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!”

The Least of My Problems

The lanky, cat like mid-thirties black guy, overdressed in a trendy, peg legged weird shade of blue straight-out-of-the-Sixties suit brushed his hands together like he’d somehow gotten dirty climbing the 2×12 plank stairs. He beamed a thousand-watt smile in my direction. “You look surprised to see me, Casper.”

“Security cam out front pops up on my phone.” I tapped the Otter Boxed device on the table in front of me. “This is my ‘go fuck yourself’ face.” I watched him process his good ol’ buddy-buddy fail, showed him some of my own dental work. “You should take the agency’s Reading People 101 refresher.”

“Hey, ease up. That was what, Amigo, a year ago? We’re good. Now.” He looked around at what amounted to my office. A dusty loft, no walls or rails, furnished with a long plywood and sawhorse map table, three folding chairs and a couple of used to be coffee creamer beige, now rusting around the edges 4 drawer filing cabinets. All overlooking the concrete floor of an abandoned galvanized small private plane hanger.

“You’re doing okay.” So far he was batting 100% meaningless in the convo department, something I remembered he was good at.

“I haven’t flown in a year, thanks to you people.”

“By ‘you people’ I hope you mean the agency. The world is rife with enough tensions. You and me?” He shrugged, hit the smile again. “We used to be good together. You got you a pontoon plane for fishing trips, moving tax evasion assets around for clients. You have a King Air at your disposal that belongs to some Indian tribe. You fly the oily’s private MD80 all over the place. Flight plans all filed under a valid license…” He cut the smile, stopped pacing. “A license that’s doing a quick run through a shredder when the FAA finds out it belongs to a man so fucked up he can’t piss on his own shoes when he’s standing up.”

“Show some respect, asshole, he’s a vet like you and me. Only Viet Nam.”

“A dirty war before our time. And not a vet so the VA would know. The oily’s paying his bills to keep the government, your government, away from you. Since we’re calling asshole, you do fly, asshole, you just have to be somebody else doin’ it.” He took a step closer, tilted his head in a big drama black dude quizzical gangsta look. “Why is that with the oily? Huh? You got something on him, some kinda kink or –”

“My first job, when I became civilian again after Allfuckedupistan, I pulled his daughter out of a sex with underage girls cult disguised as a religious militia.”

“Crazy perverts in the name of God. She want out, or was it daddy’s idea?”

“She was messed up. He wanted her back. I got her out. End of story.” Not. The girl came along, willingly. On the way out she’d grabbed the Browning 45 from my waistband and screamed variations of ‘Stupid horny motherfucker’ every time the pistol barked in the direction of one her ex-cult brothers. Too bad she wasn’t much of a shot, but the horny motherfuckers were far from courageous in the face of gunfire anywhere in their general direction, so she was more of a help than a hindrance in her own escape. Ten years later she looked up at the sky and laughed before she did a swan-dive off a rope bridge in Colorado. Her father was still grateful for what he called the ‘gift’ of those ten years. I wasn’t sure if his daughter would’ve called them that. To break the thought zone I pulled a small Cuban cigar from a box on the table. “Want one? Cuban, gluten free.”

“Not today. Company car.”

“Then I’ll spare you.” I tossed the cigar back. I needed a non gluten free Modelo dark to go with it anyway.

He started running his mouth, but I’d found the problem with his suit and wasn’t listening. It was the color of the damn thing. The Turquoise Blue that came in the big box of 64 crayons. One of the colors I could never find a use for. It wasn’t blue, or blue green or any kind of sky I’d ever seen blue and my mother had plenty of Navajo turquoise and it sure as hell wasn’t that color. That’s the problem with too many choices. The original box of 8 was all you really needed. Crayons and friends and shades of good and bad. Limit your choices, limit your exposure to useless. Like the guy in the suit in front of me.

“Are you keeping up, Paro?”

To be honest, I’d quit listening to him a year ago, could have walked around the desk and thrown him off the loft and been too busy trimming nose hair or tweezing belly button funk to go to his funeral. I couldn’t tell him that, CIA and all. The best I could do with crayons on my mind was “That fucked up suit of yours is the most useless color known to man.”

“Yeah? Well…” His sartorial rhetoric was part and parcel of who he was. He dug into his well of snappy comebacks. “Fuck you.” Like he meant it. But I could see he was wounded. Desk guys make lousy field guys, even if they went to West Point on a football scholarship. We eyed each other for about the length of a Clint Eastwood spaghetti western standoff. A little longer than required, almost enough to be comedic. I folded before I laughed and ruined it.

“What the fuck you want, Tavius?”

“You.” He flipped a 6×8 manila envelope on the table. I opened it. A stack of folded FAA paperwork making it legitimate for me to fly again. Anything that flew. My military experience, all my certifications, my whole packet. “I, we need you to fly again. Legally.”

“Last time I flew for you, when I didn’t know it was you I was flying for, I lost all this. And a recently overhauled Beech D18 I liked better than most people I know, including some family.”

“You were compensated.”

“I got fucked.”

“Yeah,” he yipped a tight chihuahua laugh, “and she’s coming back. In fact she’s no more than,” he checked some Dick Tracy electronics on his wrist, but it was an act. He was being fed through what looked a small piece of soda straw stuck to his ear. “Twenty-five minutes behind me. And closing. So…we need to hit it and get it.”

“Who is this ‘she’ behind you? I don’t like female clients. They –”

“End up dead? You liked the last one well enough.” He was enjoying himself. Too much. “Cavanaugh Moreno. Remember her? On her way. In a yellow Fiat convertible.”

“Cav’s dead. I saw –”

“You saw theater. She had a blood bag taped to her body armor.” He smiled at something, probably me thinking Cav was dead, face down, all that blood…I wanted to explode, maybe choke him till his head popped.

“You two weren’t supposed to get along,” he paused, his brain stuck somewhere, trying to tell a sanitized version of an unsanitary story. “Much less end up, ah, desnudos juntos in the Columbian jungle. Her boyfriend wasn’t supposed to catch you actually doing it and reload with live rounds, and you weren’t supposed to…” He put his hands down on my plywood, leaned in like the weasel in charge he wanted to be. “Regardless of your past chaos factor, Ms. Moreno is going to walk in here, and you, my friend, are going to be surprised and amazed and so happy to see her you might shit yourself. And after all the yadda-yadda has cleared and she’s convinced that you’re thinking with your dick again and you’ll agree to do whatever she asks you to do, you agree to do it. In your professional capacity as a shady will-fly-for-food or sex kind of guy.” He straightened, brushed the arms of that goofy suit like proximity had gotten him dirtier. “You killed her last boyfriend. She hasn’t found a replacement. You should be okay.”

I couldn’t talk. I tried. I did something with my hands, spread out about as wide as a basketball. They shook a little.

“Yo, Paro, chill. The Cartel would have killed him if you hadn’t. They kill people for fun. Make a spectator sport out of it with people who steal from them. There’s a guy down there, uses nothing but a pair of lineman’s pliers. Takes him a week to kill a man. You did Lupe a favor.”

“Right. Fucking his girlfriend and killing him.”

“I didn’t call it that way.”

“You didn’t have to. Cav. Is she –“

He held up his hand, started to say something but his ear must have beeped. “Gotta run.” He found the stairs in three long strides. I heard him take them down, two at a time. No mean feat without a handrail and in the shoes he was wearing. Halfway to the hanger door he turned, looked up. “You’re running a business here Paro. Get a handrail or I’m calling OSHA about those fuckin’ stairs.”

I flipped him off. The CIA, OSHA and no handrails were the least of my problems.

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. “Hukt awn seens werks fur mee!”

Open for Submissions — Orchid’s Lantern

 

Here’s a shot for anyone with a techno short or a scene/chapter of the same ilk that could stand alone. This is made for a (read this carefully) CONCISE episode of George F’s mind effing bed or the Antierra Manifesto. Long on action and psychological impact, short on preaching.

 

Just a quick reminder that we are still open for submissions to our first ever anthology: Vast. Please read the guidelines here and send us your stories about mind, soul and consciousness in a technological age by 10th September. Any assistance in spreading the word is also welcome.

via Open for Submissions — Orchid’s Lantern

The Best Twenty Nine Bucks

I was twelve. I know because I had a paper route and twelve was the bottom end of that gig. One block north of me a classic neighborhood 60’s garage band practiced. “The Cobras”. We’d sit on our bikes in the driveway across the street. The teenagers, including way too many cute girls, got the prime spot on the driveway in front of the band. “Down in the Boondocks”, just like the record. The keyboard player had a Wurlitzer 112. The tan/mauve colored one with the white and gold splatter paint. The Wurlitzer had tremolo through the nasty on-board speakers. WAAAaaahhhWAAAaaaahhhAHH…Whoa! I fell in love with that piano. They had one just like it at Larsen’s, the music store in the open air mall. I’d go close the glass door to the room it was in, along with the Vox Jaguar organ. And dream loud and large until somebody told me my mom was calling.

My parents bought me the Jaguar and a Vox Essex bass amp. The Essex was the one with a concrete slab in the bottom to keep it from wandering off stage from bass vibration. But no stereo tremolo. I bought myself a Wurlitzer EP200 when I was twenty. With stereo tremolo. Back then it was pretty easy for me to find a relaxed state of consciousness as well as some free time, and stereo trem was the way I spent a lot of it. Something about the spacey undulation of sound. Tone combined with movement. A kind of audio dance. When you grow up with one speaker in the center of the dash, one organ amp, one bass amp and then discover you have two ears and can fill them yourself? Epiphany.

Then? A Fender Rhodes 88 with a Satellite system. Are you kidding me? Stereo tremolo designed by God with speakers spread out across the back room of Driver’s Music. They’d see me coming and lock the door. I owned a Hohner Pianet a few years later, the one with suction cup action. You can see it sitting under the two Micro Moogs in my Gravatar. I ran it through a Mu-Tron Pedal Flanger, an EH Freq Analyzer and a Mu-Tron Bi-Phase. The end result, if the red lights were on for all of them, was quite often musically useless. But talk about some awesome stereo tremolo.

***

A long time ago, when my daughter was three or four, the Wyndham owned the Hotel Galvez and it felt like part of the set from The Great Gatsby. The big party wing off the lobby was still an Art Deco bar with tall windows, wispy curtains and the whole place felt like romance. The pool and steam room were still out front surrounded by lush landscaping. The restaurant was all polished brass rails and starched tablecloths and offered “a fine Gulf Coast dining experience.” The chef even took the time to come ask my wife how she liked the lobster and gave away free, melt in your mouth desert samples while he was at it. And a small, spacey black man I came to admire greatly over the next twenty-five years named Joe Sewell played piano in the restaurant/lobby.

Joe was a melody piano bar man, not a singer or sing-a-long guy, and when he saw our daughter fidgeting while we waited for dinner he launched into a twenty-five minute Disney medley that sent her right off on a musical magic carpet ride. I’m not rich or flashy, but I am a piano player, of a sort. I got up, put a twenty in Joe’s tip jar, told him “Thanks,” and complimented him. His style was simple, melodic. None of the unnecessary arpeggios and jazz pyrotechnics to prove to anyone listening he went to music school too long or was better than his gig. He stated the chord, played the melody. Just the song. Joe could play Joplin’s “The Entertainer” and not stride out the left hand. At all. But it worked, because you could hum the melody with him, eat, admonish your kid to do the same, and chill. His interpretations became a component of the light sea breeze that blew through the lobby like an audible Wyeth watercolor.

“I could sit on my left hand and just play the part you can whistle,” Joe said. “Folks need to remember how their dinner was, how maybe a song they liked was part of it, what their memories will be. Not what kind of piano player I was. I’m here to play music for makin’ good memories. Least, that’s the way I see what I do.” I still consider that to be one of the best pieces of indirect advice I ever got. And easily the best twenty bucks I ever spent.

***

I have this electric piano app from IK Multimedia, iLectric. It was on sale one weekend for $9.99, with an extra library thrown in. I am not a fan of sampled anything. In fact, I am a full blown snob about AI and real-time physical modelling (Backstory) as opposed to sampling. But simple, as Joe said, is always a wise choice. The app gives me the same lack of control(s) the pianos themselves offered. That is to say little or none. And at a fraction, and I mean a small fraction, of the original cost of just one piano. Now I get pretty pictures of many electric pianos on my iPad, along with audio Polaroids of their sounds. Even the horrid suction cup reed sucking of my Hohner Pianet. ALL with a Stereo Trem knob. I got over myself and my anti-sampled rant when I heard the app. An electro-mechanical piano is what it is. Reeds or tines vibrate, the amp modulates (in stereo!), no frills. But the sound of those pianos straight, chorused, flanged, auto-wahed and stereo tremoloed pushed thousands of songs, sold gazillions of records, and got me through everything from avant garde Prog and Fusion to Blues, R&B, Jacuzzi Jazz, pop ballad shlock and a hundred and fifty strings easy listening elevator music. And more than one shit gig backing an Elvis impersonator or an ex Miss Oklahoma with a bleached out mustache.

As a safeguard against being caught without stereo trem I asked for, and received a Christmas past from my son-in-law, an ElectroHarmonix Pulsar. Stereo trem to go. On anything that makes noise.

Simple and Stereo Tremolo are two things I’ll believe in forever. Twenty-nine bucks. With a dash of major sevenths and some free time? Gone, baby, gone. I wish every twenty-nine dollar hole in my pocket had been as good to me as Joe Sewell. And Stereo Tremolo.

Looney Lunes #155

Titles and Headlines

I wonder, when I see things like this, if a LOT of thought went into them, or none. 

First of all, how cumbersome and uncomfortable!

WTF was AARP thinking?

Looney Lunes #154

Hollywood Blockbuster – The Death of Logic

If We Exhale More Than We Inhale We Feed The Plants. This Will End World Hunger.
tweet from actor Jaden Smith

So much for Newton’s Third Law.

I love them. Love them. I think the more positive approach you have to smoking, the less harmful it is.
Actress Sienna Miller

All you positivity MEME hounds? That is an example of what happens when the power of positive thinking is in the path of a rolling blackout.

Smoking kills. If you’re killed you’ve lost a very important part of your life.
Brooke Shields

Okay, maybe Brooke was a near death of logic experience.

Looney Lunes #153

Politi-Speak 101 – Smoke Screens and Nonsense

They had men’s underwear on for half price. I bought a bunch that was clearly too small for me and I find it difficult to sit for any length of time.
Canadian politician Pat Martin explains his absences from the House of Commons

No problem, Pat. They’ll be great for sexting raisin twin shots to your interns.

Tomorrow we begin a new tomorrow.
Mitt Romney on his last day campaigning for president

Good news there, Mitt. And the tomorrow after that? All provide an opportunity to keep spending those Zombie Campaign $.

FYI – They had dudes wearing mesh versions of the manties in the pic. I can see how they’d be convenient for a political smoke blown up the ass quickie but a real nightmare to sit around in all day…or tomorrow.

Rejecting Logical Constructions — Edge of Humanity Magazine

This person’s work harks back over 120 years to France and a fresh take on the Roger Dean era. Rarely do I see such articulation, imagination and color. When I do I am compelled to share. The picture above is one of those “I wish I’d done that.” With words.

Photographer Marie-Laure Vareilles is the Edge of Humanity Magazine contributor of these images. From ‘IMPROBABLES III’ series. To see Marie-Laure ’s body of work, click on any photograph. Creation of photo montage : imagine a universe of possibilities, elaborate the encounter of the unlikely. Mixing elements, transforming scale relations, […]

via Rejecting Logical Constructions — Edge of Humanity Magazine