Over The World – French Kicks (listen in new tab)
It has been fours days since Jenny collapsed. The rumours at the library cut all ways. K has no idea what the truth is. That question appears to be running roughshod across his life. At least this evening he was driving to pick up an answer, finally.
Claire and K are in his Cavalier, bundled against the crisp early evening. In an act of futile optimism no one uses the phrase unseasonably cold, though it’s what everyone in the city is thinking. They are making good time. The traffic out to the airport alternates between easy and infuriating. It is hardly insurmountable. Halloween is tomorrow. They drive past decorated homes and stores, sometimes mocking their quality or applauding homespun ingenuity when they find it.
There are long pauses. It’s nervousness. Neither knows what to expect. Claire is more confused than he is. K is holding a lot close to his chest. Shannon has kept her out, too. Maybe more.
Claire, for the hundredth time: “I’m happy she’s gonna be here. I really missed her, but, you know, why now?”
K, for the hundredth time: “She was just too homesick.” It’s a lame excuse. He knows it was more than that. But, he does not know in the sense that he was told. He wasn’t. He tries to lays that aside by turning up the stereo. “I like this one.”
Claire: “It’s good.” She says it absently. K wonders where her mind is, what she knew.
K didn’t call Maura back when she called the day after Jenny collapsed. He didn’t when she called yesterday. He sat and watched his cell ring. Shannon was coming back. He wanted to focus on that and put the other thing behind him. He wants to help her and be there for her. Shannon sounded so desperate on the phone. Those calls had shoveled doubt like dirt on his memory of her, like dousing a fire. He despises himself for the lameness of the metaphor, and doesn’t tell anyone about it. He fronts buoyancy instead. It’s a hedge against his wish that the feeling was imperceptible. It is inscrutably large.
K: “Well, I don’t know. If this is what she needs, then I think we’ll round out ok.” Can something ring sincere and hollow at the same time?
Claire watches him. K feels how hard she is trying to read his mind. He knows how well she can do it. Under that pressure he tries to change the subject in advance. “I think G.T. has a date tonight.”
Claire: “Wow, where’d he find the money to pay for one.”
A car accident makes them late. When they arrive, she’s waiting at the baggage carousel, her head turning slightly back and forth, as she watches the suitcases past. It’s a succession of silent no’s. Shannon is wearing a new coat, one not quite warm enough for the weather. But, it’s flattering. K’s relieved, remembering that he’d recognize her wearing anything. They’d been together for four years. She was a map he knew all the inches of.
He shouts her name and runs up to her. She turns to him, standing hazily in jet-lagged disarray. Her eyes grow huge when she sees who was calling her among all the people waiting for their baggage.
And then they kiss. Their mouths collapse into each other's. She is warm, soft and moist. It is a kiss with familiar pressure and yet heavy with urgency. Their mouths open. She reaches in with an unfamiliar flick of her tongue. For a moment K’s mind is on fire. And the memory of a thousand long kisses pushes in. They envelope each other, squeezing their bodies back into the folds of their lives. He wants to be naked with her. He imagines his doubts falling away in layers, shed like translucent skins that pile at his feet.
Claire watches them. Her arms crossed. She doesn’t want to disturb them, but her mouth is about to run over. Shannon’s eyes seem too red. She hugs too firmly. She shouldn’t be here. It seems to her that it’s an alternate Shannon, from an alternate universe where every molecule is a nanometer farther apart. It’s as if she needs to be pushed back into shape, just a little. Or else, she is expanding slowly.
They ride back in silence, listening to one of K’s mix CDs. K puts his hand on Shannon’s thigh while she watches the city pass. They’d ridden in the car like that for a hundred drives. Claire sits in the back. Her eye is a sieve for detail. She is genuinely happy Shannon is back and starts to get used to the idea.
K and Shannon leave Claire outside the house she has lived in for years. She watches them drive away, in and out of the nighttime city’s light. There aren’t a lot of dark places, but still enough where the light doesn’t reach all the way. Walking up the steps of her porch, she smiles because the jack-o-lantern she carved survived another day. She holds the door for her cat. Sbeckett, fat and grey, enters lazily.
She imagines Shannon at K’s apartment, which was once the pair’s apartment, and is again. Shannon pulls him into bed. He falls on her and they sink deeply into one anther. In her mind, she always wants people to be happy. She also knows, her heart had been broken once or twice, that time always tells.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
One Red Thread
One Red Thread – Blind Pilot (listen in new tab)
The snow turned to rain overnight. K didn’t sleep. Since Shannon called he’d been wreckage in white water. His mind a torrent he couldn’t calm. By morning he was placid and numb with fatigue.
He was late for work at the library. He forgot Jenny’s coffee. He didn’t have time to get one himself. She looked like she could have used it; she didn’t say anything, bless her soul. But, she did remind him bluntly that today was his six month performance review.
K leans on the wall outside Candice’s closed office door, waiting for his turn. He fidgets with the sleeve of his threadbare brown corduroy sports coat. He has had it forever and loves it, but wishes he’d worn something a little more professional.
Candice opens the door. She has a look for when she’s trying to be professionally cordial. It doesn’t work. K smiles, trying to look nonchalant. Her performance reviews were known for their venom and the lack of follow through. He knows what’s coming. He’d heard it all under her breath before. But, it was a lean year. Cut backs were on the wind. The union was close to a strike vote. It was not a good time to be marked by management.
Half an hour later, Candice shows him out of her office. It followed the pattern in the management manuals exactly. She started with vague, vacuous praise of what he does well. Then the endless and spurious critique. She finished, landing a weak bit of praise about his work with reference questions. K hardly listens. Candice’s words flow around him in eddies. He thinks about calling Maura again. That thought breaks-up against the list of reasons he compiled for why Shannon was coming back. All of them are there, except for the one he really wants. Where is it?
She closes her door behind him. He hears her chair creak and roll back behind her desk. She probably is relieved it is over, too.
He stands there a moment. A patron asks about some book. It’s an old man in a grey herring bone jacket and a faded wool cap. He rocks patiently on a cane waiting for K to reply.
K barely recognizes the question. “Uh, yeah. Let’s take a look on the shelf.”
They pass the reference desk. Jenny gives him a smile. “You survived, eh? You look like you could use a drink.” Despite the cheer, she looks pale. Her eyes maybe are glassy. But, K doesn’t notice. His whole world is pale this morning.
The old man eyes Jenny. “Who’s the dame?” He smiles are her. She doesn’t smile back.
K has gathered himself, pulling from his pocket his customer service self. “I don’t think she’s interested.”
Man: “Give’er time. You kids have no patience.”
K: “Likely. Anyway, it’ll be in the D’s. Fiction’s organized alphabetically by author, you know.”
The man taps K on the shin with his cane. “Boy, I know that. I just couldn’t find it.”
K: “Ok. Ok.”
They walk down between the shelves. K scans them. He doesn’t see it either.
The old man points with his cane to one of the catalog kiosks standing in the centre of the library. “That computer contraption. It said it was here.”
K: “Well, let’s take a look.”
They emerge from the row of shelves. K sees Jenny talking to a young mother holding a baby. K can tell from her exaggerated cheer that Jenny’s rolling her eyes in her head at the woman as she explains one thing or another. She is leaning a little on her desk. It’s not something she often does. But, K doesn’t notice.
At the stained brown, pressboard computer kiosk, K and the old man search the catalog. From there he can hear Jenny’s conversation. The mother wants a book that doesn’t exist, or only exists in her mind.
K points at the computer screen. “See here, sir? It’s in, but it’s in transit.”
Old Man: “Oh. What does that mean?”
K: “It means–”
In the back of his head, he hears the conversation at the reference desk stop.
K looks. Jenny is standing, gripping the counter.
And then she’s gone.
The mother squawks in alarm and startles her baby to crying.
The snow turned to rain overnight. K didn’t sleep. Since Shannon called he’d been wreckage in white water. His mind a torrent he couldn’t calm. By morning he was placid and numb with fatigue.
He was late for work at the library. He forgot Jenny’s coffee. He didn’t have time to get one himself. She looked like she could have used it; she didn’t say anything, bless her soul. But, she did remind him bluntly that today was his six month performance review.
K leans on the wall outside Candice’s closed office door, waiting for his turn. He fidgets with the sleeve of his threadbare brown corduroy sports coat. He has had it forever and loves it, but wishes he’d worn something a little more professional.
Candice opens the door. She has a look for when she’s trying to be professionally cordial. It doesn’t work. K smiles, trying to look nonchalant. Her performance reviews were known for their venom and the lack of follow through. He knows what’s coming. He’d heard it all under her breath before. But, it was a lean year. Cut backs were on the wind. The union was close to a strike vote. It was not a good time to be marked by management.
Half an hour later, Candice shows him out of her office. It followed the pattern in the management manuals exactly. She started with vague, vacuous praise of what he does well. Then the endless and spurious critique. She finished, landing a weak bit of praise about his work with reference questions. K hardly listens. Candice’s words flow around him in eddies. He thinks about calling Maura again. That thought breaks-up against the list of reasons he compiled for why Shannon was coming back. All of them are there, except for the one he really wants. Where is it?
She closes her door behind him. He hears her chair creak and roll back behind her desk. She probably is relieved it is over, too.
He stands there a moment. A patron asks about some book. It’s an old man in a grey herring bone jacket and a faded wool cap. He rocks patiently on a cane waiting for K to reply.
K barely recognizes the question. “Uh, yeah. Let’s take a look on the shelf.”
They pass the reference desk. Jenny gives him a smile. “You survived, eh? You look like you could use a drink.” Despite the cheer, she looks pale. Her eyes maybe are glassy. But, K doesn’t notice. His whole world is pale this morning.
The old man eyes Jenny. “Who’s the dame?” He smiles are her. She doesn’t smile back.
K has gathered himself, pulling from his pocket his customer service self. “I don’t think she’s interested.”
Man: “Give’er time. You kids have no patience.”
K: “Likely. Anyway, it’ll be in the D’s. Fiction’s organized alphabetically by author, you know.”
The man taps K on the shin with his cane. “Boy, I know that. I just couldn’t find it.”
K: “Ok. Ok.”
They walk down between the shelves. K scans them. He doesn’t see it either.
The old man points with his cane to one of the catalog kiosks standing in the centre of the library. “That computer contraption. It said it was here.”
K: “Well, let’s take a look.”
They emerge from the row of shelves. K sees Jenny talking to a young mother holding a baby. K can tell from her exaggerated cheer that Jenny’s rolling her eyes in her head at the woman as she explains one thing or another. She is leaning a little on her desk. It’s not something she often does. But, K doesn’t notice.
At the stained brown, pressboard computer kiosk, K and the old man search the catalog. From there he can hear Jenny’s conversation. The mother wants a book that doesn’t exist, or only exists in her mind.
K points at the computer screen. “See here, sir? It’s in, but it’s in transit.”
Old Man: “Oh. What does that mean?”
K: “It means–”
In the back of his head, he hears the conversation at the reference desk stop.
K looks. Jenny is standing, gripping the counter.
And then she’s gone.
The mother squawks in alarm and startles her baby to crying.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Greeting Card Aisle
Greeting Card Aisle – Sarah Harmer (Listen in new tab)
Greeting Card Aisle – Sarah Harmer
It turns out her name is Maura. Everyone calls her Maury. A few days later they met just as friends. Middle of the afternoon. A busy cafe. It was a safe plan. He told himself that. It was good enough for the second time, the day after that. This is the third date, though he doesn’t call them that. It's late, maybe 11:00 PM.
They've been walking in the cold evening, drifting down streets, carried on their conversation. All they've done is talk. Sometimes their arms touched, or she put her hand on his arm, near his elbow, when he said something funny, which was often.
He’s trying to stay in the lines. It's not easy. She’s disarming and absorbs his charm. K keeps a list of everything, cataloging it so he knows when he’s broken a rule. He hasn't mentioned Shannon. He doesn't forget about her, either. His mind is a scale.
Now they sit in Cymbeline's Diner (probably the best French toast in town not made by someone's mother). They're just having coffee. The only waitress on duty inattentively puts up Halloween decorations, standing on the empty booth benches as she tapes orange and black streamers to the top of the wall. There aren't many customers to serve.
The music is low and familiar.
K fidgets with his cup, turning it in his hands. She plays with her hair, making coils absently around her index finger. Their conversation has paused because they both stopped to listen to the song playing over the tinny diner speakers.
Maury: "She's incredibly sad in this song."
K: "Yeah. I guess it comes across. I was a big fan of her, way back." A small act of vetting.
Maury: "I still like her. Her early stuff is my favourite, too." A pass.
K: "Well, yeah. She has a gorgeous voice. Sometimes, when she sings it sounds like how kissing feels."
She looks at him. Her eyes grip him from behind her thick framed glasses. She pulls up her purse and fishes out a stick of lip gloss. He watches as she runs the waxen tip over her lips. "I can totally see that."
K: "You know when a girl puts on lip gloss, she’s thinking about-"
He's stopped by the waitress, who has appeared holding a half empty carafe of burnt coffee. "You need me to warm you up?"
K: "Huh?"
Maury: "She means your coffee. I'll have more."
K: "I'm good. Gotta work tomorrow morning."
Waitress: "Ok." She pours Maury a full cup. The dark coffee sloshes against the sides. A few drops miss as she barely, deftly stops pouring to swing the carafe over to K’s cup. She leaves behind small brown circles on the white, silver speckled aborite. She coldly drops a few creamers. Maury watches her walk away.
K runs his hands along the chrome band at the edge of the table. He creates an index for the lines and shadows of her profile, and he files a card for his subsequent thought. And makes one for the obdurate pang in the back of his brain. It's not the first time he has wished it was a different situation.
Maury: "I bet you chose this place for the service."
K, brightly: "You gotta have the French toast."
Maury: "No doubt."
K doesn’t notice when he casually puts his hand on the small of her back, as he holds the door open for her when they leave the diner.
It turns out they live close to each other – well, by Toronto's standards. It's snowing large, lazily floating flakes. They glow orange in the street lights. They walk closer now. He has stopped counting the little touches of their hands.
It's a roving conversation, not quite probing, but becoming more and more personal. Crossing lines.
She talks about her sick grandmother, and how the old woman tries to hide it.
K: "I was sad when my grandmother died. I was maybe 10. I didn't know her that well, but she was crazy, and I missed the old bat."
Maury: "My grandmother and I are very close. She’s amazing. I lived with her a few years ago. It was so much fun. But it’s hard now. She’s so stubborn." She stops walking. "This is it."
They are outside a low, brick apartment building. The large panes of the front entrance reveal yellowed light and the faded wallpaper of a stained stairwell.
K looks around and then at her.
Time slows, each second taking longer than they expected. The snow hovers in the air. They stand there facing each other.
"Well."
"Well."
A lone flake of snow lands on Maury’s cheek. Without thinking K smoothly, gently wipes it away before it melts. As he does this, Maury searches his eyes. He isn’t hiding now. K looks down at the ground, unable to bear it. She reaches up with her hand, placing it on the back of his elbow, pulling it towards her slightly. She leans in and up on her tiptoes.
Their faces are a breath apart.
K's phone rings in his pocket. It a ring he hasn't heard in days. K steps back, stammers something, anything. "It's not that I-" He pulls his cell phone out, looks. "I have to take this."
Maury’s face is covered with confusion and disappointment. It’s palpable. "K, if I was too forward..."
"It's not that." He presses the answer key, holding the small phone to the side of his face. "Hey. Hi. What time is it there? ... What? ... Really? ... Why? ... One sec." He covers the mouth piece with his palm. "I'm sorry. I have to go."
Maury: "We'll talk again soon, right?"
K: "Yeah. I'm sorry." He is. He watches her go inside and disappear up the stairs. He puts the phone back to his ear. "What do you mean you’re coming home? When?"
Greeting Card Aisle – Sarah Harmer
It turns out her name is Maura. Everyone calls her Maury. A few days later they met just as friends. Middle of the afternoon. A busy cafe. It was a safe plan. He told himself that. It was good enough for the second time, the day after that. This is the third date, though he doesn’t call them that. It's late, maybe 11:00 PM.
They've been walking in the cold evening, drifting down streets, carried on their conversation. All they've done is talk. Sometimes their arms touched, or she put her hand on his arm, near his elbow, when he said something funny, which was often.
He’s trying to stay in the lines. It's not easy. She’s disarming and absorbs his charm. K keeps a list of everything, cataloging it so he knows when he’s broken a rule. He hasn't mentioned Shannon. He doesn't forget about her, either. His mind is a scale.
Now they sit in Cymbeline's Diner (probably the best French toast in town not made by someone's mother). They're just having coffee. The only waitress on duty inattentively puts up Halloween decorations, standing on the empty booth benches as she tapes orange and black streamers to the top of the wall. There aren't many customers to serve.
The music is low and familiar.
K fidgets with his cup, turning it in his hands. She plays with her hair, making coils absently around her index finger. Their conversation has paused because they both stopped to listen to the song playing over the tinny diner speakers.
Maury: "She's incredibly sad in this song."
K: "Yeah. I guess it comes across. I was a big fan of her, way back." A small act of vetting.
Maury: "I still like her. Her early stuff is my favourite, too." A pass.
K: "Well, yeah. She has a gorgeous voice. Sometimes, when she sings it sounds like how kissing feels."
She looks at him. Her eyes grip him from behind her thick framed glasses. She pulls up her purse and fishes out a stick of lip gloss. He watches as she runs the waxen tip over her lips. "I can totally see that."
K: "You know when a girl puts on lip gloss, she’s thinking about-"
He's stopped by the waitress, who has appeared holding a half empty carafe of burnt coffee. "You need me to warm you up?"
K: "Huh?"
Maury: "She means your coffee. I'll have more."
K: "I'm good. Gotta work tomorrow morning."
Waitress: "Ok." She pours Maury a full cup. The dark coffee sloshes against the sides. A few drops miss as she barely, deftly stops pouring to swing the carafe over to K’s cup. She leaves behind small brown circles on the white, silver speckled aborite. She coldly drops a few creamers. Maury watches her walk away.
K runs his hands along the chrome band at the edge of the table. He creates an index for the lines and shadows of her profile, and he files a card for his subsequent thought. And makes one for the obdurate pang in the back of his brain. It's not the first time he has wished it was a different situation.
Maury: "I bet you chose this place for the service."
K, brightly: "You gotta have the French toast."
Maury: "No doubt."
K doesn’t notice when he casually puts his hand on the small of her back, as he holds the door open for her when they leave the diner.
It turns out they live close to each other – well, by Toronto's standards. It's snowing large, lazily floating flakes. They glow orange in the street lights. They walk closer now. He has stopped counting the little touches of their hands.
It's a roving conversation, not quite probing, but becoming more and more personal. Crossing lines.
She talks about her sick grandmother, and how the old woman tries to hide it.
K: "I was sad when my grandmother died. I was maybe 10. I didn't know her that well, but she was crazy, and I missed the old bat."
Maury: "My grandmother and I are very close. She’s amazing. I lived with her a few years ago. It was so much fun. But it’s hard now. She’s so stubborn." She stops walking. "This is it."
They are outside a low, brick apartment building. The large panes of the front entrance reveal yellowed light and the faded wallpaper of a stained stairwell.
K looks around and then at her.
Time slows, each second taking longer than they expected. The snow hovers in the air. They stand there facing each other.
"Well."
"Well."
A lone flake of snow lands on Maury’s cheek. Without thinking K smoothly, gently wipes it away before it melts. As he does this, Maury searches his eyes. He isn’t hiding now. K looks down at the ground, unable to bear it. She reaches up with her hand, placing it on the back of his elbow, pulling it towards her slightly. She leans in and up on her tiptoes.
Their faces are a breath apart.
K's phone rings in his pocket. It a ring he hasn't heard in days. K steps back, stammers something, anything. "It's not that I-" He pulls his cell phone out, looks. "I have to take this."
Maury’s face is covered with confusion and disappointment. It’s palpable. "K, if I was too forward..."
"It's not that." He presses the answer key, holding the small phone to the side of his face. "Hey. Hi. What time is it there? ... What? ... Really? ... Why? ... One sec." He covers the mouth piece with his palm. "I'm sorry. I have to go."
Maury: "We'll talk again soon, right?"
K: "Yeah. I'm sorry." He is. He watches her go inside and disappear up the stairs. He puts the phone back to his ear. "What do you mean you’re coming home? When?"
Howe Sounds
Howe Sounds - Said the Whale (listen in new tab)
It’s a slow Sunday at Café Ulysses. K’s been there all morning. Claire started her shift a short while ago.
Right now she hooks up her Ipod to the sound system. She searches, sliding her thumb slowly around the white circle, and eventually clicks play. “I love this song.”
K stands, leaning on the counter, staring absently out the window. “What?” He barely hears the music.
The café is empty, except for two teenagers who’ve been sitting for hours reading books too big for them. Probably Hegel or Hobbes. Sartre. Or Marx. Claire hums along to the song as she slowly wipes clean tables to kill time.
Claire: “You’re not here, buddy.”
K: “Guess not.”
Claire: “Shannon?” It’s a guaranteed conversation prompt these days.
K: “Yeah. You know she’s worrying me. She goes a week without skyping or emailing. Then when she does, she anxious and crying. And then everything’s ok. And now she’s back to crying. She’s been so closed. I, I don’t get it.”
Claire stops. Looks at him. Offers, “Yeah. It’s not really like her.”
Gregory Tours appears at the door. It rings its little chime as he swings it open. “Claire. A pleasure as always.” She rolls her eyes. He points at K. “And you! Get your mind off that girl. I need latte, all fat. Stat.”
K sighs and driven by habit sets to work. “Well, you know I’m screwed up by it all.”
G.T.: “Yeah. It’s not good, man.”
K: “Thanks. Just thanks.”
G.T.: “I think you appreciate my honesty.”
His back is to the door and he ignores the door chime and the soft scrape of the door on the tiled floor. Claire will get cash. Still humming, she takes the order. “No. We only have one size… Hotshot! To go, low-fat cappuccino.”
K slips a steel cup of new milk under the steam wand. He hands G.T. his latte in a white ceramic mug capped with foam. “You are salt in my eyes,” he says as he taps the fine, ebony espresso grounds into the portafiler. He fits it into place and sets the machine to work.
G.T.:“Kiss me.”
K gives him the finger as the milk roars. With casual skill he puts the one-size paper cup under the espresso nozzle just as it starts to drip. Then a cloud of foamed milk, faintly stained caramel as it fills the cup.
Claire comes over. “Don’t worry. It’ll sort itself out.”
K hands off the drink to her. He cleans the steam wand with a rag, and wipes the grate beneath the espresso nozzles.
He turns to Claire. “I want to believe that. It’s just starting to eat at me.”
G.T. shrugs: “Starting? Really? Just now? Relax. Not much you can do from here.” After a moment a few moments he taps K on the shoulder. “Hey, do you see that girl?”
K looks, finally. A the dark haired woman standing by the free local newspaper rack, looking for something recent. She puts the to-go cup to her mouth. He can only see her from the back. His eyes ride down her vaguely familiar curve. His mouth drops open a little. His mind floods. It’s a simple and expansive, enveloping moment of recognition. He barely recognizes what it is. He breaths out a quick, quiet “Huh.”
Claire is singing, dancing by the register. “Let’s go back to the coast baby westward to the ocean.”
Then, K says from across the café, “They’re all old. They don’t drop new ones off all the time.”
She turns. Her glasses shimmer in the light. Eyes meet. She smiles. It’s a vaguely knowing smile.
Now, no one else is there. They’re standing in a suddenly abandoned city. Silent, except for Claire’s looping chorus.
Her: “Yeah? Free almost always has lazy at its core. Do I know you from somewhere?”
K: “Yeah. You tried to pick a fight with me at V.I.’s once.”
Her: “Really?”
K: “Well. Looking at you, you do seem the type.”
Her: “Totally. I’d win too.”
K: “That remains to be seen.”
Her: “I think it’s worth seeing.”
It’s a slow Sunday at Café Ulysses. K’s been there all morning. Claire started her shift a short while ago.
Right now she hooks up her Ipod to the sound system. She searches, sliding her thumb slowly around the white circle, and eventually clicks play. “I love this song.”
K stands, leaning on the counter, staring absently out the window. “What?” He barely hears the music.
The café is empty, except for two teenagers who’ve been sitting for hours reading books too big for them. Probably Hegel or Hobbes. Sartre. Or Marx. Claire hums along to the song as she slowly wipes clean tables to kill time.
Claire: “You’re not here, buddy.”
K: “Guess not.”
Claire: “Shannon?” It’s a guaranteed conversation prompt these days.
K: “Yeah. You know she’s worrying me. She goes a week without skyping or emailing. Then when she does, she anxious and crying. And then everything’s ok. And now she’s back to crying. She’s been so closed. I, I don’t get it.”
Claire stops. Looks at him. Offers, “Yeah. It’s not really like her.”
Gregory Tours appears at the door. It rings its little chime as he swings it open. “Claire. A pleasure as always.” She rolls her eyes. He points at K. “And you! Get your mind off that girl. I need latte, all fat. Stat.”
K sighs and driven by habit sets to work. “Well, you know I’m screwed up by it all.”
G.T.: “Yeah. It’s not good, man.”
K: “Thanks. Just thanks.”
G.T.: “I think you appreciate my honesty.”
His back is to the door and he ignores the door chime and the soft scrape of the door on the tiled floor. Claire will get cash. Still humming, she takes the order. “No. We only have one size… Hotshot! To go, low-fat cappuccino.”
K slips a steel cup of new milk under the steam wand. He hands G.T. his latte in a white ceramic mug capped with foam. “You are salt in my eyes,” he says as he taps the fine, ebony espresso grounds into the portafiler. He fits it into place and sets the machine to work.
G.T.:“Kiss me.”
K gives him the finger as the milk roars. With casual skill he puts the one-size paper cup under the espresso nozzle just as it starts to drip. Then a cloud of foamed milk, faintly stained caramel as it fills the cup.
Claire comes over. “Don’t worry. It’ll sort itself out.”
K hands off the drink to her. He cleans the steam wand with a rag, and wipes the grate beneath the espresso nozzles.
He turns to Claire. “I want to believe that. It’s just starting to eat at me.”
G.T. shrugs: “Starting? Really? Just now? Relax. Not much you can do from here.” After a moment a few moments he taps K on the shoulder. “Hey, do you see that girl?”
K looks, finally. A the dark haired woman standing by the free local newspaper rack, looking for something recent. She puts the to-go cup to her mouth. He can only see her from the back. His eyes ride down her vaguely familiar curve. His mouth drops open a little. His mind floods. It’s a simple and expansive, enveloping moment of recognition. He barely recognizes what it is. He breaths out a quick, quiet “Huh.”
Claire is singing, dancing by the register. “Let’s go back to the coast baby westward to the ocean.”
Then, K says from across the café, “They’re all old. They don’t drop new ones off all the time.”
She turns. Her glasses shimmer in the light. Eyes meet. She smiles. It’s a vaguely knowing smile.
Now, no one else is there. They’re standing in a suddenly abandoned city. Silent, except for Claire’s looping chorus.
Her: “Yeah? Free almost always has lazy at its core. Do I know you from somewhere?”
K: “Yeah. You tried to pick a fight with me at V.I.’s once.”
Her: “Really?”
K: “Well. Looking at you, you do seem the type.”
Her: “Totally. I’d win too.”
K: “That remains to be seen.”
Her: “I think it’s worth seeing.”
Monday, October 19, 2009
Work Day
Work Day – It Hugs Back (listen in new tab)
It’s mid October. 7:30 AM. The wind is not too sharp, and the low sun is bright in the east, pushing up and over the buildings. The trees are almost naked. The light feels clean and solid, like he could hold it. K tries to walk on the side of the street with the least shadows.
That’s the kind of the morning it is; one of the last before winter makes getting to work a darker ordeal. A morning polished with optimism, even if you know it’s just another waged day.
Once or twice a week, K gets to be one of the librarians who open up the neighbourhood branch. Most of the time, it’s too early. Today, he doesn’t mind.
It’s almost muscle memory: security unlocking doors for him; lights coming on with the stutter and flick of the florescent tubes; the ritual of turning on each of the public computer towers, and doing the same circuit in reverse for the monitors; then the staffs’ computers at the reference desk; looking for a “To Do” list and finding none.
When he works mornings, K always brings two large coffees from Ulysses’s. He’s learned through experience that it makes his day easier for this reason: after a few minutes, Jenny O’Baird arrives. She’s probably the oldest librarian in the world – probably the dirtiest minded, as well. Grey, a little fat, and bubbling, K is confident that she’d been a looker in her day. Jenny always takes the morning shifts. She’d been there so long she could dictate terms. He knows that she can be a force, so he brings her a tithe.
Jenny “Darling. My coffee. You always remember!”
K: “How could I forget?”
She comes over to him, touches his arm.
Jenny: “I’d die without it, dear. You know, the other librarians don’t always bring me one.” She winks at him.
K: “Do my best, you know?”
She sips her coffee and sighs. She looks him over and pokes him in the side.
Jenny: “You seem chipper this morning. Maybe even spry.”
K: “Spry? I dunno. Maybe? I did talk to Shannon yesterday. It'd been a while. She’s been busy.”
She chuckles to her self. “Talk? In my day a phone was for more than conversation.”
K: “Well, umm…”
Jenny: “No need to say more. I can see it in your eyes. Sweetheart, if I had to go a year without my lover, I’d crawl out of my skin without a little fun.”
K, clearly awkward, scratches at his sleeve. “Well. I mean… we do talk about more intimate things.” He’s unsure if there was a lie in there.
Jenny smiles at him, accusing him of the dirtier things that percolate in her brain. “No need to say more. Still, I like to have my lovers in the here and now. There’s nothing like a warm touch in the dark hours of the night. Winter is coming after all…” The thought causes her to drift off.
K looks for a way to escape. “Umm… OK. I’m going to check the displays.”
Snapping back from wherever she’d been, “I have a nice grand-daughter your age.”
K: “Those displays really need work.” K tries to move around from behind the reference desk.
Jenny blocks his way. Waving her coffee cup disparagingly, she says, “Pish posh those displays.”
K: “Thoroughness is a virtue.”
She looks him in the eye as he shimmies past her. She smiles broadly. “This is something I’ve always believed for many things.”
K looks at the ceiling and then at her. He sighs.
Walking over to the book display, the one by the main entrance, he is passed by the branch manager. K can’t remember if she’d ever looked any way other than frizzled and exasperated.
“Hi. Early morning, eh?” K says warmly.
Her eyes are steely. “Glad to see you’re on time today,” she mumbles as she passes by.
She ignores Jenny’s “Hello, Candice!” and walks off to where her office is at the back of the branch. Jenny makes an exaggerated face of mock concern at the snub.
K watches Candice go. He lets out a quizzical “Huh”, as if to say, interesting, but only if he cared. But right now, he doesn’t care. It’s not that kind of morning.
It’s mid October. 7:30 AM. The wind is not too sharp, and the low sun is bright in the east, pushing up and over the buildings. The trees are almost naked. The light feels clean and solid, like he could hold it. K tries to walk on the side of the street with the least shadows.
That’s the kind of the morning it is; one of the last before winter makes getting to work a darker ordeal. A morning polished with optimism, even if you know it’s just another waged day.
Once or twice a week, K gets to be one of the librarians who open up the neighbourhood branch. Most of the time, it’s too early. Today, he doesn’t mind.
It’s almost muscle memory: security unlocking doors for him; lights coming on with the stutter and flick of the florescent tubes; the ritual of turning on each of the public computer towers, and doing the same circuit in reverse for the monitors; then the staffs’ computers at the reference desk; looking for a “To Do” list and finding none.
When he works mornings, K always brings two large coffees from Ulysses’s. He’s learned through experience that it makes his day easier for this reason: after a few minutes, Jenny O’Baird arrives. She’s probably the oldest librarian in the world – probably the dirtiest minded, as well. Grey, a little fat, and bubbling, K is confident that she’d been a looker in her day. Jenny always takes the morning shifts. She’d been there so long she could dictate terms. He knows that she can be a force, so he brings her a tithe.
Jenny “Darling. My coffee. You always remember!”
K: “How could I forget?”
She comes over to him, touches his arm.
Jenny: “I’d die without it, dear. You know, the other librarians don’t always bring me one.” She winks at him.
K: “Do my best, you know?”
She sips her coffee and sighs. She looks him over and pokes him in the side.
Jenny: “You seem chipper this morning. Maybe even spry.”
K: “Spry? I dunno. Maybe? I did talk to Shannon yesterday. It'd been a while. She’s been busy.”
She chuckles to her self. “Talk? In my day a phone was for more than conversation.”
K: “Well, umm…”
Jenny: “No need to say more. I can see it in your eyes. Sweetheart, if I had to go a year without my lover, I’d crawl out of my skin without a little fun.”
K, clearly awkward, scratches at his sleeve. “Well. I mean… we do talk about more intimate things.” He’s unsure if there was a lie in there.
Jenny smiles at him, accusing him of the dirtier things that percolate in her brain. “No need to say more. Still, I like to have my lovers in the here and now. There’s nothing like a warm touch in the dark hours of the night. Winter is coming after all…” The thought causes her to drift off.
K looks for a way to escape. “Umm… OK. I’m going to check the displays.”
Snapping back from wherever she’d been, “I have a nice grand-daughter your age.”
K: “Those displays really need work.” K tries to move around from behind the reference desk.
Jenny blocks his way. Waving her coffee cup disparagingly, she says, “Pish posh those displays.”
K: “Thoroughness is a virtue.”
She looks him in the eye as he shimmies past her. She smiles broadly. “This is something I’ve always believed for many things.”
K looks at the ceiling and then at her. He sighs.
Walking over to the book display, the one by the main entrance, he is passed by the branch manager. K can’t remember if she’d ever looked any way other than frizzled and exasperated.
“Hi. Early morning, eh?” K says warmly.
Her eyes are steely. “Glad to see you’re on time today,” she mumbles as she passes by.
She ignores Jenny’s “Hello, Candice!” and walks off to where her office is at the back of the branch. Jenny makes an exaggerated face of mock concern at the snub.
K watches Candice go. He lets out a quizzical “Huh”, as if to say, interesting, but only if he cared. But right now, he doesn’t care. It’s not that kind of morning.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
New York
New York – Cat Power(listen in new tab)
The sound system of the bar was cranked up. The steadily dragged thump of the bass pounded into K’s skull. He presses up against the bar, leaning over the wet polished wood surface. He's trying to get the bartender's attention. She is busy. V.I.LENIN’s is crowded for late on a Wednesday. There is a cluster of women on his left talking over the music, or trying to. One keeps bumping her elbow into his side and apologising. K is congenial, but otherwise ignores them. He knows how that goes; better to leave it be.
K's longtime friend saddles up beside him, wedging himself in on K's right. Gregory Tours is trying to give every women there just a little attention. Statistically, that night he's been often ignored.
"Listen G.T., it's too busy here."
G.T.:"Leave? I know, but you said Claire was coming."
Another nudge from the errant elbow.
K: "Don't look so hopeful."
G.T.: "C'mon."
K: "Never gonna happen."
The bartender comes, finally. Her eyes look frustrated as too many try to order. K leans far over,. Stepping up on the tarnished brass rail at his feet, holding up two fingers, he says "Fifty". She nods and he lowers himself down again.
The elbow returns with more force.
In annoyance, K turns to her. "Oh C'mon."
And he pauses.
She gave him pause.
Can dark hair glow? Must be the light. He couldn't see her eyes through the glare of her glasses.
"Sorry," they both say. The words drop from their mouths and pile together on the floor.
Her: "You're in my way." A wry smile
K shrugs. "Hey, it's crowded."
The beers come. K leaves a ten on the bar.
"Let's go find Claire, G.T." He doesn't turn his head away. Her friend taps her on her shoulder. She leans over to listen, but doesn't look away.
G.T. comes around him to hear him. "What? Shots."
K looks at his feet and rubs the back of his head with the cold bottle of beer, feels the condensation drip onto his neck.
"Claire. Find," he says.
G.T.: "Oh. Totally."
The sound system of the bar was cranked up. The steadily dragged thump of the bass pounded into K’s skull. He presses up against the bar, leaning over the wet polished wood surface. He's trying to get the bartender's attention. She is busy. V.I.LENIN’s is crowded for late on a Wednesday. There is a cluster of women on his left talking over the music, or trying to. One keeps bumping her elbow into his side and apologising. K is congenial, but otherwise ignores them. He knows how that goes; better to leave it be.
K's longtime friend saddles up beside him, wedging himself in on K's right. Gregory Tours is trying to give every women there just a little attention. Statistically, that night he's been often ignored.
"Listen G.T., it's too busy here."
G.T.:"Leave? I know, but you said Claire was coming."
Another nudge from the errant elbow.
K: "Don't look so hopeful."
G.T.: "C'mon."
K: "Never gonna happen."
The bartender comes, finally. Her eyes look frustrated as too many try to order. K leans far over,. Stepping up on the tarnished brass rail at his feet, holding up two fingers, he says "Fifty". She nods and he lowers himself down again.
The elbow returns with more force.
In annoyance, K turns to her. "Oh C'mon."
And he pauses.
She gave him pause.
Can dark hair glow? Must be the light. He couldn't see her eyes through the glare of her glasses.
"Sorry," they both say. The words drop from their mouths and pile together on the floor.
Her: "You're in my way." A wry smile
K shrugs. "Hey, it's crowded."
The beers come. K leaves a ten on the bar.
"Let's go find Claire, G.T." He doesn't turn his head away. Her friend taps her on her shoulder. She leans over to listen, but doesn't look away.
G.T. comes around him to hear him. "What? Shots."
K looks at his feet and rubs the back of his head with the cold bottle of beer, feels the condensation drip onto his neck.
"Claire. Find," he says.
G.T.: "Oh. Totally."
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Two Weeks
Two Weeks – Grizzly Bear (listen in a new tab)
Some days are longer than others. K works two jobs: Part-time as a public librarian and the rest of the time, practically most of his “free” time, he slings espresso at Café Ulysses. It’s not a bad gig. But he’s tired today. He’s late, too. His friend behind the counter, the slender and indefatigable Claire, throws him an apron. In a blind methodical way he ties it on and washes his hands. He takes his post behind the espresso machine. The smell of fresh ground beans usually woke him up, but today it teases his nose with limp promise.
Claire: “You’re late.”
K: “Almost always. Busy?”
Claire: “Almost never.”
She’s right. The place is almost empty. But soon, people walk in and ask for cappuccinos. Everybody who comes in orders like they’re in Starbucks. Grande. Tall. Café Ulysses has one size, which is always a site of confusion for newcomers; the lack of choice is occasionally beleaguering.
Claire: “Anyways, they never come until our star hitter gets here.” She slaps K on the back causing him to spill steamed milk over himself.
K: “That was perfect foam.”
Claire: “I got a post card from Shannon. Looks like she’s having fun.”
K gives her a tired look and resumes staring dully out the window as he pulls the shots of espresso. The new milk roars into foam.
K: “Yeah. I guess she must be. I haven’t talked to her this week. We’re both busy you know? She’s got her classes and is trying to get as much out of Paris as possible. I can’t blame her.”
Claire to K: “Totally. Gotcha.”; to a new customer: “Well no. We only have one size.”; to K, again: “Low fat latte. Soy Chai, no foam.”
K: “Right. You know Shannon, she gets absorbed by the world around her. It’s been a month or so, she’s settling in.”
Claire: “She won’t forget about you. She’s probably busy. I’ve known her for like forever. She’d tell me, you know.”
K: “Sir, your low fat latte. The soy latte will be just a moment.”; to Claire: “Try to make me worry less. Ok?”
Claire: “I’m sure she’s passed out in the disheveled bed of some graying poet, spent from wine and love making. She’ll touch base soon. No doubt.”
K: “No doubt. Soy latte. Why even order a drink if you’re going to walk away? Soy latte!”
Claire: “Cheer up. Wanna come out later? We’re all going out somewhere, anywhere.”
K: “Try and sell it a little, ok? Soy latte!”
The old hand of a caped, gray haired woman grabs the white ceramic cup. She takes a sip. “This is cold. Can you make me a new one? And I said no foam.” Foamless coffee drinks are a fantasy. A myth. He dumps the cup in the sink and starts the drink over. The length of a day is proportional to the number of moments such as these.
Some days are longer than others. K works two jobs: Part-time as a public librarian and the rest of the time, practically most of his “free” time, he slings espresso at Café Ulysses. It’s not a bad gig. But he’s tired today. He’s late, too. His friend behind the counter, the slender and indefatigable Claire, throws him an apron. In a blind methodical way he ties it on and washes his hands. He takes his post behind the espresso machine. The smell of fresh ground beans usually woke him up, but today it teases his nose with limp promise.
Claire: “You’re late.”
K: “Almost always. Busy?”
Claire: “Almost never.”
She’s right. The place is almost empty. But soon, people walk in and ask for cappuccinos. Everybody who comes in orders like they’re in Starbucks. Grande. Tall. Café Ulysses has one size, which is always a site of confusion for newcomers; the lack of choice is occasionally beleaguering.
Claire: “Anyways, they never come until our star hitter gets here.” She slaps K on the back causing him to spill steamed milk over himself.
K: “That was perfect foam.”
Claire: “I got a post card from Shannon. Looks like she’s having fun.”
K gives her a tired look and resumes staring dully out the window as he pulls the shots of espresso. The new milk roars into foam.
K: “Yeah. I guess she must be. I haven’t talked to her this week. We’re both busy you know? She’s got her classes and is trying to get as much out of Paris as possible. I can’t blame her.”
Claire to K: “Totally. Gotcha.”; to a new customer: “Well no. We only have one size.”; to K, again: “Low fat latte. Soy Chai, no foam.”
K: “Right. You know Shannon, she gets absorbed by the world around her. It’s been a month or so, she’s settling in.”
Claire: “She won’t forget about you. She’s probably busy. I’ve known her for like forever. She’d tell me, you know.”
K: “Sir, your low fat latte. The soy latte will be just a moment.”; to Claire: “Try to make me worry less. Ok?”
Claire: “I’m sure she’s passed out in the disheveled bed of some graying poet, spent from wine and love making. She’ll touch base soon. No doubt.”
K: “No doubt. Soy latte. Why even order a drink if you’re going to walk away? Soy latte!”
Claire: “Cheer up. Wanna come out later? We’re all going out somewhere, anywhere.”
K: “Try and sell it a little, ok? Soy latte!”
The old hand of a caped, gray haired woman grabs the white ceramic cup. She takes a sip. “This is cold. Can you make me a new one? And I said no foam.” Foamless coffee drinks are a fantasy. A myth. He dumps the cup in the sink and starts the drink over. The length of a day is proportional to the number of moments such as these.
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