walking briskly along Market Street past the suits with cell phones, she hoisted the camera bag further up her shoulder, and let a small smile play at the corner of her mouth. It was possible her albatross was morphing into a golden goose.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The (Fraud) Who Came in From the Cold (E2 to E4)
I keep at it, the axe swinging in a silver arc against the steel sky, the wood splitting clean with the sound of ripping linen. Sweat slides down my brow, and my shoulders ache, and my breath steams. The snow is littered with splinters. The sun is a vast orange nebula behind the oak, the house, and the thin plume of smoke rising from the river-rock chimmney. Ravens crackle in the timber, and night creeps under the heavy boughs.
When it's done I stomp back up to the shed and stand beneath the awning. The pines are already black, the melt far away, but we'll be warm this evening. I turn inside.
Two rooms are all we need together, two rooms for living and for dying, a room for waking and a room for sleep. One window on the world, two burners on the stove, three shelves for food and a simple wooden bookcase. A big trunk with leather clasps to hold our few belongings. A small bed with quilts. A table, with candle, notebook, pens and camera. The only thing you shoot is wildlife photography, and I only shoot pictures of you.
Your pictures cover one wall.
While my boots dry and the tea steeps in its kettle, I open a volume of Gary Snyder and read to you: "When you ask for help it comes / but not in any way you'd expect." The fire pops and hisses, aromatic cedar filling the warm room. You're silent again, and it reminds me of mornings in Portland years ago, when we'd rise at dawn to sit outside the cafe and read together, the distances just a few feet of cool summmer air. An hour would pass as it does now, content with mere presence, two bodies in heat with waves rising between us, and all the possibilities of day and night ahead.
But you aren't here this winter. You never were.
When it's done I stomp back up to the shed and stand beneath the awning. The pines are already black, the melt far away, but we'll be warm this evening. I turn inside.
Two rooms are all we need together, two rooms for living and for dying, a room for waking and a room for sleep. One window on the world, two burners on the stove, three shelves for food and a simple wooden bookcase. A big trunk with leather clasps to hold our few belongings. A small bed with quilts. A table, with candle, notebook, pens and camera. The only thing you shoot is wildlife photography, and I only shoot pictures of you.
Your pictures cover one wall.
While my boots dry and the tea steeps in its kettle, I open a volume of Gary Snyder and read to you: "When you ask for help it comes / but not in any way you'd expect." The fire pops and hisses, aromatic cedar filling the warm room. You're silent again, and it reminds me of mornings in Portland years ago, when we'd rise at dawn to sit outside the cafe and read together, the distances just a few feet of cool summmer air. An hour would pass as it does now, content with mere presence, two bodies in heat with waves rising between us, and all the possibilities of day and night ahead.
But you aren't here this winter. You never were.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
