NVDT Random – Why Bother? I Mean Writing Fiction

I have an old friend who gets email updates from the absurd. I get sale flyers from Lamps Plus because I bought a ceiling fan on blow out years ago. He gets mini-novels as news stories. I confess to having used pieces of things he’s sent me, and embarked on a weekly series a year or so ago where I’d publish something he’d sent me as story starter fluid.

It’s not 2020, y’all. It’s just people. We live in an incredibly obscene world. I say that because yesterday I published a follow-up to the lopped-off heads investigation from Russian Interference. Here’s where it came from.

Then there’s this from Dallas. Jag Booty and Wee Wee, the murderous butt injectors? You can’t make this shit up.

 

 

 

Okay, so she had an affair. This is how you deal with it?  Seems to be a sort of fad in India these days. Think of the Law and Order episode where the lawyer tries to get the husband a light sentence for diminished capacity because, your Honor, only an idiot would behave this way.

See what I mean? There’s a Welsh crime drama, 35 Days, where it opens with a body then rewinds 35 days to play out how it happened. One could start with any of these headlines and write the lead up to death by butt injections, greedy child, or angry husband. With a cast of whack jobs that would take Elmore Leonard, Carl Hiaasen, and Irvine Welsh combined, all on acid, to even get close to. So I ask you, why bother with fiction? My answer is that fiction, like a lot of stand up comedy and music, takes the edge off the pain of reality, removes it a step to make it more digestible. I mean the song “Hey, Joe” could easily have been a (reasonably commonplace) page six newspaper article. 

The big question here – Is fiction a fallacy, a coping mechanism? Because life is way stranger.

The to severed head stories were from the Daily Mail. The death by butt injection from Fox 4 News, Dallas.

Who Will Sing Me a Lullaby?

I’m a big fan of the lullaby. The beauty is that they lurk in a song that wasn’t written to be one. Except to me a number of the early innocent songs before my time were looking out the window with longing lullabies. A favorite of mine – “Count Every Star”. I’ve heard it done from Doo Wop to Vegas lounge lizard. Treated properly kicked down to acoustic guitar or deep space piano it will knock the volume out of a loud room and turn adults into children, if only for a moment. I have no idea why. I do know it as fact.

I also have no idea why Kate Rusby isn’t a household word. If you don’t know of her music, you might think of getting acquainted. Most everything she writes and sings is in that magical land where beautifully executed simple from the heart storytelling meets the air between the notes. Everyone needs a lullaby once in a while. Who will sing you a lullabye? Kate Rusby. Don’t know if she’ll share the cheese.

Happy 808 Day!

1980 to 83. That’s it. Three years. Easily the most used, abused, sampled, looped, and heard by all drum machines in history.

Why? The thing sounded like the cheezy beatbox in home organs. Boom chikka chikka. Little filtered analog noise bursts crammed into audio envelopes. Tish tish tish clack boom. I mean Kraftwerk made of it by sampling their own voices and using them as a beat track on Boing Boom Tshack from Electric Cafe

Except…unlike the CR78 and other drum machines of the presampling era, the 808 had  variable tuning. No, not the city in China, but actual pitch up and down on the klacks and booms. If a car has ever pulled up beside you and rattled your windows with low-frequency Boooooooom…. Boooooooom that’s the 808. Stretch and distress and compress that low kick until it never fades and rattles your windows when it goes down the street. A sound, we learned, that keeps an amplifier buried on the power supply rails until it burns up.

People will complain about all the kinds of music that sound brings to mind but be advised, plenty of pop and rock songs were demoed with the 808. And more million-selling R&B than you can shake your booty to, jazz, acid jazz, smooth jazz…everybody incorporated the sounds of the 808. In fact I’ve used 808s widely myself in everything from cover tunes to electronica to synth space fart tracks.

Gain access to a state of chill and some headphones, here’s some 808 in a hippie redux context

Why again? Because I was inspired by the old 60s synth instrumentals and hearing a Muzak version of Jethro Tull (?!) in an HEB Grocery store in Austin, TX and figured, you know, I do that &*^% for a living.

Happy 808 day, even if you’re not all that happy about how it’s found its way into everything music-wise.

 

 

 

RANDOM NDVT – Lunacy

Famous Composer Arrested For Patriotism!!

This date, 1940, composer Igor Stravinsky was arrested by the Boston police. For conducting the Boston Symphony Orchestra while they were playing his arrangement of The Star Bangled Banner.

There is still a law on the books in Massachusetts’ General Laws – Chapter 164, Section 9, that threatens a $100 fine for performing any version of The Star Spangled Banner other than the original.

He defended his call on a dissonant dominant 7th as being “more democratic” because it was easier for non-professionals to sing. All copies of the arrangement were confiscated so no one today knows exactly where that 7th was.

Judging by the abundance of singers yodeling their way through The Star Spangled Banner looking for the notes at major, minor and local athletic events, maybe Igor was on to something.

I wonder what Massachusetts does with all those Benji’s?

It should be noted Stravinsky, a Russian immigrant, became a legal US Citizen in 1945. Also, that Grammarly insists Star Spangled should be hyphenated.

In honor of what is usually Tax Day and Igor’s arrest and artistic bigotry –

 

Another One Gone — Stevie Turner

Today I brought my New Year resolution forward a little bit. I promised myself to cut down on social media, and so today LinkedIn bit the dust. I feel quite liberated, because apart from a few people, the rest of the 650 were only there for the sole purpose of trying to sell me something. […]

via Another One Gone — Stevie Turner

Never Land

Tell me where dreams go to die
Make mysticism into physics
Do it for me now
Life has taught me well
Wishes hit the shitter
As time ill-spent hanging out
With the Second Guess triplets
Woulda Shoulda Coulda
But tell me, where do dreams go when they die

Hope hangs from an altar
Surrounded by prayers for understanding
Broken promises
Broken lives
Broken anything, broken everything
Dreams haven’t got a prayer there
Is the hell of never understanding never
Where dreams go when they die

Why is ‘never’ so infinitely finite
How did love become
Too small a word
What happens to dreams
When they die
Are they washed away
In tears that we cry
Stashed away
In words used to deny
The real Elephants in the room
What happens to dreams when they die

When I was young
A barber showed me
Static electricity
Made my hair stand on end
He made the static disappear
From a comb
With running water
Where did it go?
Down the drain?
Up the spout?
Out by Jupiter?
Energy is never gone, he said
So if that’s true, tell me
Where do dreams go when they die

 

 

Free Sex

I sat in my faded cushioned, peeling Adirondack and stared at the lake. The charred outlines and burnt-out hulks of my old Airstream, the older pickup and Cav’s Fiat fifteen feet behind me, the Cub sloshing quietly ten yards in front. Slosh meant someone was on the lake. You know a lake is small when it sloshes from a bass boat or someone trying to ski on the other side. I felt the passage of time as the thermostat that turned a Texas afternoon, even in the shade, into a blast furnace while I continued to find more questions than answers for the last two days.

I must have replayed Corpus a couple dozen times. In the diner, after I’d relieved Third Eye horseapple nose of his knife and used it to coerce the one called Muller into giving up his knockoff Glock, Cav had taken several of the hundreds she’d re-stuffed after finding them feeble in the face of the rich guy’s real estate and dealt them out to a couple of waitresses and the busboy who’d brought towels and ice. None of them found Franklin’s pocket portraits feeble and were ecstatic to be deaf dumb and blind kids during the ten minutes that preceded the cash. She’d also picked up the tab for an old couple who thought they were on candid camera, and that the two freak show escapees covered in tattoos done by a drunk blind man were actors. I made a big deal with my phone out of how small cameras were these days and let them believe it.

We hustled out, though, in case someone had actually called the cops before Cav started waving money around, and all piled into an 80’s Ford Econoline XLT that had once been metallic blue, and probably once had upholstery instead of a collection of truck stop Indian blankets held in place by colorful bungee cords. It smelled like cigarettes, sweat and a sticky sweet but foul odor somewhere between cheap cigarillos and bleu cheese that I couldn’t place but made me want to puke. We bounced down the street in the van, Moreno and her business associates trying to sell me on what a great idea it would be, you know, since we were all friends now, to return their weapons in a gesture of trust. I stuck the counterfeit Glock in Muller’s ear, told them to eat me, find Cole Park and maybe I wouldn’t feed them their weapons after I heard their bullshit. Cole Park because I knew I could find my plane from there and it was public. Cav let me know how much my attitude really pissed her off. I wasn’t sure if she was posing for the business associates or being genuinely stupid. I knew she hated taking orders from anyone, particularly a man, more particularly me, regardless of how open to direction she’d been the night before. This was her game, and I seemed to have taken over, if only momentarily. But when it comes to weapons and people I don’t trust, even people I do trust, I like to at least feel that I have some control over my destiny and she could stay pissed until everyone walked away from this encounter with no chance of being shot or sliced. Except by me.

Muller found Cole Park and we convened at a picnic table not far enough away from a large Hispanic family birthday party full of Cumbia being bluetoothed through a Costco Karaoke/DJ rig, three dozen screaming kids, a couple of pinatas and plenty of young women in at least one size too small clothes pointing phone cameras at everything, including us.

After half an hour I still didn’t like what little I’d heard about the bank robbery in Kerrigan. I still didn’t know why Kerrigan. There were vague references to twenty million “or so” dollars. What denominations? It didn’t matter. The hell it didn’t matter, weight was everything in flying out of there with it. Where did it come from? Who were we pissing off…Whatever I asked? It didn’t matter. They made it clear Miz Moreno brought me in because I saved her life and knew how to fly. Those qualifications bought me a ticket to ride, no more. I wondered why Cav would lie to them about me. The truth was closer to ‘I got her killed trying to screw her out from under her non-boyfriend.’

More than once I got called a pussy, pussy with superfluous profane modifiers, for not liking helicopters. Not being a helicopter man really sucked to these guys because the job, the way they saw it, was made for a helicopter. Maybe two. Both stolen. Someone not present could fly the other one. That was the entire sketchy bucket of talk that went around until I was dizzy with stale air and tired of being a helicopter pussy so I called it off.

I walked from the picnic table across the paved hike and bike path toward the sea wall, waited for a heavy-set twenty-something female in a red windbreaker and too short jogging shorts to pick up her Golden Retreiver’s recycled breakfast with her hand in an inside out WalMart bag. She smiled like I should be enjoying Rover’s dump as much as both of them were. I smiled back. Maybe I leered because she took off, pulling on the bottom of her shorts. Wear them longer of you don’t want strangers checking out your gibbles. I ejected the chambered round from Muller’s cheapo pistol, popped the clip and tossed it and the single round in the Gulf. When I got back I handed Muller his empty gun and Third Eye horseapple nose his knife, told him if I ever saw it again it would be sticking out of his throat. I took the van keys, said they could have it back less than a mile south on Ocean, bye. Cav raised hell, again putting it on for the Bozos or legitimate flight of stupid. Flight of stupid. Anybody ever writes my biography, there’s the title.

The slosh around the Cub grew into ripples and then a small wake until a figure appeared out of the heat waves in an inflatable raft. The captain revved the electric motor, popped it up at the last second and ran his raft aground so he could step out dry. Tavius looked better in his upscale athletic gear than the suit. Jock-ish. Maybe a rap icon. His wrists tastefully festooned with small chain-link and thin band gold bracelets, his nails buffed glossy. Like some women I’ve known. It had to be 102. No sign of sweat. He came at me all tilted drama, one arm cocked out like he was the lead in a bad thug movie or a rap video. Two things that are often the same thing.

“You and the goddam airplane. You do that shit, how’re we supposed to follow you? You gotta take the woman sight-seeing to get laid? Where the hell have you been? Where’s Moreno?” He leaned in, turned my chin with his hand. “What happened to your jaw? What the fuck is going on?” He swung his arm and upper body in a slow arc around my squatter’s paradise. “You call the insurance company? If you haven’t, don’t. If you have –”

“Plane’s the only thing insured.” I motioned to the other Adirondack. “Have a seat. What was your first question? Oh, right. I filed a flight plan.”

“In the air. From Eagle Pass. Goddammit, Comparo…This is deep. I can’t reach out to some fucking Jim Bob in Corpus, be all ‘there’s a deep covert with an invisible in your backyard, help us out.’” He dropped into the Adirondack Cav had been in two days ago. “Fuck.” His exasperation was tangible. I let him stew for a few before I asked.

“You smoke weed?”

“You askin’ ‘cause I’m black or you think I need to lower my anxiety?”

“Both?” He waved me off with a slow wrist flick. I got up, walked over to the cottonwood tree I’d named Amos, after my paternal grandfather, and pulled a small Café DuMonde coffee tin from a hollow crook in the back.

***

“Where’d this come from?”

“Oklahoma. It’s legal now.”

“For real?” He tapped the cable spool table with my disposable lighter. “The shit you learn in the middle of nowhere.”

“That’s what Moreno said. En la medio de nada.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Where, exactly, is the middle nowhere?”

I told him about Kerrigan, the Corpus meeting. He made me repeat it while he pulled Kerrigan up on his phone and some other files from a government cloud and it got quiet in the heat.

He shifted, raised his chair a notch, put both elbows on the table. “You hit the man with a fucking sugar dispenser?”

“Yeah. The big, heavy old school glass kind. I had a choice, though. The big one or a plastic Sweet n Low caddy.”

“Good call. But you coulda killed him.”

“He pulled a knife. What’d he expect, flowers and a kiss?”

“Flowers maybe. How’d you keep the lid on again?”

“I told you. Moreno had a wad of cash, bought off a couple of waitresses and a busboy. Grampa and Gamma thought we were Candid Camera.”

“Nobody else there?”

“No.”

“Moreno?”

The short answer was San Antonio. Maybe. The long answer was I didn’t know. After we’d ditched Muller and Third Eye she’d asked me to take her to San Antonio. She had a room booked at a Riverside boutique hotel, we could stay the night. I liked that version of her better than the pissed-off give-the-crazies-their-shit-back I’d seen enough of. She wanted to pick up “some things.” I figured clothes, like the sketchy job was imminent. I never found out.

We went out of the hotel after dark, holding hands on the Riverwalk. Bands or DJs were playing outside or leaking out open club doors. We ate somewhere, had several Margaritas. She took off her shoes and danced her way through a half-mile of touristas and pink-faced conventioneers and overstressed waiters and hostesses holding their tray overhead. Tried to get me in the middle of it. Single file hands up shimmy wasn’t on for me, but I kept her in range. She danced like a cobra for a snake charmer. We ended up back at the room where we continued to make up for being interrupted in Columbia. I hadn’t had so much free sex in…A long time. Not that I’m a monk but I’d been working some things out. Like my fault she was dead. Which worked itself out without any help from me so my year of solitary was over. I woke up to an empty but for me bed and a note on the coffee pot. “Estaré en contacto, Paro.” I’ll be in touch. With a heart and a C.

“Moreno? Wake up, asshole.”

“San Antonio. We were in this hotel…”

“Then you were in the hotel and she’s wherever because she sure as hell ain’t here. Jesus, Paro. You might as well put a leash on your dick.” He opened a linear four-panel foldout on the spool top. “Who was in Corpus?”

I pointed out Muller and Third Eye horseapple nose. “His forehead and nose don’t look so bad in the mug shot. But damn…I see the guy, start to lose it, Moreno is hissing ‘stop it, stop it.’ I started to laugh and it got away from me. First time you see that shit…”

“Yeah?” Tavius wasn’t laughing. Fuck it. It was one of those had to be there moments. He folded the bad guy bubblegum cards, stuck them in his pocket.

“The other two are Usman and Crawford. I’ll text you what I have. They’re what happened here.”

“You’re tellin’ me you know who did this and just…let it happen?”

“Not on purpose. You were in the air fifteen minutes and they showed up, tossed your place. We figured to find out who you are. They left, we thought that was the end of it and called off the watch. The good news is you aren’t sentimental so there was nothing to find. Or burn.”

“That shit’s all in a storage locker in Addison. I pay it annually, haven’t seen it in five years.” My attitude started to come back. “Tossed isn’t fucking toast.

“This is hindsight, but we now think they were waiting for you to come home, maybe have a chat about you ringing the Third Eye brother’s bell. Humiliate you in front of their woman. You’re a no show, somewhere with their woman.” He walked over to the middle of what had been my trailer. “Here’s your sign.”

Their woman? What’re you sayin’?”

“Sayin’ they’d wasted a trip, got upset. You were where they’d all like to be, wished they were, don’t have a shot in hell at without assault. Sayin’ you, horndog flyboy, you were somewhere, with their Queenie.” He pushed my charred dining table spool with his foot, watched it crumble into chunks of charcoal and a puff of dark dust. He rotated my way, caught me with an eye lock. “Sayin’ free sex doesn’t appear to be all that free.”

 

Anonymole has decided on a whiff of an idea from me that September is scene month. Not every day, but often, we should offer a short scene that stands alone and when you walk away you have a decent idea of what’s going on and might want to turn the page. This is number 3 of “Hukt awn seens werks fur mee!”

Compañero

There was no Gulf breeze, or breeze of any kind, so I pulled us up slowly westward to avoid the blinding white ball of morning sun. We were airborne about fifteen minutes before Cav, who had been quiet except for animated ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhhs’ pointing out scenery, put her phone between her headset and ear, kicked the mic up and spoke briefly to someone. I was flying low and slow, trimmed out like glass. She put the phone between her legs, fixed her headset.

“Corpus, Paro? It’s okay with you?”

“Yep. Now or lazy?”

“As you prefer. No hurries.” She went back to watching serenity painted as rugged and mostly empty ground roll by below, something most of us don’t see often enough. “Despite the beauty, sometime today, por favor?

Head west and a little north out of Corpus Christi to where the state roads get further and further apart and the population pretty much stops a ways southwest of San Antonio and if you looked hard enough you could find my little lake. Further northwest, where I’d taken us, it started to get rockier and taller. I climbed up out of where the Tamaulipan plains started to run into the Chihuahuan mountain desert and banked us around in a slow circle, skirting the Mexican border while I radioed in a flight plan to Eagle Pass regional. Under my own name and license. I turned the volume down when they went off on the weather because I was filing while already in the air and maybe I was stupid. I knew. I have first-class glass avionics and I’m still alive because I pay attention to the FAA weather. Even if I didn’t all that information lands in one app or another on my phone where I can get to it before the prop turns over. I knew high pressure was keeping the gulf stagnant, Texas hot. That a named Pacific depression had made landfall south of Baja and would rain itself out over the Mexican mountains and that you could see forever over most of Texas and the Southwest. I thanked them, though, radioed my roger and out, turned us away from the border for Corpus.

Corpus was better for me than Galveston as far as fuel was concerned. I like Galveston, though. One of the last holdouts of weird. I knew where to eat right, cheap, without tourists and plenty of weird company. Where to drink a beer with locals who weren’t weird enough or high enough to stab me because they thought I had seven heads. Where to listen to local musicians play surf music and acoustic Raggae. But from where we were Corpus was a straight shot east-southeast and I figured Cav had enough weirdness stashed she hadn’t unloaded on me. Yet.

Moreno had said “no hurries” so cars were making better time on the ground than I was in the air. We spotted someone in something small and red going at least 130. Not uncommon in nowhere. Neither was ending up dead not being a professional driver. They made it this time. We saw the car again, pulled over by DPS north of Alice. Which was where I got tired of waiting.

“Kerrigan?”

“We will meet some…friends of mine. In Corpus.”

“Friends?” Being Cav Moreno wasn’t conducive to making real friends.

“Business associates.” She turned, got a little louder in my headset. “Do you have to do that? Dissect everything I say? Redirect my language?”

“Yes.” She turned and stared out the window. “You’re a bullshit artist, Moreno. Most people won’t call you on it. I need to hear it undiluted.”

“Perhaps they trust me, and you do not.”

“‘Perhaps’ they got their tickets for free and just want to watch the show. We wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t already an active participant in whatever you have up your sleeve.”

She showed me her arm, bare in a yellow sleeveless tank. “No sleeve.”

“Figure of speech.”

Si. So is this.” She showed me her middle finger. Something was up. She wasn’t this evasive about probably getting killed attempting to steal from the cartel in Columbia.

“Nail polish doesn’t match.”

She called me something in Spanish I couldn’t hear, but would have understood, both of us being Irish Beaners. She hated that word, so I used it pretty often when our heritage or relatives came up. Or anytime I could find a use for it when she was around. Back when we didn’t get along like we were supposed to.

“Kerrigan?”

She turned and I could feel her eyes behind the sunglasses. “We’re going to rob the bank, Paro. There, en el medio de la nada, Tejas.”

Rob a bank in the middle of nowhere. Shit. My wiser, self-preservationist self, Tavius, the CIA’s order and my recently reinstated license all got into an argument.

“What are you thinking, Paro?”

Fu-uhk me was what I was thinking. I said, “I’d love to help you rob a bank in Kerrigan, Cav. What are friends for?” After that I started to say you’re crazier than a junkie with the shakes, a pipe and a kitchen match in a butane plant but the license and Tavius rubbed up against my right mind and won. That was it for conversation. We were robbing a bank in Kerrigan, Texas. On to Corpus.

***

I banked out over the Gulf, came back and skimmed Corpus Christi Bay to the middle west edge and pulled up alongside a dock that ran out from a huge house. Estate would be a better word. The owner was on his way before I killed the engine.

“Paro, this man who is coming. You know him? He is a friend?”

“No.” But I had a good idea from summer barnstorming, something that hadn’t changed much in a hundred years, that the man wouldn’t object. We weren’t criminals, Cav was a clock stopper and I was a conversationalist, and almost everyone is curious about a prop-driven plane.

“You do the stupidest, most random…” She pulled a couple of hundreds out of her phone wallet.

“Cav, look at this place. You think if he’s pissed a couple of Bens are gonna get him happy? Chill, work it with me.”

Ai yi.” She shook her head. “Paro, Paro, Paro.”

The average, slightly chunky gray-haired man wore the assured comfort that comes with wealth, and flip flops, and was glad to see us step out and smile. Particularly Cav. He casually showed me his Army-issue Colt .45, said, “Guess I don’t need this. Y’all don’t look too crazy.” He winked at Cav, stuck the gun back in his belt and we shook hands. He played twenty questions with us while we walked up past the pool and around the house where he took my card in the event he ever wanted to go somewhere without roads to drink and pretend to hunt or fish, wished us well and thanked us for giving his neighbors something to talk about.

***

Cav had this trip planned before she rolled up in my hangar because with a single tap on her phone back by the pool there was, as if by magic, a Honda Pilot Uber waiting for us on Ocean Dr. The back doors closed and she started on me in a hushed tone full of her plan-coming-together-urgency.

“Two men will meet us at the diner where we are going. Paro,” she turned my way, “Look at me, compañero. One of them, Muller, is taller, like you. He has a square jaw with the dimple and the, how is it, lazy eye? He may wear sunglasses. Don’t worry, there is nothing behind his eyes. But the other…Madre de Dios. How do I ask you…”

“As simply as possible, so I understand?”

“Please. The shorter man,” I could swear she was trying not to laugh, “you must not look at his nose. His eyes, over his head, anywhere. But not his nose.” She shook my arm to reinforce it. “You must promise me, Paro. Cross your heart and hope you don’t die if you laugh or stare. Promise!”

I was already a would-be bank robber. What the hell, I promised.

Of all the places to eat in Corpus Christi, the original home of Whataburger, she’d picked a Fifties-style burger place downtown that could have been franchised. When Sinatra was selling records. Bigger than a Steak n Shake but the same black and white tile floors, red vinyl booths and stools. Its saving grace was that it looked well-loved, almost dingy, with more than a few cracked tiles and tufts of batting showing in the booth seats. And the collection of Velvet Elvis paintings rivaled a Sunday afternoon gas station parking lot in South LA. Or San Antonio. Or hell, Tulsa or Milwaukee. Believe that, I’ve seen them. It also had the obligatory framed-with-neon-accent posters of dogs playing pool and dead Fifties superstars sitting around a horseshoe-shaped diner soda fountain. Just like the one where we were. I wondered, it was almost old enough, if maybe this was James Dean heaven. Or even better, Marilyn Monroe heaven.

I was imaging that in a brilliant white chiffon teddy and wings when the taller one, Muller, came through the door. He found Cav with his good eye. I know that because he had a pirate patch over the other one and only an idiot would patch his good eye. The smaller guy, the one Cav warned me about, came in behind him. I didn’t laugh or stare because I’d promised. But Godamighty it must’ve looked like it was busting my ass not to because the little fucker drew all the way back, roundhouse slugged me and whipped out a camo handled lock-back game gutter while I stumbled backwards.

 

Anonymole has decided on a whiff of an idea from me that September is scene month. Not every day, but often, we should offer a short scene that stands alone and when you walk away you have a decent idea of what’s going on and might want to turn the page. This is number 3 of “Hukt awn seens werks fur mee!”

Special thanks to JTK in Canadian for small towns and smoking stories and JGM for the balls to the wall broad.

Hooked

Rather than go random, and facing time constraints, I’m using this September scene-a -thon to flesh out an idea in a completely alien (first-person personable) format. It should be noted that I went to Half Price Books yesterday and picked up no fewer than 7 ancient Mickey Spillane, Faulkner and Earle Stanley Gardner pulps. So…

 

“I don’t like helicopters.” She hooked my arm with hers. Hooked. A perfect word.

“Why?” She would always look better in one of my shirts, crazy hair, inquisitive eyes and all than I ever would.

“I was flying before I could drive. I’m probably alive today because of my deep and abiding distrust of helicopters. Besides,” I flipped an omelet the size of the twelve-inch skillet, “with good weather I can be airborne in 75 feet, maybe less, so…”

“Who needs one, right?” She furrowed her eyebrows. “You do know the only reason it flipped with such ease is all the butter.”

“It’s a skill.”

“Don’t kid yourself. It’s the butter.” She released my arm, ran a pizza wheel through the omelet and held back half while I tilted the pan and let half slide off onto her plate. I moved the skillet and let the other half drop the same way on mine.

“Butter is something I learned from my mother. I hear olive oil is healthier, but I save that for vegetables.”

Tu Madre, eh? Did she die of a coronary?”

“Not yet.”

“Decent genes and you know about vegetables.” She dropped a sausage link on her plate, licked her fingertips. “And you can almost cook.” The cocked eyebrows and smile were for effect before she stepped outside in the morning shade of hundred-year-old cottonwoods and pecan trees that surrounded my patch of planet Earth. “How can it be that such a wonderful morning prefaces the heat of hell?”

Cav didn’t expect an answer, like most people who comment on predictable weather, and stood barefoot, one hip kicked out slightly to the side, on the pea gravel I’d liberated from a looked-abandoned Texas highway department earth, sand and gravel stash. She forked a small mouthful of omelet and looked out at my lake. I say mine. It wasn’t very big, but stock ponds are lakes in parts of Texas. And I was the only mostly full-time squatter on this one. My nearest neighbor was an ancient black man who grumbled but never spoke, lived off-site and drove up with his dog in about fifteen minutes when someone called from the phone hanging off the back of the gas pump at the marina. Which had happened three times in seven months. I think having a marina or an improved boat ramp makes it officially a lake, even though the marina was a pier, a shack and a gas pump and the back-your-boat-in ramp was a pair of muddy ruts next to the ‘marina.’ I stepped out to join her.

“That’s the one?” She nodded at the Cub Craft sitting half-in and half-out of the water, tied off to an old parking lot concrete bar. “She flies in 75 feet?”

“Good weather, medium load and the floats off.”

“I want to see.”

“Now?”

Pendejo. I’m eating. Hey. You didn’t tell me you had Tabasco.” She tapped my nose with her fork. “Do you know of Kerrigan? It’s a town in this Texas of yours.”

“No. But Texas is big. There’re places west of here where it’s so far between trees dogs have exploded before they got to the next one to pee.”

“That’s a stupid joke.”

“There are other variations. My dad used to tell this one about a round barn on Route 66 in Oklahoma –”

“I’m sure he did. Save it for me, though, por favor? For a time in the very distant future when I would like you to be almost clever.” She stuck the fork in her mouth again.

So that was it. Goal equals Kerrigan, Texas. Yesterday afternoon, not long after I asked her to marry me for bringing spicy jumbo shrimp backed with Negra Modelo and we’d both smoked a small cigar, Cav asked about my living arrangements. I’d told her “On a lake not far from here I have an old, partially redone Airstream with a new air conditioner.” She said she’d follow me, that she had two steaks on ice in the cooler and we had unfinished business to discuss. After a twilight grill and chill accompanied by a chorus of bugs, frogs, waterfowl and the occasional shrill caw of a hawk in the distance the unfinished business turned out to be making love without being interrupted by gun-wielding, drug running head cases. In air conditioning. In a bed.

Making love was something she said she hadn’t done since our coitus interruptus in Columbia. She also claimed it was four months before she’d discovered I’d made it out alive. For reasons unknown the CIA people who had backed her play down there didn’t want us within half a continent of each other, until, again for reasons unknown, we were now the undead together, and I was a licensed pilot. Again.

Back on that making love, I wondered what was for sale in Kerrigan, Texas, that required a saleslady of her caliber. Impatience pushed hard on my curiosity while I watched her eat. I knew it would get worse when she’d finish, take my plate in with hers, get dressed while I waited outside in a faded cushion covered Adirondack chair that needed a paint job. I heard her scrunch on the pebbly gravel behind me. Somebody should tell women nothing they can throw money at smells better on them than soap and shampoo. In a surprisingly uncharacteristic move, she sat in the other Adirondack and set two fresh coffees on the cable-spool table between us rather than dragging me out of the chair to the plane.

“Paro, do you wish, sometimes, that you still smoked?”

“That’s a loaded question. Yes. And no. Smoking is a random vice for me.”

“Lucky you. Every day I fight the fight. I have these friends. A couple.” She seemed wistful, lost in her coffee steam and sunrise streaking the lake.

“And this couple?”

“Yes, sorry. They do not smoke. For months. Then one day, it’s a party or some friends together. Sports on television or something, drinks, and burnt food. They buy a package of cigarettes. They sit and together smoke them all up. In an afternoon.” She used her index and middle fingers, both hands, alternating to her lips like a double-fisted chain smoker. “Then? When they are drunk or sleepy they go to bed. Tomorrow, in the morning? They will run five miles together. And again, go for months not smoking.” She looked across the table at me. “I could never do such a thing.” It had tinges of both question and remorse.

“If you’re awake your foot is through the firewall.”  I tested the coffee. Strong, hot, perfect. “You have reservoirs of zeal. And windmills to conquer. “ I wouldn’t expect you to do anything half-assed, or on a casual, occasional basis.” She wasn’t looking at me, but might as well have been.

“I have been told my expectations are too high. That I’m demanding.” She raised her eyes, her hands working. “That my causes are many, and often futile.”

“That you’re a cold, loveless, heartless bitch who should keep her nose out of things much bigger than your personal vision of their repair.”

“I have told you this before?”

“Maybe last night. After being demanding, with high expectations.” This time she did go a little crimson.

“Last night I wanted a cigarette.”

“There’s a joke waiting in that.”

“It has waited this long, allow it to age further. To find its perfection.”

“You’re saying my jokes are like good Scotch?”

“I was thinking more of terrible cheese.”

Like everything else Cav did I figured sex was also a pedal to the metal Holy Grail activity and not subject to diminishment by humor, so I let the smoking sex joke drop. The last thing Cavanaugh Moreno wanted anyone to know was that on rare occasions she might be a real person, not a constant pain in the ass Donna Quixote. I heard a windmill creaking in the morning breeze, so I waved away a pesky horsefly, stood, held out my hand. “Let’s go for a plane ride, Moreno. You can tell me about Kerrigan. Maybe do a late lunch in Galveston.”

“I love a man with expandable boundaries.” She hooked my arm. “But one who is openminded, I love him even more.”

“God knows I’m a born pleaser.”

Fantastico!” She skipped toward the Cub, still hooked on my arm. “Corpus is an option.”

 

Anonymole has decided on a whiff of an idea from me that September is scene month. Not every day, but often, we should offer a short scene that stands alone and when you walk away you have a decent idea of what’s going on and might want to turn the page. This is number 3 of “Hukt awn seens werks fur mee!”

Special thanks to JTK in Canadian for small towns and smoking stories and JGM for the balls to the wall broad.

Gracias de Dios

I took a couple of the folding chairs down to the hanger floor in prep for the arrival of the undead Ms. Moreno, wheeled a wooden, end-table-height cable spool over next to them. One of the benefits/hazards of this abandoned airfield was that it had been a dumping ground for industrial cable spools from huge to more huge. Mixed in with the big guys were quite a few useful-as-furniture sizes. I discovered the better you were with a circular saw the more furniture you could coax from them. My trailer and surrounding grounds on the small lake not far from here were furnished and landscaped with them.

I opened the hangar’s sliding doors before I hit the switch on the giant exhaust fan. The fan that required a cheater bar to flip its switch. It was 16 feet in diameter, had three galvanized blades with a top speed of about one revolution every three minutes. It moved a lot of air very slowly. I fed it oil and it kept the hangar tolerably cool and the dust moving away from me and most anything else that was in the hanger. Which at the moment was limited to me and my blue-and-white brush-painted 1959 Chevy Fleetside pickup. The geezer I bought it from, who bought it new, told me it had never missed a day of work for Al’s A-1 Plumbing. Since retiring it managed to piss me off almost daily.

I did a pit and fingernail check, and I was clean. Enough to meet a dead girl anyway. I was thinking about food. And one of the little Cuban cigars. And a beer. Mostly, though, I was weaving those around thinking about what did I say to a dead girl, who wasn’t dead, for killing her boyfriend who was dead, because I thought he’d killed her? Sorry?

***

She rolled up through the hangar door in the Fiat, top down. Pale pink silk tank, colorful skin-tight capris. Or Yoga pants, who knows, and sandals. After an awkward moment enhanced by her no eye contact sunglasses and silence, she’d hugged me. Tight and in earnest. I decided the cigars would stay upstairs because she smelled like a buy-her-some-roses kiosk in an airport or hotel lobby and no way I was fouling that. With my arms around her I laid out my dilemma with her and her boyfriend to the top of her head. She unclinched, raised her sunglasses into a headband, laughed her unmistakable, deep, not so ladylike honk laugh. “‘Sorry’ will do, Comparo, but only for leaving me to the CIA.”

What? It must have been all over my face.

“He wasn’t my lover, he was my insider. And a pathological liar. I could never figure whose side he was on or who he was ranting about. I don’t think he could, either. I slept with him once to see if he’d crack and make sense after busting a nut, but he didn’t, and he took it to mean much more than it did.” She sipped from a stainless water bottle, shook her head when she set it on the floor. “He went off on some weird possessive trip after that. It wasn’t real, except in his head.”

“We do that, you know. Men, I mean. If we think a girl is something special we try to hang on.” I thought it sounded enlightened. Self-aware. Possibly romantic. It sounded stupid and garnered me a quick set of furrowed WTF eyebrows.

“Anyway, it turned out he was mad as hell at everyone. When he found you, and I…in flagrante delicto…” I could have sworn she blushed before she looked away. “The entire world he’d built for himself with the Cartel’s money he didn’t have yet went ‘poof,’ and he snapped.” Her expressive hands were a sideshow of their own, popping open with her eyes on ‘poof,’ her fingers snapping with ‘snapped.’ “It’s a good thing he was supposed to crash through the door and accuse us and shoot me with blanks and scare you into running out to the door in fear of your life only to be cut down by guerrillas.”

“Nobody tells me anything.”

“Awwww, pobrecito.” She patted my arm and that was all the salve she offered for my wounded by not being cut down by guerrillas ego and went on about the blood bag that would have been useless naked and thank Madre de Dios again for the blanks on Lupe’s first entrance, why she’d told me to turn my back while she re-dressed in her baggy fatigues to hide the bag, how when Lupe came back with live rounds the two shots she’d taken at close range in a thin, prototype protective shell held up but cracked two ribs and wow wasn’t that blood spatter convincing? How she’d wanted to cry when I was gone and Lupe was dead. Not for Lupe, the miserable whiny psycho dirtbag and sorry, waste of time piece of ass, but for me being cut down and her ribs.

But all the plans I knew nothing about didn’t have me yanking Lupe’s pistol and into him being dead along with two more uniformed Columbians before I picked up both their AKs and shot up the jungle, good guys and bad guys alike, like an overzealous, over adrenalized, okay, scared shitless Rambo on crack. Or aggressively violating Columbian air space by dropping grenades on a government-authorized cocaine convoy from a wounded but still flying DC18. But then whoever planned to keep me out of the loop and have me fed a diet of bullshit and candy about big money I never saw hadn’t considered how pissed off I might get when assholes I didn’t know killed a girl I just made love with and shot at me.

Well, Cavanaugh Moreno was a far cry from dead, and I hadn’t killed her boyfriend. She was also prettier than I remembered, if that was possible. But then the last time I saw her she was face down on a dirt floor in a pool of blood. Her voice, though? Still lullaby quality. You know how romantic some Latin music can make you feel if it’s a long way away and there aren’t any accordions involved? I got lost in her voice, in her hand and facial animations. She could have been reading stock prices out of a week-old newspaper, it wouldn’t have mattered. But she had a disposable styrofoam cooler in the front seat of the Fiat that I knew would only come out when she quit talking over and through me to wipe out whatever issues she thought I might have with her not being dead and waiting a year to tell me.

“Cav?” I waited. She kept blowing. “Yo, you. Moreno.”

“…and I had to…si?”

“Can you…Well…Shut up?”

Gracias a Dios.” She raised her eyes, put her palms together in front of her chest. “I thought you’d never ask.” She put a hand on my knee, stood, bent a little to stretch her legs or hitch her spandex, bent a little more, gave me a peck on the cheek and headed for the passenger side of the Fiat. I silently seconded that Gracias a Dios.

 

Anonymole has decided on a whiff of an idea from me that September is scene month. Not every day, but often, we should offer a short scene that stands alone and when you walk away you have a decent idea of what’s going on and might want to turn the page. This is number 2 of “Hukt awn seens werks fur mee!”