Underwater Heartbeat - Saturday Looks Good to Me(listen in new tab)
You could pass it on the street if you weren’t looking for it.
The neon sign above V. I. Lenin’s hasn’t been lit since the late 90’s, when the tubes’ noble gasses gave up their spirits, flickered and darkened. These days the silhouette of the bar’s namesake, traced abstractly in dead glass, keeps a dim vigil over the regulars and intrepid new comers.
Few except the bar’s owners, two failed band mates who took up the cause when the first owner disappeared, remember when opening the faded and scuffed, peeling red metal doors meant passing under the sign’s stern glow.
Tonight the doors swing open. A cluster of girls come out for a smoke. The door drags shut behind them, dampening the sounds brazen enough to escape into the night. The loose corners of hanging gig posters flutter in the spring night’s lazy wind.
Two 30-something men, bearing the clothes and meager wages of their self-absorbed, unending liberal education arrive. One pulls open the door, while the other makes quick eye contact with a skinny blonde as she casually lights her cigarette. He follows his friend inside. The blonde watches them enter as she gently waves her match in the wind to extinguish it.
Inside the music is cranked up and loudly echoes down the short hallway that leads from the door. The walls there are lined with gig posters of various currency and importance.
The two men walk past the folded-up table where cover is usually collected and passed the dormant empty coat check. They pass a few people who came into the hall so they can hear their cell phones, straining ears against the noise.
As the two enter into the main part of V.I.’s, they crane their necks looking for friends, their faces etched in a vain look of confident frequency. They are regulars - capital R regulars. With practiced ambivalent looks, they peer through the crowd milling back and forth from the bar to tables or the slowly filling dance floor. They mark paths through the complex valleys of necks and shoulders.
One looks with disdain at his watch. It’s still relatively early, only 10:00pm. Friday night is still getting into its swing. The other waves to someone off at the tables where a large group sits crammed in on the raised floor along the far left wall. He taps his buddy on the shoulder and heads in that direction. The other follows, and in his inattentiveness, shoulder-checks K.
K, pint in each hand, does his best to dodge, executing a 180 degree turn to avoid spilling. It ends up being more of a 140. He stops short of colliding with a heavy set man in a varsity football jacket.
G.T. leans against the rail that hems in the dance floor, watching K’s evasive maneuvers. He laughs to himself as K mouths a silent curse when the football player turns to tell him to “watch it”.
G.T. finishes his current glass. The slightly warm beer catches in his throat, causing him to cough into his fist. He places the empty glass on the wooden ledge behind him without looking.
A cluster of women walk by back from having a smoke no doubt. They’re maybe 23. G.T. eyes them discretely, but but not so covertly as to prevent himself from making eye contact with one of them when she looks back.
He’s not on the market. But, he loves that moment, the brief second when you meet eyes and your mind ripples. That second of tangible mystery. He lets it pass unchased and chastened.
He loves this bar. He met K here during an undergraduate pub-crawl way back when, and they latched onto it as favourite watering hole. G.T. does not view himself as one who is in the habit of living in the past. But he enjoys his history in place.
He likes the gentle wash of his past indiscretions. When he’s here, he gets to wade into them. Like tropical waters, safe and warm near the shore, but they drop off quickly - more often than he’d care to admit. And then you’re out to sea…
G.T. is also not in the habit of reliving his mistakes.
K finally navigates his way over. He hands off one pint to G.T.: “You’re up next.” It has been almost eight years that they’ve known each other, and K insists still on reminding G.T. whose turn it is.
G.T. taps K’s glass with his. The fragile clink is lost in the bar, washed over and under by a sudden burst of “Wooos!” from the dance floor.
K: “You hear from the girls?”
G.T.: “No. You?”
K doesn’t feel his phone vibrate in the pocket of his windbreaker. A few moments later, G.T. PDA, tucked into the pocket of his jeans start to ring. He barely hears the little jingle, but somehow senses. He pulls it out, looks at the display, his face lit blue-grey in the LCD glow. He takes on an unintended pallor. He smiles, shows K the display. “Hey, it’s Claire.”
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Military Madness (Nathan Graham)
Military Madness (Nathan Graham) – Woods(listen in new tab)
9:30, that Friday.
Brae closes her apartment door, locks it and drops her key into a green leather clutch. She’s ready to go out, dressed in tight dark jeans and a strategically fitted t-shirt.
The music in the hallway is muffled by the building’s yellowed wallpapered walls. Brae thinks to herself that those kids down the hall always play the worst music way too loud. She’s happy that the old building, thinned with age, still lets only a little through.
That no-fi or whatever is just not her cup of tea. Not enough sex; no groove.
Unperturbed, she bounces through the hall and bounds down the stairs, carried on the syrupy wings of a few well made rum and cokes.
Maura and she live in the same building. Brae on the third floor, back corner. Maura on the second floor in a small apartment stuck in the middle of two older couples. It’s probably the cheapest building in the city. It doesn’t hurt that Brae’s dad owns the place.
Brae passes a familiar stain on the stairwell wainscoting as she jumps the last few steps to the second floor landing. A light brown splotch, on the irregularly faded fake wood, washed out by decades of sun from the stairwell’s southern exposure.
It makes her think about when Maura moved in five years ago.
It was snowing; one of those early March days that threaten to paralyze the city with snow. Brae was coming back from some cloying grad seminar run by a vainglorious Proust scholar. She had felt battered by his appraisal of a recent paper; she was ready to sink into a meditative beer.
When she saw the white rental van parked out front, she ignored it. There was almost always someone moving in or out. Brae was used to it.
Brae literally crashed into Maura (on her way back down). Brae habitually blindly, tore up the three flights of stairs, and having gained some momentum collided with Maura. The two of them spun off each other, came to rest in orbit.
Maura was bronzed back then. Her skin had that legitimate brown that came only from long exposure. Her dark hair, longer than she ever keeps it now, was pulled back in a loose pony tail.
She wore track pants and a hoodie, slightly unzipped from the heat of running up and down the stairs. But she wasn’t sweating. She was fit, a creature of solid endurance encased in parsimonious skin.
Brae apologised for not looking. Maura smiled kindly, introduced herself as new to the place. Brae realized, hearing a lilt of fatigue, that she was moving in by herself. So, she offered to help.
As they ran up and down the stairs, they raced a blizzard that made each load increasingly treacherous. But, there wasn’t that much to move in: a sparse collection of boxes and some furniture with the tags still on them from thrift stores where she bought them.
When they were done, Brae brought down some wine and Maura produced some plastic glasses, cutting open a box with a jackknife. She wielded it readily, slicing the tape with judicious skill.
To Brae, Maura seemed a person of aplomb force. She exuded a tension, a practiced rigour that took years to dissipate, as over the years her skin whitened and her body softened. She relaxed into the city, letting herself expand as she grew used to its ambivalent comfort.
As they drank, the chill in the apartment lifted. Maura warmed by the wine, took off her sweater. She only wore a faded green tank top. She had no tan lines, except one. Brae never asked about the thin pale band on her left hand.
Over the next weeks as Maura settled in, Brae would visit. The apartment gradually became a home. But, some things were missing. There were no photos, no pictures of Maura and her ex, no family barbecues, no awkward photos of some summer vacation during high school.
Maura never talked about where she came from and why she moved to Toronto, though she mentioned she was from there originally. Brae enjoyed the mystery, happy to have something in her life that defied penetration and analysis, enjoyed the thickness of her life that her grad school friends didn’t offer. Maura, probably, liked the peace of Brae’s disinterest with her withdrawn past.
That tacit, palpable naturalness formed the foundation of their friendship. One night a year later, the two of them were falling down drunk, outside a night club. Maura leaned on the wall of a bus shelter, her body lit, a pallor in the white light of the perfume ad. She said quietly that she’d almost been married once.
Brae replied that she had guessed. And, Maura told her a story. It was something that seemed so constrained and edited that it hardly seemed accurate. But, it felt true. Brae was satisfied with that and never pressed for more. It was a breach in Maura that never really opened again. Until K. Since last winter, she seemed more in the world then ever.
Now, she raps her familiar three taps on her friend’s door. “Honey, it’s me! Let’s go out! K and G.T. are at V.I.’s and waiting for us!”
Maura takes her time coming to the door. Brae knocks again. The door opens quickly. Brae steps back. Maura’s eyes are red, ringed in dark sleepless holes. Her body hangs loosely on her shoulders. The sweet, stained smell of whiskey on her breath.
When Maura tries to say hello, she almost falls out of the door. Brae puts her hands on Maura shoulders to steady her.
Brae: “Whoa. Having a… are you ok?”
Maura, leans against the door frame. She fishes into her pocket, pulls out the ring. “Edmund. He…”
9:30, that Friday.
Brae closes her apartment door, locks it and drops her key into a green leather clutch. She’s ready to go out, dressed in tight dark jeans and a strategically fitted t-shirt.
The music in the hallway is muffled by the building’s yellowed wallpapered walls. Brae thinks to herself that those kids down the hall always play the worst music way too loud. She’s happy that the old building, thinned with age, still lets only a little through.
That no-fi or whatever is just not her cup of tea. Not enough sex; no groove.
Unperturbed, she bounces through the hall and bounds down the stairs, carried on the syrupy wings of a few well made rum and cokes.
Maura and she live in the same building. Brae on the third floor, back corner. Maura on the second floor in a small apartment stuck in the middle of two older couples. It’s probably the cheapest building in the city. It doesn’t hurt that Brae’s dad owns the place.
Brae passes a familiar stain on the stairwell wainscoting as she jumps the last few steps to the second floor landing. A light brown splotch, on the irregularly faded fake wood, washed out by decades of sun from the stairwell’s southern exposure.
It makes her think about when Maura moved in five years ago.
It was snowing; one of those early March days that threaten to paralyze the city with snow. Brae was coming back from some cloying grad seminar run by a vainglorious Proust scholar. She had felt battered by his appraisal of a recent paper; she was ready to sink into a meditative beer.
When she saw the white rental van parked out front, she ignored it. There was almost always someone moving in or out. Brae was used to it.
Brae literally crashed into Maura (on her way back down). Brae habitually blindly, tore up the three flights of stairs, and having gained some momentum collided with Maura. The two of them spun off each other, came to rest in orbit.
Maura was bronzed back then. Her skin had that legitimate brown that came only from long exposure. Her dark hair, longer than she ever keeps it now, was pulled back in a loose pony tail.
She wore track pants and a hoodie, slightly unzipped from the heat of running up and down the stairs. But she wasn’t sweating. She was fit, a creature of solid endurance encased in parsimonious skin.
Brae apologised for not looking. Maura smiled kindly, introduced herself as new to the place. Brae realized, hearing a lilt of fatigue, that she was moving in by herself. So, she offered to help.
As they ran up and down the stairs, they raced a blizzard that made each load increasingly treacherous. But, there wasn’t that much to move in: a sparse collection of boxes and some furniture with the tags still on them from thrift stores where she bought them.
When they were done, Brae brought down some wine and Maura produced some plastic glasses, cutting open a box with a jackknife. She wielded it readily, slicing the tape with judicious skill.
To Brae, Maura seemed a person of aplomb force. She exuded a tension, a practiced rigour that took years to dissipate, as over the years her skin whitened and her body softened. She relaxed into the city, letting herself expand as she grew used to its ambivalent comfort.
As they drank, the chill in the apartment lifted. Maura warmed by the wine, took off her sweater. She only wore a faded green tank top. She had no tan lines, except one. Brae never asked about the thin pale band on her left hand.
Over the next weeks as Maura settled in, Brae would visit. The apartment gradually became a home. But, some things were missing. There were no photos, no pictures of Maura and her ex, no family barbecues, no awkward photos of some summer vacation during high school.
Maura never talked about where she came from and why she moved to Toronto, though she mentioned she was from there originally. Brae enjoyed the mystery, happy to have something in her life that defied penetration and analysis, enjoyed the thickness of her life that her grad school friends didn’t offer. Maura, probably, liked the peace of Brae’s disinterest with her withdrawn past.
That tacit, palpable naturalness formed the foundation of their friendship. One night a year later, the two of them were falling down drunk, outside a night club. Maura leaned on the wall of a bus shelter, her body lit, a pallor in the white light of the perfume ad. She said quietly that she’d almost been married once.
Brae replied that she had guessed. And, Maura told her a story. It was something that seemed so constrained and edited that it hardly seemed accurate. But, it felt true. Brae was satisfied with that and never pressed for more. It was a breach in Maura that never really opened again. Until K. Since last winter, she seemed more in the world then ever.
Now, she raps her familiar three taps on her friend’s door. “Honey, it’s me! Let’s go out! K and G.T. are at V.I.’s and waiting for us!”
Maura takes her time coming to the door. Brae knocks again. The door opens quickly. Brae steps back. Maura’s eyes are red, ringed in dark sleepless holes. Her body hangs loosely on her shoulders. The sweet, stained smell of whiskey on her breath.
When Maura tries to say hello, she almost falls out of the door. Brae puts her hands on Maura shoulders to steady her.
Brae: “Whoa. Having a… are you ok?”
Maura, leans against the door frame. She fishes into her pocket, pulls out the ring. “Edmund. He…”
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Get to Leave
Get to Leave - Howe Gelb(listen in new tab)
The rain started slow; now it drives against Ulysses’s windowpane, strumming the glass in low notes along with the music playing inside.
Danielle sits on the counter, near the sink. Hera leans with her back against the espresso bar. They’re watching the rivulets of rain water fracture and refract the streetscape.
The next day, Thursday night, 7:00 pm, and the café’s been empty for a while.
Hera: “Danielle. I don’t know if you should sit on the counter like that. I mean…”
Danielle gives her a look. She lifts a hand; from it a set of brass keys on a worn shoelace, shaking them for effect. It’s been a frequent display lately. “Claire gave me these. So I’m in charge. I declare that I may sit here with this commanding view.”
Hera shrugs. “Whatever.” She eyes the place. It’s clean. She checks from habit the pastry case. Its white lights frosts the few cookies and cakes that remain in fresh stasis. The bakery run hasn’t happened yet. A day, no two days late. “I hate when there’s nothing to do.”
Danielle’s turn to shrug. “You could clean the washrooms.” She pushes herself off the counter with a flourish. “I guess this counter, too.”
Hera rolls her eyes. “Claire only gave you the key because she’s out trying to get some action from that rich guy. And, K couldn’t come in today.”
Danielle grabs a wide cream-white ceramic cup from a shelf. She casually rotates it in her hands, watching the coffee slosh against its curved walls as she fills the cup from a brushed steel carafe. “I am a woman who, despite her failings, has always made the most of the opportunities that present themselves.” She sips the black coffee with caliphatic pomp.
Hera: “Is that on your underwear?”
Danielle spits, spurting in a amber mist from her lips. “Jesus. Totally.”
The bell rings. The two girls look to see who it is. The noise of the rain is chaotic, but hushes the rain as the door closes behind Maura. The little bell shepherds back out the torrent damp taps.
Danielle, wiping her mouth with a piece of paper towel: “You got soaked right through, dear.”
Maura comes across the room. Soaked shoes tile leave dark stains that slowly dry and shrink. Her dark hair is matted, sticks in clumps to her forehead and her glasses. She pushes them out of the way, shaking her wet hands dry. Her nylon jacket, dark, damp and heavy, clings to her torso.
Maura: “Yeah. I guess I got caught.”
Hera: “You want a tea or something? To warm you up?”
Maura looks at her. Her glasses have fogged a little. Her face is etched with worry, or consternation, a look exaggerated by streaked mascara.
Maura: “No. Umm. No thanks. I’m just kind of blowing through. Is K here?”
Danielle: “No. He called me last night, late, asked me to switch Saturday’s close with this one. How could I say no?”
Maura: “Oh right.” Her voice is clumsy, caught off guard. As the fog on her glasses dissipates; Hera sees her eyes - red and tired, they are lost somewhere between confused, crestfallen, and relieved. A triangulation of discomfiture.
Hera: “He didn’t tell you?”
Maura, lies: “No. I must have forgot.” She proffers a weak smile. “I ran here in the rain, too. God.” A weak offering. “I should have called first.”
Hera: “You sure you don’t want anything?”
Maura backs away: “No. Really. I should go.” She turns and is out the door.
The rain rattles in, and is shooed out again. Hera leans out over the counter and watches Maura move out of sight, her body compressed into as little space as possible against the rain and whatever else.
Hera: “What was that about?”
Danielle: “Communication error. Also, way to push too hard. That could have been a sale.”
Hera scratches her shoulder. “Whatever. I mean, I hope she ok.”
Danielle: “She’s a big girl.” She sighs deeply. “It’s so dead here.” She flails her arm at the door. “It’s so dead, that counts as drama.”
Hera: “Yeah. I wish Claire would reconsider my idea.”
Danielle: “That competition, the café contest?”
Hera, hands in the air in frustration: “The Café Olympics. Arg! You should take it seriously. So should Claire. It did wonders for Johnny Bean Good across town.”
Danille: “That’s a terrible name.”
Hera: “It is a terrible name, but they’re busy as heck now. And there’s a prize for the barista or whatever who wins the most events.”
Danielle slaps Hera on the shoulder: “Prize? Now you’re talking.”
Hera: “Good luck, there. You know what espresso is, right?”
Danielle pushes her playfully. “Easy now, showboat.”
The rain started slow; now it drives against Ulysses’s windowpane, strumming the glass in low notes along with the music playing inside.
Danielle sits on the counter, near the sink. Hera leans with her back against the espresso bar. They’re watching the rivulets of rain water fracture and refract the streetscape.
The next day, Thursday night, 7:00 pm, and the café’s been empty for a while.
Hera: “Danielle. I don’t know if you should sit on the counter like that. I mean…”
Danielle gives her a look. She lifts a hand; from it a set of brass keys on a worn shoelace, shaking them for effect. It’s been a frequent display lately. “Claire gave me these. So I’m in charge. I declare that I may sit here with this commanding view.”
Hera shrugs. “Whatever.” She eyes the place. It’s clean. She checks from habit the pastry case. Its white lights frosts the few cookies and cakes that remain in fresh stasis. The bakery run hasn’t happened yet. A day, no two days late. “I hate when there’s nothing to do.”
Danielle’s turn to shrug. “You could clean the washrooms.” She pushes herself off the counter with a flourish. “I guess this counter, too.”
Hera rolls her eyes. “Claire only gave you the key because she’s out trying to get some action from that rich guy. And, K couldn’t come in today.”
Danielle grabs a wide cream-white ceramic cup from a shelf. She casually rotates it in her hands, watching the coffee slosh against its curved walls as she fills the cup from a brushed steel carafe. “I am a woman who, despite her failings, has always made the most of the opportunities that present themselves.” She sips the black coffee with caliphatic pomp.
Hera: “Is that on your underwear?”
Danielle spits, spurting in a amber mist from her lips. “Jesus. Totally.”
The bell rings. The two girls look to see who it is. The noise of the rain is chaotic, but hushes the rain as the door closes behind Maura. The little bell shepherds back out the torrent damp taps.
Danielle, wiping her mouth with a piece of paper towel: “You got soaked right through, dear.”
Maura comes across the room. Soaked shoes tile leave dark stains that slowly dry and shrink. Her dark hair is matted, sticks in clumps to her forehead and her glasses. She pushes them out of the way, shaking her wet hands dry. Her nylon jacket, dark, damp and heavy, clings to her torso.
Maura: “Yeah. I guess I got caught.”
Hera: “You want a tea or something? To warm you up?”
Maura looks at her. Her glasses have fogged a little. Her face is etched with worry, or consternation, a look exaggerated by streaked mascara.
Maura: “No. Umm. No thanks. I’m just kind of blowing through. Is K here?”
Danielle: “No. He called me last night, late, asked me to switch Saturday’s close with this one. How could I say no?”
Maura: “Oh right.” Her voice is clumsy, caught off guard. As the fog on her glasses dissipates; Hera sees her eyes - red and tired, they are lost somewhere between confused, crestfallen, and relieved. A triangulation of discomfiture.
Hera: “He didn’t tell you?”
Maura, lies: “No. I must have forgot.” She proffers a weak smile. “I ran here in the rain, too. God.” A weak offering. “I should have called first.”
Hera: “You sure you don’t want anything?”
Maura backs away: “No. Really. I should go.” She turns and is out the door.
The rain rattles in, and is shooed out again. Hera leans out over the counter and watches Maura move out of sight, her body compressed into as little space as possible against the rain and whatever else.
Hera: “What was that about?”
Danielle: “Communication error. Also, way to push too hard. That could have been a sale.”
Hera scratches her shoulder. “Whatever. I mean, I hope she ok.”
Danielle: “She’s a big girl.” She sighs deeply. “It’s so dead here.” She flails her arm at the door. “It’s so dead, that counts as drama.”
Hera: “Yeah. I wish Claire would reconsider my idea.”
Danielle: “That competition, the café contest?”
Hera, hands in the air in frustration: “The Café Olympics. Arg! You should take it seriously. So should Claire. It did wonders for Johnny Bean Good across town.”
Danille: “That’s a terrible name.”
Hera: “It is a terrible name, but they’re busy as heck now. And there’s a prize for the barista or whatever who wins the most events.”
Danielle slaps Hera on the shoulder: “Prize? Now you’re talking.”
Hera: “Good luck, there. You know what espresso is, right?”
Danielle pushes her playfully. “Easy now, showboat.”
Thursday, November 26, 2009
When the Water Gets Cold and Freezes on the Lake/ Your Protector
When the Water Gets Cold and Freezes on the Lake – Herman Düne(listen in new tab)
K steps out of the library. It’s 8:30pm. The sun hides low behind the buildings and shoots orange and strange smog-purples into the sky. In the northwest, a front of low grey clouds gathers to smother Wednesday’s sunset.
He stretches absently, reaching his arms straight up. A little pop in his shoulder. He’s not tired, but he’s relieved. Janine, Candice’s replacement, has been shaking the place down, trying to sweep out the door the legacy of Candice’s slow breakdown. New rules and new measures. Janine has planted herself like a surveyor’s glass. Only she knows the extent of the new geography. Everyone calls it “spring cleaning.” But, they all miss Candice, at least a little.
The security guard emerges, locking the door behind him in his regular way.
K wonders idly what he’s going to do tonight. No shift at Ulysses’ and Maura is working at the House of Peers. His mind mulls over yesterday’s exchange with Edmund. One more time through. Maura had withdrawn after, became evasive. K was left with questions. He pulls out his cell phone, starts to enter G.T.’s number. Maybe a beer and some new input will help.
He doesn’t place the call. K is stopped by something so oddly familiar, but so unexpected that he barely recognizes it when it happens. He doesn’t remember even seeing her sitting there. And when Shannon stands up from the bench near the library entrance and says sheepishly, maybe embarrassed at having rehearsed it, “I thought you got off earlier,” he is startled and drops his phone.
K, stoops, his satchel falls awkwardly in front of him as he picks up his cell. Slapping back the worn canvas bag in annoyance, “Um. Janine had me stay late.” He examines the phone quickly to insure there’s no critical damage.
And then her. She looks the same; maybe better. Maybe good. Everything about her appears to have found a middle ground, somewhere between the day before they met, and the day after he last saw her, but little from in-between. Reassembled by unscreened time into a composite of unknowns and their bitterer shared past.
K: “You were waiting for me?”
Shannon looks him in the eyes. K cannot remember the last time she did that. He doesn’t fully recognize what they’re telling him. “Yes. Claire said you were working here tonight. I was going to go in, but well… you know.”
K: “Yeah. Though, I hope we’re done with scenes.”
She laughs, smiles. “Exactly. Truthfully, I was scared. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.”
K pockets his phone. “I wasn’t going to go out of my way, if that’s what you mean.” His voice is dry, but not ungracious. He could never be fully vindictive with her. He wanted to at first, but he left that somewhere outside the clinic or maybe outside her parents’ when he dropped her off in January.
Shannon, her voice a weak bravery: “Can I walk with you?”
K: “Sure. I’m just going home.”
They walk together. Bodies remember things longer, more deeply than our brains want them to, and they walk closer to each other than they realize or expect.
* * *
Your Protector – Fleet Foxes (listen in new tab)
Maura stands behind the bar at the House of Peers. The clock ticks past 8:30. She sighs, her mind is mired. Uncle Titus asked her to come in. Reluctantly, she accepted the distraction. It hasn’t distracted her much.
The bar is empty except for three old men sitting on stools, elbows on the bar. Each of them casually guard a pint of beer. They’re watching baseball. The teams look the same soft grey on the small, fuzzy black and white screen. Old ears strain against the TV’s low volume.
The ballgame competes with the low music from the radio. It’s a song they don’t know. But, the old men allow it. They watched Maura grow up and know that in some moods you should not cross her. So, they let her rock and roll slide tonight.
Old Man #1: “I spent all day out there. Man, I’m aching.” A cane hangs beside him. It balances precariously on the edge of the bar, resting as if it had worn a divot into the wood over the years.
Old Man #2: “Quiet… Commercial. Where? At that damned clinic? It’s not your turn.”
Old Man #3: “Things shook up when Carl went to that stupid home.”
Old Man #1: “I volunteered.”
Old Man #2: “Isn’t that how you got that hole in your leg.” They all laugh.
Old Man #1: “If I hadn’t you two wouldn’t be here now.”
Old Man #3 laughs loudly, slaps the bar. “I doubt that. I pulled you out of more holes than I can count in Holland.”
The door opens. The old hinges grind and let out a low long note. Maura and the three old men look to see who would possibly come in. Maura recognizes his shape, even before she sees his face. She admonishes herself for not forgetting it as thoroughly as she thought she had.
Edmund: “Well Maura, I figured I’d find you here. You look good back there.” She remembers how his voice had always been pacifying. It had always been his most treacherous quality.
But, Maura is immune now. She crosses her arms. Her eyes are acidic “What do you want? If Uncle Titus sees you here, he’ll probably shoot you.”
Edmund, smiles wryly that loaded, impregnable smile. “I have something for you. You left it at my place way back when.”
The old men turn their heads from Maura to Edmund, following the exchange in synchronous dashes from face to face. Now they watch as Edmund reaches into his pocket.
Edmund pulls out his hand, his index finger and thumb holding out a ring. The diamond on it, lights white in the dim glow of the room. “Anyways, I gave you this. It’s yours.” He places it nonchalantly on the bar and walks out.
The door closes behind him. Maura picks up the ring. Eyeing it closely, she remembers the day he first held it out to her. The beach, the sun, the long slow breaths of sea. Blue and topaz in every direction. He had gotten down on one knee. He looked good in a bathing suit.
Now she turns the ring in her hand. When she had thrown it at him, a year later, after all the shit, she had hoped it would kill him. That the diamond would cut a hole through him. She left without finding out. Left everything and came back to Toronto.
The old man settle in again. Maura slides the ring into her pocket. “Whiskey anyone?”
Old Man #1 taps the bar with his cane. “I’m never one to let a woman drink alone.”
Maura drops down two shot glasses on to the polished wood. “That’s the spirit.”
K steps out of the library. It’s 8:30pm. The sun hides low behind the buildings and shoots orange and strange smog-purples into the sky. In the northwest, a front of low grey clouds gathers to smother Wednesday’s sunset.
He stretches absently, reaching his arms straight up. A little pop in his shoulder. He’s not tired, but he’s relieved. Janine, Candice’s replacement, has been shaking the place down, trying to sweep out the door the legacy of Candice’s slow breakdown. New rules and new measures. Janine has planted herself like a surveyor’s glass. Only she knows the extent of the new geography. Everyone calls it “spring cleaning.” But, they all miss Candice, at least a little.
The security guard emerges, locking the door behind him in his regular way.
K wonders idly what he’s going to do tonight. No shift at Ulysses’ and Maura is working at the House of Peers. His mind mulls over yesterday’s exchange with Edmund. One more time through. Maura had withdrawn after, became evasive. K was left with questions. He pulls out his cell phone, starts to enter G.T.’s number. Maybe a beer and some new input will help.
He doesn’t place the call. K is stopped by something so oddly familiar, but so unexpected that he barely recognizes it when it happens. He doesn’t remember even seeing her sitting there. And when Shannon stands up from the bench near the library entrance and says sheepishly, maybe embarrassed at having rehearsed it, “I thought you got off earlier,” he is startled and drops his phone.
K, stoops, his satchel falls awkwardly in front of him as he picks up his cell. Slapping back the worn canvas bag in annoyance, “Um. Janine had me stay late.” He examines the phone quickly to insure there’s no critical damage.
And then her. She looks the same; maybe better. Maybe good. Everything about her appears to have found a middle ground, somewhere between the day before they met, and the day after he last saw her, but little from in-between. Reassembled by unscreened time into a composite of unknowns and their bitterer shared past.
K: “You were waiting for me?”
Shannon looks him in the eyes. K cannot remember the last time she did that. He doesn’t fully recognize what they’re telling him. “Yes. Claire said you were working here tonight. I was going to go in, but well… you know.”
K: “Yeah. Though, I hope we’re done with scenes.”
She laughs, smiles. “Exactly. Truthfully, I was scared. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.”
K pockets his phone. “I wasn’t going to go out of my way, if that’s what you mean.” His voice is dry, but not ungracious. He could never be fully vindictive with her. He wanted to at first, but he left that somewhere outside the clinic or maybe outside her parents’ when he dropped her off in January.
Shannon, her voice a weak bravery: “Can I walk with you?”
K: “Sure. I’m just going home.”
They walk together. Bodies remember things longer, more deeply than our brains want them to, and they walk closer to each other than they realize or expect.
* * *
Your Protector – Fleet Foxes (listen in new tab)
Maura stands behind the bar at the House of Peers. The clock ticks past 8:30. She sighs, her mind is mired. Uncle Titus asked her to come in. Reluctantly, she accepted the distraction. It hasn’t distracted her much.
The bar is empty except for three old men sitting on stools, elbows on the bar. Each of them casually guard a pint of beer. They’re watching baseball. The teams look the same soft grey on the small, fuzzy black and white screen. Old ears strain against the TV’s low volume.
The ballgame competes with the low music from the radio. It’s a song they don’t know. But, the old men allow it. They watched Maura grow up and know that in some moods you should not cross her. So, they let her rock and roll slide tonight.
Old Man #1: “I spent all day out there. Man, I’m aching.” A cane hangs beside him. It balances precariously on the edge of the bar, resting as if it had worn a divot into the wood over the years.
Old Man #2: “Quiet… Commercial. Where? At that damned clinic? It’s not your turn.”
Old Man #3: “Things shook up when Carl went to that stupid home.”
Old Man #1: “I volunteered.”
Old Man #2: “Isn’t that how you got that hole in your leg.” They all laugh.
Old Man #1: “If I hadn’t you two wouldn’t be here now.”
Old Man #3 laughs loudly, slaps the bar. “I doubt that. I pulled you out of more holes than I can count in Holland.”
The door opens. The old hinges grind and let out a low long note. Maura and the three old men look to see who would possibly come in. Maura recognizes his shape, even before she sees his face. She admonishes herself for not forgetting it as thoroughly as she thought she had.
Edmund: “Well Maura, I figured I’d find you here. You look good back there.” She remembers how his voice had always been pacifying. It had always been his most treacherous quality.
But, Maura is immune now. She crosses her arms. Her eyes are acidic “What do you want? If Uncle Titus sees you here, he’ll probably shoot you.”
Edmund, smiles wryly that loaded, impregnable smile. “I have something for you. You left it at my place way back when.”
The old men turn their heads from Maura to Edmund, following the exchange in synchronous dashes from face to face. Now they watch as Edmund reaches into his pocket.
Edmund pulls out his hand, his index finger and thumb holding out a ring. The diamond on it, lights white in the dim glow of the room. “Anyways, I gave you this. It’s yours.” He places it nonchalantly on the bar and walks out.
The door closes behind him. Maura picks up the ring. Eyeing it closely, she remembers the day he first held it out to her. The beach, the sun, the long slow breaths of sea. Blue and topaz in every direction. He had gotten down on one knee. He looked good in a bathing suit.
Now she turns the ring in her hand. When she had thrown it at him, a year later, after all the shit, she had hoped it would kill him. That the diamond would cut a hole through him. She left without finding out. Left everything and came back to Toronto.
The old man settle in again. Maura slides the ring into her pocket. “Whiskey anyone?”
Old Man #1 taps the bar with his cane. “I’m never one to let a woman drink alone.”
Maura drops down two shot glasses on to the polished wood. “That’s the spirit.”
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Something's Changed
Something's Changed - Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings(listen in new tab)
K almost always opens the door for Maura. Though they’ve been together a few months now, he still puts his hand on the small of her back, as if giving her a little push, nudging her past. It’s Monday evening. K does this small familiar act as he and Maura enter Café Ulysses.
The café is full, but at the moment no one is ordering. Almost everyone is dressed in expensive looking running gear. K knows that Claire’s worry about the place has been palpable, but for 7:00 PM this isn’t bad.
Hera waves hello as she washes cups. Claire doesn’t notice them. She’s leaning far over the counter talking to a customer. A man in a dark pin-striped suit. It looks expensive and fitted, but he has one of those builds that would be described as handsome no matter what he wore. The cut of the suit seems superfluous.
Claire’s eyes lash like lassos as she laughs at something he says. She’s flirting hard.
K heads to the counter to order. His hand is clasp in Maura’s and he feels a sharp tug on his arm. He turns.
Maura: “Do you know that guy?”
K: “No. Never seen his back before.” He thinks he’s making a joke, that it’ll loosen her sudden inertia.
Maura: “Well. I mean. Oh nevermind.” There is a note, a distant ring in her voice. Not quite concern, but a tolling memory that until now had been shiftless and still.
K: “Do you know him?”
Maura: “Maybe. I dunno. Probably not. What’ll you have? It’s my treat.” She lets go of his hand and heads with brisk strides to the counter. “Hey, Claire. It looks busy in here.”
Claire looks at Maura then looks back at the man in the suit. She holds up one finger of one hand. To him:“One sec. Ok?” Her eyes wide and lit, her lips, and the lilt in her voice are earthy and suggestive. A half-second ticks, and at the tock she’s ready for other people. “Hey Maura. Where’s K? Oh, there he is! How’s our star today?”
At this, the man in the suit turns to see who arrived. His face is chiselled and clean, broad jawed. He has softened eyes that seem unsuited or unused to softness.
K: “Well, you know how we do. Candice’s replacement has been driving everyone crazy. A good crazy, though.”
K can’t see Maura’s face, but the intensity of recognition on the suit’s face, the way he says “Maura?”, the way Maura’s hand sought out K’s without her looking. It has him intrigued.
Maura, her voice cold: “Edmund.” The air in the room becomes elastic, stretched, and taut.
Claire, oblivious or unconcerned, slaps the counter, and repeats his name to herself in an aside.
K feels the air charge. At the same time, all the runners stand-up. Chairs scrape, cup rattle, spoons scrape. The café fills with a clamorous heap of laters, next times, who’s-running-back-with-mes, almost incoherent over the shuffle of expensive light-weight shoes.
K, Maura, Claire, and Edmund watch the troop of neon, reflective nylon leave, and disperse on the sidewalk by the window. The little bell on the door rings as it closes behind the last one. The café is empty.
K breaks the pause with a quiet “Huh” and then looking at Maura: “Oh, so you do know him.” He reaches out his free hand. “I’m K.”
Edmund takes K’s hand, shakes it with a practiced grip. It’s feels like an essay on handshakes. Firm, confident, laced with difference and promise. “Edmund Gloucester”
At the same time Maura squeezes K’s other hand. It’s feels like they were competing.
Then release.
Hera appears, practically bounces over and places a to-go cup down. Her face beams with pride. “Hey mister, you’re latte is ready. I put a little face in the foam.”
Claire looks down at it. K does too. It looks exactly like the wine glass/face optical illusion gag, marked in brown smudged, wispy lines on the white foam. Both of them are piqued by her unexpected grandstanding.
K: “Hey, that’s good. How did you do that?”
Edmund and Maura have locked gazes. His eyes stiffen, become sharp. Maura’s too. K has not seen her make that look before.
Edmund grabs the cup, barely looks. “Hey, umm, thanks.” His voice is glib, casual, shaking off whatever Maura has invoked. “Nice see you again Maury, and to meet you, K.”
Looking at Claire he smiles. It’s a smile crafted, squared for such moments. It’s cavalier and unaffected. He holds up the paper cup. “And, I guess next time I need one of these, I know where to go. Claire, right?”
He leaves. The door jingles open. And then closes. Claire melts. Maura watches him go. Her face still unfamiliar and stern. K rubs the back of his head, considers the exchange.
Hera puts her hands on her hips. “Did he tip?”
K almost always opens the door for Maura. Though they’ve been together a few months now, he still puts his hand on the small of her back, as if giving her a little push, nudging her past. It’s Monday evening. K does this small familiar act as he and Maura enter Café Ulysses.
The café is full, but at the moment no one is ordering. Almost everyone is dressed in expensive looking running gear. K knows that Claire’s worry about the place has been palpable, but for 7:00 PM this isn’t bad.
Hera waves hello as she washes cups. Claire doesn’t notice them. She’s leaning far over the counter talking to a customer. A man in a dark pin-striped suit. It looks expensive and fitted, but he has one of those builds that would be described as handsome no matter what he wore. The cut of the suit seems superfluous.
Claire’s eyes lash like lassos as she laughs at something he says. She’s flirting hard.
K heads to the counter to order. His hand is clasp in Maura’s and he feels a sharp tug on his arm. He turns.
Maura: “Do you know that guy?”
K: “No. Never seen his back before.” He thinks he’s making a joke, that it’ll loosen her sudden inertia.
Maura: “Well. I mean. Oh nevermind.” There is a note, a distant ring in her voice. Not quite concern, but a tolling memory that until now had been shiftless and still.
K: “Do you know him?”
Maura: “Maybe. I dunno. Probably not. What’ll you have? It’s my treat.” She lets go of his hand and heads with brisk strides to the counter. “Hey, Claire. It looks busy in here.”
Claire looks at Maura then looks back at the man in the suit. She holds up one finger of one hand. To him:“One sec. Ok?” Her eyes wide and lit, her lips, and the lilt in her voice are earthy and suggestive. A half-second ticks, and at the tock she’s ready for other people. “Hey Maura. Where’s K? Oh, there he is! How’s our star today?”
At this, the man in the suit turns to see who arrived. His face is chiselled and clean, broad jawed. He has softened eyes that seem unsuited or unused to softness.
K: “Well, you know how we do. Candice’s replacement has been driving everyone crazy. A good crazy, though.”
K can’t see Maura’s face, but the intensity of recognition on the suit’s face, the way he says “Maura?”, the way Maura’s hand sought out K’s without her looking. It has him intrigued.
Maura, her voice cold: “Edmund.” The air in the room becomes elastic, stretched, and taut.
Claire, oblivious or unconcerned, slaps the counter, and repeats his name to herself in an aside.
K feels the air charge. At the same time, all the runners stand-up. Chairs scrape, cup rattle, spoons scrape. The café fills with a clamorous heap of laters, next times, who’s-running-back-with-mes, almost incoherent over the shuffle of expensive light-weight shoes.
K, Maura, Claire, and Edmund watch the troop of neon, reflective nylon leave, and disperse on the sidewalk by the window. The little bell on the door rings as it closes behind the last one. The café is empty.
K breaks the pause with a quiet “Huh” and then looking at Maura: “Oh, so you do know him.” He reaches out his free hand. “I’m K.”
Edmund takes K’s hand, shakes it with a practiced grip. It’s feels like an essay on handshakes. Firm, confident, laced with difference and promise. “Edmund Gloucester”
At the same time Maura squeezes K’s other hand. It’s feels like they were competing.
Then release.
Hera appears, practically bounces over and places a to-go cup down. Her face beams with pride. “Hey mister, you’re latte is ready. I put a little face in the foam.”
Claire looks down at it. K does too. It looks exactly like the wine glass/face optical illusion gag, marked in brown smudged, wispy lines on the white foam. Both of them are piqued by her unexpected grandstanding.
K: “Hey, that’s good. How did you do that?”
Edmund and Maura have locked gazes. His eyes stiffen, become sharp. Maura’s too. K has not seen her make that look before.
Edmund grabs the cup, barely looks. “Hey, umm, thanks.” His voice is glib, casual, shaking off whatever Maura has invoked. “Nice see you again Maury, and to meet you, K.”
Looking at Claire he smiles. It’s a smile crafted, squared for such moments. It’s cavalier and unaffected. He holds up the paper cup. “And, I guess next time I need one of these, I know where to go. Claire, right?”
He leaves. The door jingles open. And then closes. Claire melts. Maura watches him go. Her face still unfamiliar and stern. K rubs the back of his head, considers the exchange.
Hera puts her hands on her hips. “Did he tip?”
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Lay Down in the Tall Grass
Lay Down in the Tall Grass - Timber Timbre(listen in new tab)
Saturday morning, at 6:00 AM, the city has barely taken its first deep breath before it yawns away.
Claire, bleary eyed, puts the key in the front door of Café Ulysses. Locks the door behind her. The room is dark, clean from the night before. She hangs her coat on one of the hooks in the back. She drops a CD in to the stereo. A slender finger presses the worn play button.
Early mornings are rote, a pattern that has etched itself into her muscles and the cells of her brain. She puts on the first carafes of coffee. Wanders to the fridge, brings out the cream. She takes the carton with her as she heads to the back exit, pushing the heavy door open.
A small cracked ceramic Mickey Mouse dish sits on the littered ground in the back alley. She hears excited mewing as she pours and disappears back inside.
Then she opens the heavy blinds of the large front windows. April spring’s sun rushes in.
It’s the fifth or sixth Saturday in a row. Since she took over the café, she’s seen more of this place than anywhere. Claire doesn’t miss the late nights at V.I. Lenin’s or the breakfasts at Cymbeline’s or the sweaty thump of the 5 Oh. No. This morning, the city has eyes tight with sleep. It’s still adrift, but she is already at the helm. Once there, she never takes her hands off the wheel.
Danielle will be here in half an hour. No need to unlock the door. She’s in no hurry to share the isolation. The quiet gives her space. She sets about righting the chairs, opening the safe, getting the cashier tray ready.
She lets her mind climb across the lattice work of columns and numbers that are the café’s ledgers. The books are often on her mind. She’s memorized them. They are Ulysses’ cold, nagging synecdoche.
She worries. Much is black, too much is red. Frustrating infections that Esther had let fester. Things have gotten better. Claire has cleared some debts with suppliers. Brought in some new customers. Even allowed the creep of seasonal decorations to further its encroachment. But, better isn’t good enough. Not if the doors are to stay open.
Later when Danielle arrives, Claire is surprised by the knock on the door’s glass pane.
Opening the door Claire smiles, happy now to have company: “Good morning, dear.”
Danielle rubs her eyes, her dark skinned hands balled up just a little. “How can you be like this, this early?”
Claire: “Go out last night?”
Danielle gives a dry, impeached smile: “Haven’t been home yet.” She ties on an apron, and leans on the counter.
Claire sighs, turns the door sign to “Open.” They share a coffee, and then they wait.
The morning passes. A slow slide show of indolent customers , in a chopped succession: appearing, staying, going, ordering. Another day too far from steady.
Danielle does her job with an acquired poise. She’s funny half the time and regularly explodes with a characteristic deep, honest laugh. She is the queen of the ironic “Boss” and “Ma’am.” She’s ok, but Claire misses working with K. He’s been working almost full-time at the library and so he has worked less and less at Ulysses. Danielle is here almost all the time now
There have been other new faces. Jason came and quit soon after. There was a showdown of some sort. Claire won. Hera replaced him. She works majestically, but not enough hours. Claire makes a note to push her to come in more. And there is the very new hire, Zoe. She has promise. There are a few others, who’d been around forever, but who are slowly leaving, in grief over Esther absence or just moving on.
It’s not a bad roster, but one or two more solid hires would mean she could sleep in one or two weekend mornings a month.
Mid morning: G.T. and Brae come through for coffee on their way to do some shopping. Claire has barely seen G.T. since February. They’ve both been busy. Brae’s eyes are warm, but like a morning’s red sun. G.T. said she knows nothing, but sometimes those big brown eyes look like they know everything. There is small talk.
G.T.: “What’s new? Huh?”
Claire: “Not much. I pretty much live here, now. How’re things with you?”
G.T.: “Good. They got me on the road a lot at work. I went to Hong Kong last week. Before you say anything, it sucked. Spent the whole time in the hotel. Jetlag. Meetings. Sleep. Taxi. Plane. That’s it.”
Claire: “Sounds like my life, these days. Except no hotels, planes, taxis , meetings, or exotic locales.”
Brae comes back from the washroom. “Hey Claire. What’s up?”
Claire: “I was just saying –”
Brae: “G.T. was saying that we should double date sometime to catch up.” G.T. sips his coffee. He looks indicted. “You can bring that doctor fellow. He was cute.”
Claire: “That guy? Our schedules just didn’t match. I guess it didn’t work out. That was weeks ago.”
Brae: “Well, we’ll figure something out. Later.” And out they go.
Eventually, Zoe replaces Danielle. Hera comes mid afternoon. Then K at 5:00 to help Hera close.
It’s 6:00pm by the time Claire leaves. At 6:53 she stumbles on the stairs to her front door. Sbeckett is there. His eyes are cold. She decides the old cat has figured out about the ones she feeds in the alleys.
She looks down at him as he waits for her to open the door. “Is it that I give them cream and not you, or is it that I do it at all?” Sbeckett ignores her and darts in.
Claire falls asleep on the couch, after eating leftover pasta. The TV’s light paints her face with fluid blue light and shadows. A thin smile curls the corners of her mouth. Her roommate wakes her up around 11:00. Claire drags herself to bed and lies there. Sbeckett jumps up onto he duvet, slumps down beside her. She rubs his neck. He purrs.
She thinks endlessly about Ulysses. Her eyes slacken and close. The black-red mess is slowly smudged into a map with points charted. It’s a clear path. All she needs now is the wind.
Saturday morning, at 6:00 AM, the city has barely taken its first deep breath before it yawns away.
Claire, bleary eyed, puts the key in the front door of Café Ulysses. Locks the door behind her. The room is dark, clean from the night before. She hangs her coat on one of the hooks in the back. She drops a CD in to the stereo. A slender finger presses the worn play button.
Early mornings are rote, a pattern that has etched itself into her muscles and the cells of her brain. She puts on the first carafes of coffee. Wanders to the fridge, brings out the cream. She takes the carton with her as she heads to the back exit, pushing the heavy door open.
A small cracked ceramic Mickey Mouse dish sits on the littered ground in the back alley. She hears excited mewing as she pours and disappears back inside.
Then she opens the heavy blinds of the large front windows. April spring’s sun rushes in.
It’s the fifth or sixth Saturday in a row. Since she took over the café, she’s seen more of this place than anywhere. Claire doesn’t miss the late nights at V.I. Lenin’s or the breakfasts at Cymbeline’s or the sweaty thump of the 5 Oh. No. This morning, the city has eyes tight with sleep. It’s still adrift, but she is already at the helm. Once there, she never takes her hands off the wheel.
Danielle will be here in half an hour. No need to unlock the door. She’s in no hurry to share the isolation. The quiet gives her space. She sets about righting the chairs, opening the safe, getting the cashier tray ready.
She lets her mind climb across the lattice work of columns and numbers that are the café’s ledgers. The books are often on her mind. She’s memorized them. They are Ulysses’ cold, nagging synecdoche.
She worries. Much is black, too much is red. Frustrating infections that Esther had let fester. Things have gotten better. Claire has cleared some debts with suppliers. Brought in some new customers. Even allowed the creep of seasonal decorations to further its encroachment. But, better isn’t good enough. Not if the doors are to stay open.
Later when Danielle arrives, Claire is surprised by the knock on the door’s glass pane.
Opening the door Claire smiles, happy now to have company: “Good morning, dear.”
Danielle rubs her eyes, her dark skinned hands balled up just a little. “How can you be like this, this early?”
Claire: “Go out last night?”
Danielle gives a dry, impeached smile: “Haven’t been home yet.” She ties on an apron, and leans on the counter.
Claire sighs, turns the door sign to “Open.” They share a coffee, and then they wait.
The morning passes. A slow slide show of indolent customers , in a chopped succession: appearing, staying, going, ordering. Another day too far from steady.
Danielle does her job with an acquired poise. She’s funny half the time and regularly explodes with a characteristic deep, honest laugh. She is the queen of the ironic “Boss” and “Ma’am.” She’s ok, but Claire misses working with K. He’s been working almost full-time at the library and so he has worked less and less at Ulysses. Danielle is here almost all the time now
There have been other new faces. Jason came and quit soon after. There was a showdown of some sort. Claire won. Hera replaced him. She works majestically, but not enough hours. Claire makes a note to push her to come in more. And there is the very new hire, Zoe. She has promise. There are a few others, who’d been around forever, but who are slowly leaving, in grief over Esther absence or just moving on.
It’s not a bad roster, but one or two more solid hires would mean she could sleep in one or two weekend mornings a month.
Mid morning: G.T. and Brae come through for coffee on their way to do some shopping. Claire has barely seen G.T. since February. They’ve both been busy. Brae’s eyes are warm, but like a morning’s red sun. G.T. said she knows nothing, but sometimes those big brown eyes look like they know everything. There is small talk.
G.T.: “What’s new? Huh?”
Claire: “Not much. I pretty much live here, now. How’re things with you?”
G.T.: “Good. They got me on the road a lot at work. I went to Hong Kong last week. Before you say anything, it sucked. Spent the whole time in the hotel. Jetlag. Meetings. Sleep. Taxi. Plane. That’s it.”
Claire: “Sounds like my life, these days. Except no hotels, planes, taxis , meetings, or exotic locales.”
Brae comes back from the washroom. “Hey Claire. What’s up?”
Claire: “I was just saying –”
Brae: “G.T. was saying that we should double date sometime to catch up.” G.T. sips his coffee. He looks indicted. “You can bring that doctor fellow. He was cute.”
Claire: “That guy? Our schedules just didn’t match. I guess it didn’t work out. That was weeks ago.”
Brae: “Well, we’ll figure something out. Later.” And out they go.
Eventually, Zoe replaces Danielle. Hera comes mid afternoon. Then K at 5:00 to help Hera close.
It’s 6:00pm by the time Claire leaves. At 6:53 she stumbles on the stairs to her front door. Sbeckett is there. His eyes are cold. She decides the old cat has figured out about the ones she feeds in the alleys.
She looks down at him as he waits for her to open the door. “Is it that I give them cream and not you, or is it that I do it at all?” Sbeckett ignores her and darts in.
Claire falls asleep on the couch, after eating leftover pasta. The TV’s light paints her face with fluid blue light and shadows. A thin smile curls the corners of her mouth. Her roommate wakes her up around 11:00. Claire drags herself to bed and lies there. Sbeckett jumps up onto he duvet, slumps down beside her. She rubs his neck. He purrs.
She thinks endlessly about Ulysses. Her eyes slacken and close. The black-red mess is slowly smudged into a map with points charted. It’s a clear path. All she needs now is the wind.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Secret Song: Nothing Will Never be the Same Again
Nothing Will Never be the Same Again – JJ(listen in new tab)
She is awake before her eyes open. The inside black becomes a sharp white. The morning sun beats in through the window, unabated by her eyelids. Claire struggles to keep her eyes shut. Curses herself for not closing the blinds before bed.
Sbeckett purrs lowly on her chest. He tries to make himself heavy and warm so that Claire won’t get up. He always knows when she’s about to wake up and tries the same lame game.
Her head pounds. Too much celebrating. Her night blurred, is not quite a blacked out. More like someone took their thumb and smudged her memory into incomprehension, so that the edges are unknown. She imagines shot three was the one.
She lets out a low groan and sits up. Sbeckett lands in her lap, stretches resentfully. Claire realizes that she’s naked and holds the blanket against her chest.
Claire: “Oh whatever Sbeckett.” The cat jumps off the bed, making soft taps as he heads about his morning business. She rubs her eyes trying to unblurr them.
“What? What time is it?” She slaps her hand in the direction of the voice. Feels a face, then a body under the sheets.
G.T. grabs her hand, props himself up on one elbow. “Stop that. Oh man. My head hurts. Are you gonna make waffles?”
Holding the blankets close to her chest, she looks at him and slaps her forehead. “Jesus, not again.”
She is awake before her eyes open. The inside black becomes a sharp white. The morning sun beats in through the window, unabated by her eyelids. Claire struggles to keep her eyes shut. Curses herself for not closing the blinds before bed.
Sbeckett purrs lowly on her chest. He tries to make himself heavy and warm so that Claire won’t get up. He always knows when she’s about to wake up and tries the same lame game.
Her head pounds. Too much celebrating. Her night blurred, is not quite a blacked out. More like someone took their thumb and smudged her memory into incomprehension, so that the edges are unknown. She imagines shot three was the one.
She lets out a low groan and sits up. Sbeckett lands in her lap, stretches resentfully. Claire realizes that she’s naked and holds the blanket against her chest.
Claire: “Oh whatever Sbeckett.” The cat jumps off the bed, making soft taps as he heads about his morning business. She rubs her eyes trying to unblurr them.
“What? What time is it?” She slaps her hand in the direction of the voice. Feels a face, then a body under the sheets.
G.T. grabs her hand, props himself up on one elbow. “Stop that. Oh man. My head hurts. Are you gonna make waffles?”
Holding the blankets close to her chest, she looks at him and slaps her forehead. “Jesus, not again.”
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