tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66028406680137356412024-03-13T17:06:37.878-05:00Ed's Occasional PostsEd Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.comBlogger210125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-52874779054002743642024-03-13T17:03:00.001-05:002024-03-13T17:06:05.608-05:00Pat Metheny’s Dream Box<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihxAEaOvj03DqabEgWcFfra4iIalxuRZAg2qM0v_crLe0jqbBNtLDOK8lh2etpGwCVTSews0q2LyZwmsiZB-48lhxRHHnDEKeaQPAyuuov0SbCyavxz54Fdh-R3ar7NTzuSd7OVbaFKJ7CAD2-kIhH4E37SYSukJBgAdwBBseVZg3kDIF9UahZxV-AxQM1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="922" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihxAEaOvj03DqabEgWcFfra4iIalxuRZAg2qM0v_crLe0jqbBNtLDOK8lh2etpGwCVTSews0q2LyZwmsiZB-48lhxRHHnDEKeaQPAyuuov0SbCyavxz54Fdh-R3ar7NTzuSd7OVbaFKJ7CAD2-kIhH4E37SYSukJBgAdwBBseVZg3kDIF9UahZxV-AxQM1" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Pat Metheny brought his Dream Box Tour to the Gillioz on March 12 with numerous guitars, some surprises and himself. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In the beginning of the concert, he chatted about his youth in Lee’s Summit, his attachment to Missouri, working with his friend Charlie Haden who lived in Forsyth, and performing with other Kansas City musicians. Then he picked up a guitar and made some soothing, slow music that set a meditative mood. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Next were several strummed pieces, followed by a harsh piece with garage-band-like scraunchy noise. Numerous guitars were employed throughout the show, including a baritone guitar.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Halfway through the performance, Pat escorted his unique 42-string Pikasso guitar to the stage. The instrument may sound like chimes, a harp, a synthesizer, or a guitar. It was amazing.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Later, he walked to the back of the stage where a huge contraption was uncovered to reveal two shelves of cymbals, drums, shakers and many strikers, which made music without Metheny’s help. Further along, he played several guitars, each on a stand, and made an ensemble. It felt like a Rube Goldberg machine. Lots of fun!</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At the end, he played “Wichita Lineman” in a delicate way as an encore.</span></p>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-45037861327967719852024-02-22T12:06:00.003-06:002024-02-22T12:22:33.101-06:00<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkWhc_rnw0kUe8k8YFx3s-ZuHNre0p8uddZ7o5UgxzKFNdvwUyBVQBaNSb2x-GnmKEt6f-UlcUwULA_JC9JZxuMdQbSCVW7WKxVMy59zIoIvXqUc7RkUkJo8jMsTY9uKtwfK7iBqSjVU-Aijg1j7gTBxwFpCRmkzQxOeCIy-KGTNRlyJ9P73oYEoUABnjE" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="2050" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkWhc_rnw0kUe8k8YFx3s-ZuHNre0p8uddZ7o5UgxzKFNdvwUyBVQBaNSb2x-GnmKEt6f-UlcUwULA_JC9JZxuMdQbSCVW7WKxVMy59zIoIvXqUc7RkUkJo8jMsTY9uKtwfK7iBqSjVU-Aijg1j7gTBxwFpCRmkzQxOeCIy-KGTNRlyJ9P73oYEoUABnjE=w400-h176" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b>Scotty Barnhart</b> is </span><span style="text-align: left;">director of the band. </span><span style="text-align: left;">Player </span>& writer, <span style="text-align: left;"><b>Billy Chiles</b></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">In the jazz realm, there were two important Grammys last month.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">"Basie Swings The Blues" won Best Large Jazz Ensemble album. This triumph is more than a Grammy, it's a way to keep swinging and big-banding. Scotty Barnhart, the director, has noted that the band is blues-based, with many friends like Buddy Guy, Keb' Mo' and Ledisi. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Billy Chiles won Best Jazz Instrumental Album. His writing and playing creates powerful and luxurious songs. Ambrose Akinmusire is a flexible trumpeter. I found the album in the June 2023 DownBeat and bought it immediately. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When I chat with jazz friends, occasionally I mention the magazine, DownBeat. And they say, "What's DownBeat?" or "Isn't that dead, year's ago?" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For me, DownBeat is how I find out what's happening in the world of jazz, and who's making new music that I might like. </span></p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div></div>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-26868137615720473322024-02-04T16:59:00.005-06:002024-02-20T10:34:23.275-06:00Charles McPherson Quintet comes to Joplin<p><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLPygNWGY0SFVz3FIZ-qnt9b_dblDncc-3S4vr-gDJFzJ_GE1T7WiTHC80LklOaj4Ca592VVI5ke3kykST2_pdEj4p642dVfssTrp1HjeEORahFnZ8j6ioZZqzmSwWzCJufYzu5m_3djrQNIJig9xsV5_7kgIIfva7is0siNv0FWhDd9djj1M-OUX03v1L" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLPygNWGY0SFVz3FIZ-qnt9b_dblDncc-3S4vr-gDJFzJ_GE1T7WiTHC80LklOaj4Ca592VVI5ke3kykST2_pdEj4p642dVfssTrp1HjeEORahFnZ8j6ioZZqzmSwWzCJufYzu5m_3djrQNIJig9xsV5_7kgIIfva7is0siNv0FWhDd9djj1M-OUX03v1L" width="306" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Charles McPherson</b></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;"></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">The Charles McPherson Quintet will perform in Joplin at the Cornell Complex, on Feb. 10, 7pm. Doors open at 6:30pm.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Charles McPherson (alto sax) was born in Joplin, raised in Detroit, Michigan. His quintet is packed with great players. His first album was in 1965, “Bebop Revisited.” His latest is “Jazz Dance Suites.” He had a long stretch with Charles Mingus in the ’60s and the ’70s.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Terell Stafford (trumpet/flugelhorn) is Director of Jazz Studies at the Boyer College of Music and Dance at Temple University. One of his albums is “BrotherLee Love," with eight Lee Morgan tunes. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jeb Patton (piano) had an album released last year, “Preludes.” Each tune has a name — Prelude In A Minor, B Minor, etc. The naming of the tunes seems symphonic, but many of the tunes are jazz. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">David Wong (bass) is also currently a member of the Roy Haynes and The Fountain of Youth Band.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Chuck McPherson (drums) is the son of Charles McPherson. In the ’80s, Chuck played with New York’s West Street Mob, a rap group with connections to the original Sugar Hill Gang, whose song “Rapper</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>’</span><span>s Delight” is considered one of the first mainstream hip-hop releases.</span></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Information comes from </span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #10121d; font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">connect2culture.org, bios and their materials available </span></span></span><span style="color: #10121d; font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(16, 18, 29); font-size: 14px;">online.</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #10121d; font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(16, 18, 29); font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #10121d; font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(16, 18, 29);">More about </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Charles McPherson:</span></span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></b></div><div><div>Legendary Alto Saxophonist Charles McPherson Makes His Smoke Sessions Debut with an Inspired New Album, Reverence, Dedicated to Barry Harris</div><div><br /></div><div>Due out April 26, 2024, These Thrilling Performances Were Captured in Front of a Live Audience at Smoke Jazz Club and Feature His Quintet of Terell Stafford, Jeb Patton, David Wong, and Billy Drummond</div><div><br /></div><div>Reverence is the First of a Series of Live Recordings Scheduled for Release to Celebrate the 10th Anniversary of Smoke Sessions Records and the 25th Anniversary of Smoke Jazz Club</div><div><br /></div><div>Never mind Webster’s – how does Charles McPherson define reverence? “To me, it means deep respect and admiration,” explains the legendary saxophonist, who chose the word as the title for his breathtaking new album, Reverence.</div><div><br /></div><div>“There’s a nostalgic element to it, but you can certainly revere somebody that’s here right now as much as you can have reverence for the past. It definitely describes everything that I feel about the musicians I’ve worked closely with throughout my life, all of whom I respect musically and artistically.”</div><div><br /></div><div>On his first release for Smoke Sessions Records, due out April 26th, McPherson certainly reveals why he’s been held in such reverence for the last 64 years. The album captures a scintillating live performance from Smoke Jazz Club, where McPherson is joined by his remarkable current group featuring trumpeter Terell Stafford, pianist Jeb Patton, bassist David Wong, and drummer Billy Drummond. The set is a showcase for McPherson’s gifts as both composer and soloist and bridges his deep and far-reaching exploration of the full jazz spectrum.</div><div><br /></div><div>Reverence kicks off a yearlong series of live recordings celebrating the 25th anniversary of Smoke Jazz Club and the tenth anniversary of its record label, Smoke Sessions. McPherson’s preference for recording live was a major factor in launching this series. After an inspiring, post-pandemic week performing at the recently renovated and reopened Smoke back in November 2022, McPherson knew he wanted to capture that same atmosphere and energy on his next recording, so the decision to skip the studio and record live was a relatively easy one.</div><div><br /></div><div>Born in Joplin, Missouri, McPherson spent his formative years in the rich jazz city of Detroit, where he was mentored by the late Barry Harris. His closest childhood friend was the future trumpeter Lonnie Hillyer; the two later played together with the iconic Charles Mingus, with whom McPherson would tour and record for more than a decade. McPherson and Hillyer lived just blocks from the famed Blue Bird Inn, a renowned jazz club where the house band included Harris, Pepper Adams, Paul Chambers, and Elvin Jones.</div><div><br /></div><div>Reverence was born shortly after Barry Harris passed away in late 2021. Harris was a pivotal figure for McPherson, not just as a musician but as a person. In light of his recent passing, Reverence is particularly dedicated to his memory. “Barry was my mentor and my teacher for a long time,” McPherson recalls. “I owe a lot to him. He always told me that there was more to this music than just playing the horn – you actually have to know how to think to be able to do this well. In order to be hip in Detroit at that time you had to know about Bird, but you had to know about Schopenhauer, Miró, Gerald Massey, and Immanuel Kant as well. That opened a lot of doors for me.”</div><div><br /></div><div>McPherson didn’t set out to undertake an explicit tribute project – there are no Harris compositions in the repertoire, and only the final track, “Ode to Barry,” was penned in homage to the great pianist and educator. But McPherson did set out with the high regard in which he holds Harris in mind and entered into the recording with a sense of reverence both for his longtime mentor and collaborator, as well as for the younger musicians whom he enlisted for the session.</div><div><br /></div><div>Reverence reconvenes the ensemble that recorded McPherson’s previous album, Jazz Dance Suites, and has cohered into a stellar working group over the last few years. Realizing that the quintet consistently achieved a unique chemistry during live gigs, he determined to make his next release a live album, a nod to the respect and, yes, reverence with which he esteems his current collaborators.</div><div><br /></div><div>“I chose these players because they represent how I feel about jazz,” McPherson says. “The term ‘jazz’ covers a pretty broad umbrella, and there are a lot of different ways to play what we call jazz, even within the same style. So, when I hire younger players, I hire players who honor and care about the same things that I care about. The members of this band definitely understand the language of bebop, but they’re flexible and can go to a lot of other places as well.”</div><div><br /></div><div>The album opens with the simmering “Surge,” which bristles with the tidal forces implied by the name and summons keenly focused solos from Stafford, McPherson, and Patton. “Dynamic Duo” winks at McPherson’s boyhood love of comic books as it spotlights the chemistry between Patton and Wong, who have worked together in Patton’s bands as well as with the Heath Brothers. “Blues for Lonnie in Three” has a playful nature, ideal for the lifelong friendship that McPherson shared with Hillyer.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Ode to Barry” closes the album as a show of respect to Harris, painting a musical portrait of his unique personality. “Barry was an interesting figure because he was very smart and intelligent, but slightly melancholy,” McPherson describes. “There’s a mix of emotions that comes up when I think of him. He was a pensive, thoughtful person with a lot of depth, so I tried to capture his basic emotional makeup with the harmonic coloring of this tune.”</div><div><br /></div><div>The set is rounded out by a pair of familiar standards: “Come Rain or Come Shine,” the Harold Arlen classic, showcasing the warm tenderness of McPherson’s ballad playing in a quartet setting; and the yearning, nostalgic “Old Folks,” led by a wistful Stafford outing. McPherson chose both tunes, he said, simply because “I consider them beautiful and sophisticated. These tunes are written for adults, not for 12-year-olds.”</div><div><br /></div><div>The title of Reverence may be intended to reflect the way that McPherson feels towards his late bandmates; it also vividly captures the deep respect felt towards the master saxophonist by his current bandmates – not to mention generations of jazz fans. More than six decades into a remarkable career, few command and deserve our reverence quite like Charles McPherson.</div><div><br /></div><div>“Reverence” was produced by Paul Stache,</div><div>and recorded live in New York at Smoke Jazz Club at 96KHz/24bit.</div><div>Available in audiophile HD format, on limited 180g LP, and on 8-panel digipak CD.</div><div><br /></div><div>Charles McPherson · Reverence</div><div>Smoke Sessions Records · Release Date: April 26, 2024</div><div>Catalog Number: SSR-2402</div><div><br /></div><div>For more information on other Smoke Sessions Records releases, please visit:</div><div><br /></div><div>SmokeSessionsRecords.com | Facebook | Instagram</div><div><br /></div><div>DL Media</div></div>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-18394214189119479162024-01-29T08:21:00.000-06:002024-01-29T08:21:32.500-06:00More Monk, plus Mrs. Monk<p><b style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thelonious Monk: The Life and Times of an American Original</span></b></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">By Robin D.G. Kelley, 2009</span></b></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgOn6vG2OBytxpEZLmQgIE0gc2WAB1sKpGoQQ2GGe_7MsfqGU_eqEPPx8TNvG1Rd3zYSh2YPPuMUwsLE-mp_QitreMDmCiunE5XQkPGbHirc_b-CTw1UvIy5yd6TM87xasCS9aNq0HGPkROGv1Hn4qCGoUjeqkehmDGYYXxbRXkUCNjCCGVLkPAWXT2XueK" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1320" data-original-width="878" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgOn6vG2OBytxpEZLmQgIE0gc2WAB1sKpGoQQ2GGe_7MsfqGU_eqEPPx8TNvG1Rd3zYSh2YPPuMUwsLE-mp_QitreMDmCiunE5XQkPGbHirc_b-CTw1UvIy5yd6TM87xasCS9aNq0HGPkROGv1Hn4qCGoUjeqkehmDGYYXxbRXkUCNjCCGVLkPAWXT2XueK=w137-h206" width="137" /></a></span></div><p></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nellie Monk was a smart and resourceful woman with many roles throughout her life: seamstress, mother, wife with many duties to Monk, as medic, nutritionist, narco officer, and expert in all aspects of the music business. She was his de facto personal manager and assistant road manager.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Juicing was a daily routine for Nellie. There was a dispute about Nellie’s juicing that came to a head at the house. The solution was that Monk moved to the mansion of Pannonica de Koenigswarter (Nica), their friend and benefactor. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">From Kelley’s tome: 438p-440p</span></b></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The apartment began to resemble a health food store. According to their niece Jackie, “The neighbors would complain because they had so much trash, since it would leave lots of pulp.” … Nellie worked to keep abreast of Monk’s [contracts and] paperwork, but she also needed time to make her juices and nurse others. Monk had become so dependent on Nellie that he felt neglected. …</span><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">[Jackie Smith, his niece, said] “He moved in with Nica and never came back.” </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At first, Nellie was distraught. Despite all the stress she endured caring for Thelonious she couldn’t live apart from her husband. They were best friends and she still adored him. And the move gave Nellie a much-needed respite. … Nica and Nellie’s relationship was not harmed by the change; on the contrary, they teamed up rather well to provide the best care possible [for Monk]. </span></p><div><br /></div>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-42229828855035510872024-01-25T15:10:00.003-06:002024-01-25T15:35:31.341-06:00Thelonious Monk: The Life and Times of an American Original<p><b style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhY4d6UqqBFLraGOotzrKSVPP7e9-xQFl_WXSUXFEKbX52viiC4TyicugPN2ugatn3SE8hZVx22w9nLU0MwoKgtVpOA802eWe2l9eNzM4KEZant8K8blfcrwbgqo064GtYoKtWt8mVII4RAdhqn17F7G6tu9xca5xqrkPSqTh6_a1JgABr9ENwj7i8Mwb0" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1320" data-original-width="878" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhY4d6UqqBFLraGOotzrKSVPP7e9-xQFl_WXSUXFEKbX52viiC4TyicugPN2ugatn3SE8hZVx22w9nLU0MwoKgtVpOA802eWe2l9eNzM4KEZant8K8blfcrwbgqo064GtYoKtWt8mVII4RAdhqn17F7G6tu9xca5xqrkPSqTh6_a1JgABr9ENwj7i8Mwb0=w144-h215" width="144" /></a></span></b></div><b style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;">By Robin D.G. Kelley, 2009</span></b><p></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I read this massive biography over two periods of time: the first quarter of it sometime in the last half-decade, and then finished the tome in the last few months. 600 pages! Monk’s life from birth to death. Kelley documents everything. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here is an episode from 1953 in Brooklyn. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There are two names that are similar: </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">• <i><b>Thel</b>onious</i> Monk, the jazz pianist</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">• <i><b>Theol</b>onious</i>, Monk’s nephew. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Kelley interviewed Theolonious on Jan. 30, 2004.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>From Kelley’s tome:</b></span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Earlier in the week Miles Davis and Max Roach met at Thelonious's apartment to go over the music. Monk’s nephew, Theolonious (“Peanut”), who just happened to come in from playing basketball, witnessed Miles, Monk and Max crammed into the tiny front room with the upright piano. The session turned sour when Miles made disparaging remarks about Monk’s playing. Monk just glared at first, but Miles would not relent and soon the dispute escalated into a shouting match. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Max didn’t say nothing,” recalled Theolonious, who was fourteen at the time.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>“Uncle Bubba stood up and towered over Miles and they were about to go to blows. And I remember thinking, ‘Who is this little guy? I’ll whip him myself.’ Then my father [Thomas] came in the house and said, ‘Miles, man, you got a problem?’ And Monk said, </span><span>‘T</span><span>his is my band, my music.’ Miles said, ‘But you’re not playing it right, Monk.’ Miles looked up at Monk and I thought he was going to hit him with the trumpet. Then Monk finally said, ‘I think you better leave. This is my mother’s house and </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I don't want no violence in here.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> Then my father went over to Miles and said, </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">‘</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Man, I think you better go.’</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">”</span></span></p>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-26171821553150481222024-01-19T13:04:00.000-06:002024-01-19T13:04:01.327-06:00Bobby Watson: ‘Back Home in Kansas City’<p></p><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhGppLaWSK2S37vAM_B8NJcsMw6e1eVFM6a4C2hiI3WuaGxYlUaIwRR3pEahbZR-t8TIiYtzvzAM2ObAMv19yGUQgio2UzwcTcS5UTSer3oNWSkJq68SWCysKCyyDPMNS5SVjrwVvSElJNe1-LKlLEHN50g0A8zHPEO1GLRZCxv_--dwMunu00CF5I-pacc" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhGppLaWSK2S37vAM_B8NJcsMw6e1eVFM6a4C2hiI3WuaGxYlUaIwRR3pEahbZR-t8TIiYtzvzAM2ObAMv19yGUQgio2UzwcTcS5UTSer3oNWSkJq68SWCysKCyyDPMNS5SVjrwVvSElJNe1-LKlLEHN50g0A8zHPEO1GLRZCxv_--dwMunu00CF5I-pacc=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></div></span></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;">His latest record is from Smoke Sessions in New York, 2022, and the sentiment is K.C. I found this album on Christmas Day, and I have been discovering things with every listen. The title tune is a fiery warmup, which is useful for below-zero days. </p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;">There are four more pieces by Bobby Watson (alto saxophone).</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Our Love Remains” is a writing collaboration between Bobby and Pamela Watson. Carmen Lundy adds smooth, delicate vocals on this song. </p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Bon Voyage”: The title and the melody feel like Herbie Hancock’s “Maiden Voyage.” For me, I like both voyages. </p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The title, “Side Steps,” suggests “Giant Steps,” but the pace is less frenetic.</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The last tune is “Blues for Alto,” a romp for everybody at the end of the session.</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Three songs are from the players:</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Red Bank Heist”: Victor Jones (drums). Throughout the album, he uses symbols gracefully. On Jones’ tune, Watson and Jeremy Pelt (trumpet) blend really well.<b> </b>I couldn’t hear if they were in unison or harmonizing.</p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“The Star in the East”: Cyrus Chestnut (piano), with charming solos for Watson and Chestnut. </p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Celestial”: Jeremy Pelt (trumpet): has a welcoming feel with the use of Pelt’s mute. </p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Watson also brought in three songs by other writers. One of them was “Dear Lord” by John Coltrane. That piece may make you think about life.</p>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-80360932421009771562024-01-06T18:41:00.007-06:002024-01-07T18:51:10.419-06:00Bigger band: ‘Dynamic Maximum Tension’<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0GkaQ3KGXLn8aPhQsh-1pMq2clL1HU069-0sd-CaHypb6m5Zb15TJuh9sB2t93Pv9rNXkluHtbaTv8M34lS4SYTLKXKzYYzILpnwGFYXQNvbdDbgDUtrZOTfdGo50BFQLLoyNrCbnoKL9HXzVMToGxappJaw_yE9HCcQueLsH2W5fdwzzzWfJr-JDAqmG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="353" data-original-width="353" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0GkaQ3KGXLn8aPhQsh-1pMq2clL1HU069-0sd-CaHypb6m5Zb15TJuh9sB2t93Pv9rNXkluHtbaTv8M34lS4SYTLKXKzYYzILpnwGFYXQNvbdDbgDUtrZOTfdGo50BFQLLoyNrCbnoKL9HXzVMToGxappJaw_yE9HCcQueLsH2W5fdwzzzWfJr-JDAqmG=w146-h146" width="146" /></a></div><p style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I didn't know about Darcy James Argue until Randy Hamm brought Argue to Missouri State for the Jazz Studies students to hear in 2012. The next year, I found Argue's big band, the Secret Society. Then a decade went along. </p><p style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I recently discovered his massive two-disc album, <i>Dynamic Maximum Tension</i>, which contains a 35-minute piece that feels like a four-movement symphony. The band has 22 players, with violin, guitar, voice, and a 10-string hardanger d'amore.</p><p style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The first disc starts with a little cheer and splash of sugar, then a barrage of baritone sax. The second piece creates a ballast of low tones for trumpeter Nadje Noordhuis’s silky tone. The first disc ends with bass player Matt Clohesy and trumpeter Ingrid Jensen skillfully interweaving throughout the piece.</p><p style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 19px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">There are seven long solos on “Tensile Curves,” and when the whole band explodes, it’s really fun, but it’s hard to understand what’s happening. The last piece of the second disc is “Mae West: Advice.” Cécile McLorin Salvant, with her precise and delightful singing, blends with Ingrid Jensen’s smooth but swift delivery on trumpet.</p>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-5340062179797037592024-01-06T09:48:00.000-06:002024-01-06T09:48:11.012-06:002023 Christmas uplifting things<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiMV8oVrlf4f8ZJ86S9w1P3g19X9Ki16_-2TjGX8Q5JZEWlgW_KSERoeLym2CH0Q1a8c61yVwFPh2Xwe7Fugajd_Iw3HtZ4cDzFLH_J7IaE9HWlcER_rKs_oWDXZDkNlfFfSQm5erA0LIPYIgBdsWuo5oS9f2094PnhZX0fxm_DiUmcG_zUSaEAzym6qLrT" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="288" data-original-width="596" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiMV8oVrlf4f8ZJ86S9w1P3g19X9Ki16_-2TjGX8Q5JZEWlgW_KSERoeLym2CH0Q1a8c61yVwFPh2Xwe7Fugajd_Iw3HtZ4cDzFLH_J7IaE9HWlcER_rKs_oWDXZDkNlfFfSQm5erA0LIPYIgBdsWuo5oS9f2094PnhZX0fxm_DiUmcG_zUSaEAzym6qLrT" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">The Christmas season began with the arrival of my brother Jason on December 19th and the next evening we went to hear MOJO at the Gillioz. This show of yuletide tunes was the best and most well designed performance I've ever heard from this band.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There were three singers with different approaches: </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Christin Bohrisch scatted "Jingle Bells" and sang "Sleigh Ride.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Laura French, with great stage presence, sang "Merry Christmas Baby" and "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?”</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Angelia King delivered a big sound with "Cool Yules" and "This Christmas.”</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The band brought jazzy charts. One of the Christmas pieces felt like it was deconstructed, then rebuilt throughout the song. Congrats to Randy Hamm for providing such a great evening. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">— — —</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Other stuff through the holidays:</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Movie at the Moxie - Next Goal Wins: There are many misfit and unusual soccer players in this movie about a coach finding redemption in American Samoa. Funny and uplifting characters.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Route 66 Car Museum: Me, Jen and Jason had our first visit to this local site. Very interesting.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJQEJip3WLT1QwVyIPckVEYX-R8WpqEr-JtE7h497kDMb6xHmREJNRgBPbD0e_uBfakzhqwTwJzKhqOYWFF4-D0TTPKsFsznSPIZCRh77Iqatl5Fo48KnCG_tmjgb88mLktu1LtL5UyRP5wEnczx5IB368M8Tz9T4anBHVynDifltF6RuwTcXaX0MBNaHe" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="575" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJQEJip3WLT1QwVyIPckVEYX-R8WpqEr-JtE7h497kDMb6xHmREJNRgBPbD0e_uBfakzhqwTwJzKhqOYWFF4-D0TTPKsFsznSPIZCRh77Iqatl5Fo48KnCG_tmjgb88mLktu1LtL5UyRP5wEnczx5IB368M8Tz9T4anBHVynDifltF6RuwTcXaX0MBNaHe" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mini golf at Fun Acres: Had good strokes and bad strokes, just had fun. Beautiful weather.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A few walks until the weather became too cold.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The cat had fun, too. She likes to drink from the bird bath.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1b52YkDx4_9uF2mpX9K9Jf-OZ44XnuF6opJAS2rGWl8brHVlguGnHVJRqatVV3hd1MfgcJgcRpBjdRl4UgIdMFcy7m4VnUIG5FTMqeB6m8N7t7qNIX7Cv9d_eTnVGZ2-CdMsusIojee9oZDbtlWneMJDrbxvQSct4LcYVrM16YdA6uS-XzAC-ccl0SefM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1b52YkDx4_9uF2mpX9K9Jf-OZ44XnuF6opJAS2rGWl8brHVlguGnHVJRqatVV3hd1MfgcJgcRpBjdRl4UgIdMFcy7m4VnUIG5FTMqeB6m8N7t7qNIX7Cv9d_eTnVGZ2-CdMsusIojee9oZDbtlWneMJDrbxvQSct4LcYVrM16YdA6uS-XzAC-ccl0SefM=w320-h240" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Best wishes to you all for a peaceful 2024.</span><p></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-4002501737481076262022-12-31T19:00:00.005-06:002023-03-21T08:46:09.626-05:00Next Steps for Monte<h3 style="text-align: left;"><p style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><h3 style="text-align: left;"><b style="font-family: Helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpnIY_IvC8ZD5Ad5Y94zQi5mzSxjx_6RDN5gsnrfz-rnxGNMmGWUcnweKASeXGAEl01qRwHWVGf7PtiMvOIXBYsbfTAV1ayyNZUcrIZTYozZKqiaHi8Wa80B_CBsbVzu8Cnv-vixeulk1_Li9BHeezEEDpbgyLmKacDkGsZ2uOE37YmSm7S19QylRfA/s680/Ed%20Peaco.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="610" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrpnIY_IvC8ZD5Ad5Y94zQi5mzSxjx_6RDN5gsnrfz-rnxGNMmGWUcnweKASeXGAEl01qRwHWVGf7PtiMvOIXBYsbfTAV1ayyNZUcrIZTYozZKqiaHi8Wa80B_CBsbVzu8Cnv-vixeulk1_Li9BHeezEEDpbgyLmKacDkGsZ2uOE37YmSm7S19QylRfA/w180-h200/Ed%20Peaco.png" width="180" /></a></div></b></h3><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">by Ed Peaco</span></b></div></span></b><p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Published by The Writing Disorder </span></i></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Winter 2022/23</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://writingdisorder.com/ed-peaco-fiction-2/">https://writingdisorder.com/ed-peaco-fiction-3/</a></span></p></h3><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">So many annoyances had piled up—so many bewildering medical documents, so many well-meaning but annoying people calling, texting, knocking. The speech was two days away, and Monte hadn’t written more than Hello, I’m Monte Thompson.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Recently he was diagnosed with primary progressive aphasia, a form of dementia. In lieu of a cure, his neurologist prescribed many steps that might keep Monte’s brain staying on that plateau for as long as possible. One of the steps was to keep talking, to share his story at a meeting of the local association of The Memory Team.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte was nervous. His capacity for thinking and writing was slow these days, and his speech had become a bit halting. He found himself grasping for words that were just out of reach, feeling like a slug, a slug with cognitive difficulties. Anyway, it was worth a try. A few months ago, people called him a hero for what he did on his last day at work. He was proud of the job that he’d held for many years as a writer and editor, and the only person in the company who could provide voice-over narrations. It was a tough time. He couldn’t find the words he needed to talk to his doctor, or the guy who mowed his lawn, or a server at a restaurant. Who knew ordering tacos could be so hard? He was getting used to writing scripts for most conversations, face to face or on the phone. If he didn’t have a script, the outcome would be a mess. The presentation for The Memory Team group would take forever to write.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">That day he began scribbling, slowly, and he decided on three topics: neurology, orthopedics and employment. Then he was disturbed by the thump of the back door. It was Cable, Monte’s nephew, bringing home two six-packs, chips and guacamole. He had the ability to distract Monte in small ways that caused big distractions. Cable lived with Monte because Cable didn’t like his father who lived in Los Angeles. Cable found a job as a bartender in the thriving city of Bristol Springs, Missouri. He kept reminding Monte what the neurologist said: Keep talking. Both of them were grappling with Monte’s dementia.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Hey, Uncle, I got this idea for a way to write your speech. Start with the first thing that happened that day, then the next, then the next. You know what happened.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte started with getting fired by the big boss, leading to an active-shooter incident and his big breakdown, all on the same day. He felt like he shouldn’t talk about certain workplace events; he didn’t know everything. He was running away, or hobbling away, on his finicky new titanium hip. He didn’t understand what the gunplay was all about. Monte led his team across the greenway to a wooded area beyond and over a fence to safety. They made it, with the help of his co-workers and his old rope ladders that he’d used at work for lunchtime workouts, back before his hip had acted up, eventually leading to pain and hip replacement last year. As he scribbled, he realized how much he’d been through in just the last year or so. What a mess! One good thing was that the hip felt better now, but the aphasia and other brain stuff were way messier.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Another interruption: Tori, Cable’s on-again, off-again girlfriend, hastened back to the house to fetch the phone attachment she needed for her customer-payment system. She was sharp-witted, a speed-walker, striding with a purpose. Her hairstyle was two-fold. On one side of her scalp, she had an undercut. Over the rest of her crown, she had long hair gathered in a ponytail with a streak of blue violet. Tori had originally worked with Monte at their old place of employment. He’d been fired and she opted to quit after the bullets whizzed by. Who could blame her? She had multiple part-time jobs now and was, in Monte’s opinion, too curious about his condition. She had unending questions. She and Cable seemed to want to mess with his business. She kept asking what he had.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“My brain is compromised due to dementia.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What kind?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Aphasia.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What kind?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Primary progressive.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What’s that?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“The kind where you can’t find words.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Then she always wanted to talk about that horrific day at work.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Do you have PTSD? Flashbacks? Nightmares?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“No, no, and no.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I still think about it. Do you need help? What can I do?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Tori, you’re a nice person, but I’ve had enough. You’re an enterprising hustler in the gig economy, but you’re going on, chattering like a four-year-old.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Oh, sorry. I’d better get going.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">After he shooed Tori away, he went back to his speech. Monte liked Cable’s idea, and he ran with it, although it was slow going for the slug.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte was nervous as he entered the big room for the monthly meeting presented by The Memory Team. Tori told him that being nervous is good, up to a point. He glowered. After the preliminaries, Monte began with, “Forget Alzheimer’s or any kind of dementia. Just run your life the best you can, and do what you want as much as you can.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Then somebody in the crowd shouted, “Easy for you to say.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">That ticked off Monte, all things considered. “Yeah, and I can say that, too.” He looked at the people in the chairs and continued to discuss his disorder. “FTD is an umbrella term for a number of brain disorders, not a bunch of florist shops,” which got a few snickers from the chairs. “Disorders like Alzheimer’s and Primary Progressive Aphasia.” He went on to explain that he was in the early stages of PPA, and he emphasized that he was thankful for this time when he could still do things almost as well as before, but more slowly and sometimes forgetfully.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Whatever stage of your disorder, make the most of it, because you may lose what you have at any time,” he said. “Don’t mope!” That launched another laugh. Then he looked down at his pages with the three topics. Beginning again, he said, “And now, to the story of my strange and scary incident at work.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">After he described each part of the rush to safety, there was a swarm of questions about the exodus, and a heckler popped off, “You sound like a disgruntled employee, some sad sack who got the shitty end of the stick. Why are you talking about all this stuff that happened one day at work, and nobody got hurt except maybe the boss?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I don’t want to talk about that part of the incident,” Monte said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“You sound like a fraud.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“If you say so,” Monte said. Next, he summed up and finished with “Don’t mope!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">He hoped to break free from the gaggle at the podium and move to the refreshments, but he was caught. Cable gave him a thumbs up from across the room. Conversation covered short-term memory, difficulty with finding words, and spelling issues. As Monte was getting ready to leave, he saw a tall woman approaching, with a white mane of hair like spun candy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">She reached him with congratulations. “I like that title, ‘Forget Alzheimer’s.’”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Thank you.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I wanted to say more, but I forgot. This is what I get for becoming a senior citizen.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’m a senior citizen, too,” Monte said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I have more seniority than you, Mr. Thompson. Oh, I’m Nova Grimes, a writer who can’t write much anymore.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What kind of writing?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Novels of love, dissension and redemption—or revenge,” she said with a smirk.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I used to write stuff for outdoor magazines. I’m the trail walker who can’t walk very far anymore, and I’m also the voice-over guy who can hardly talk.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“You were reasonably fluent up there.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I had a script,” Monte said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“How did you get here?” Nova asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“My nephew drove me.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“My daughter Abbey and my granddaughter Celeste drive me around. Otherwise, I’m housebound.” She quickly thrust a business card into his hand. “Text me. Call me, please.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte looked down at the cookie selection and when he looked back, she was gone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">For a few days, Monte examined Nova Grimes’ card, repeatedly. He thought about her being in the publishing world and himself a newly retired marketing scribe. What was it that she wanted from him?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Writer of original stories and novels</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Editor of books and periodicals</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Special projects</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">He googled her and found many pages of real work, but the references stopped three years ago. Monte decided he couldn’t lose anything but a few minutes of texting. She seemed to be a reasonable person. Nova replied, thanking him for contacting her and praising him on his talk and the way he handled that heckler. She asked Monte to call the next day, around two o’clock, if he were free to chat by voice, not fingers. Texting, they chatted about being retired, and Monte asked what more she wanted out of life. She replied, “I want good conversation, that’s all.” Before she logged off, she wrote, “I just want to expand my horizons.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">At the appointed time, he called and they chatted about horizons—beyond visits to church, hospitals, clinics, pharmacies and Walmart. Abbey set strict rules for when Nova was alone in the house: Don’t use the stove, don’t use the space heater, don’t answer the doorbell, and don’t go outside, all so she wouldn’t get lost or burn the house down.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“It seems a bit much,” Monte said. “Are you on your own, ever?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“They both work at the noodle company. Sometimes Celeste comes back for lunch. Abbey calls all the time to check on me. It drives me crazy.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“And what about your writing and editing?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“That’s a long story. Maybe we can meet and talk about it.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Or, how about an early afternoon movie?” Monte, thinking he could persuade Cable to do the driving to Nova’s house, then to the movie complex, and the reverse afterward. “Think of what you want to see.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">As Monte and Cable arrived, Nova, wearing a long velvet top, slim tie-cuff pants, and sandals, presented her choice: “The United States vs. Billie Holiday.” Celeste offered to be the driver and chaperone, but Nova said that wasn’t necessary. Celeste could hold down the fort at home.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Working around Abbey: That’s kinda adolescent, don’t you think?” Monty said. “All those rules?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’ll tell you,” Celeste said. “One night when Gramma was still living alone, she went on a long walk and Mom couldn’t find her. Mom was scared then and she’s scared still. She doesn’t want her to be on her own.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Why not just text Abbey to let her know where we’re going?” Monte said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“No, we’re going, and nobody else needs to know.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">At the enormous complex, Nova took Monte’s hand as he steered her out of foot traffic in the middle of the hall. He said, “Just to make sure, this isn’t a date, right?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“No, not a date! I was holding your hand so I wouldn’t lose you, that’s all. Isn’t it great to go somewhere other than a doctor’s appointment?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">After another few paces, Nova paused at the women’s room. Monte said he’d wait for her if she wanted to stop in. As he loitered, he thought about the time that women used in the bathroom and his mood went from puzzled, to a little annoyed, to worried and then to terror-stricken. Feeling ridiculous, he stopped a woman about to enter the ladies room, and he asked the stranger to look for a tall, skinny, elderly woman with long white hair. Monte did not see the woman who he stopped, and he had not found Nova. He went through the building with growing panic. Then, in an explosive glimpse of puffy white hair, he saw Nova and went to her. Nova was whimpering and Monte was sweating, his heart pounding. They seized each other in a smothering clutch.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Where were you?” Nova asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What happened? Where did you go?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Going to the movies is harder than I thought it would be.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I think I know what happened,” he said. “There are two doors for the bathrooms. You went out the other door, and you expected me to be right there.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Really, two doors?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Keep holding my hand.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">They found the right screen with plenty of time to chat about losing and finding each other, and feeling small in the massive maze.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte said, “You know, back there at the ladies room, I wanted to shout out your name, but my brain hadn’t uploaded your name yet. That’s really bad. Sorry.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Hey, I get it. One time, I looked at my daughter, and I didn’t know who she was. It was for just a minute. She was really worked up about that. So was I. Since it happened once, it might happen again.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">They were silent through most of the film, until the scene where Billie is thrust off the stage and the police arrest her. Nova shouted “bastards!” Another voice yelled a refrain, “cops!” At the end of the film, with Billie in a hospital with liver failure, Nova expelled a soft groan.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">When they left the complex, Monte was getting fretful about Cable’s timing. They needed to get back before Abbey did. Grimacing, he said, “We could be late.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“So what? Don’t worry about Abbey. I’m still the big mama in that house, even though I’m all messed up.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">When they arrived at Nova’s house, Abbey’s car was in the driveway. They approached the front door. Loud angry voices emanated from inside.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“That’s Abbey and Celeste,” Nova said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“You OK?” Monte asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Nova nodded and told them, “Stay here!” But Monte got his foot in the door before Nova could shut it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">They all entered and faced Abbey’s rage. “Hey, here you are, little miss delinquent with your juvenile shambles of an escort. Who’s that lunkhead, the wingman?” She glared at Cable and continued. “What were you doing? You could be one of those pathetic faces on the evening news. You could be wandering into another state. You could have been hurt!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Oh, Abbey, we went to a movie.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Celeste was trying to say something. Abbey told her to shut up. Cable also was silenced. Monte looked back and forth as the women went at it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“You shut up, Abbey,” Nova said. “Nothing happened. I’m not gonna sit here all day. Your rules are good for you, but not for me. I want more from the rest of my pitiful life.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“All of these things that I’ve put into action—the security, the rules, my calls—are for your protection, Mom,” Abbey said. “Who’s your boyfriend? Don’t tell me.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Nova sent out a peel of laughter. “I don’t have a boyfriend. Do you, my dear?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Celeste barked, “Gramma can do what she wants!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Abbey said, “Sure, she can, and I can scrape her off the pavement. And as for you, baby girl with the nose ring, you lied to me. You let Gramma out of the house with that baboon!” She paused for a moment to shove Monte and Cable out of the house.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte hopped into Cable’s pickup and they drove the short distance in silence until Cable slapped the steering wheel and said, “I really feel a whole lot better now that we’re outta that fuckin’ cat fight.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“It was my idea,” Monte said, shaking his head.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“To get into a cat fight?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“No! The movie. It was only a movie.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The next day, Cable was supposed to pick up his dad at the airport, but he’d forgotten about it. Larry and Monte were brothers, though not particularly close. Larry was flying in from LA for a long weekend. Monte shook the car keys in Cable’s direction and told him that he might be late. “For what?” Cable asked. “Oh, shit, my dad! But I need to get to work!” The Error Code Bar was celebrating its grand re-opening after a year of being shuttered.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Get your ass outta here. I’ll call for a limo for your dad. He’ll want first class.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte understood the reasons for his visit: to be sure Cable was gainfully employed, and to check on Monte’s health. The only enjoyment Monte could see having his older brother around would be to make a few ridiculous remarks at his brother’s expense, like when they were kids. Monte always thought of Larry as a dull blowhard, bragging about his business and getting nosy about other people. He’d made it big in the tech world and seemed perpetually disappointed in Cable. Larry hadn’t been in contact much with Monte since the diagnosis, either. He expected a less-than-happy visit. He checked Larry’s flight; it was thirty minutes late.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Once he arrived, the peaceful lull was broken; Larry barged in, grousing non-stop about the flight. Monte toted his bags up to the spare room, noting no twinges from his hip, grateful for last year’s hip surgery. But what happened to traveling light? Next, Larry was asking for wine and something to eat.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“How about cheese and crackers? No wine. Cable might have a bottle of Jim Bean.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Where’s Cable?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Working.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“So, that’s something anyway. Why didn’t you pick me up?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I don’t drive anymore,” Monte said. “Not for a couple of months now.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I probably could drive, but I don’t want to. If I get stopped by a cop, even for just a broken tail light, my speech might be blocked, and the cop might think I’m stoned or drunk.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Are you messing with me?” Larry asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“In a sense,” Monte said, enjoying Larry’s confusion.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“You said you had that aphasia thing.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Oh, yes, aphasia, she’s my girlfriend.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Why are you saying such idiotic things? Is it dementia or what?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte laid out the jargon, the cognitive faculties that would be degrading over time, and that there was no cure. “Too bad you weren’t here for my speech.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Any clinical trials?” Larry asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Yes, but somebody would have to drive me three-hundred miles every month to participate. If I want to go somewhere, it won’t be to a research center for scientists to gather data for five years, and for what?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What about your work trauma thing?” Larry asked. “Flashbacks, trouble sleeping? Also, have you thought about selling your house and moving into an independent living place? It’s a seller’s market, you know. ”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">As Monte tried to keep up with Larry’s barrage of questions, Tori came in the back door, dragging a tote bag. She looked totally drained, sweaty and tired. She and Larry greeted each other. Monte forgot for a moment that they’d met last year.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What happened to you, little lady?” Larry asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Tori has four jobs, and this one’s in a branch bank,” Monte said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Yes, very busy,” Tori said, trudging back to her car. Returning, she transported her bounty of a big take-out carton from Wingin’ Chickin and placed it on the table.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Thirty-six wings. Save some for Cable. I’m not sure when he’ll be home.” She found the beer and the Jim Beam and brought it all to the table. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Wonderful,” Larry said. “You really understand hospitality better than my brother. I really mean it.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Larry ate twelve, Monte six, and Tori four.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Larry asked about her jobs and how she tracked her income and expenses.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">She reported about personal shopping, pet sitting, balancing the books for food-truck owners, and working in a bank during off-hours. “I always get paid immediately because I have a card swiper on my phone that funnels my money direct to my bank account. Nobody can say, ‘Oh, I don’t have it on me right now.’”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What do you do at the bank?” Larry asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“If you really must know, I scrub floors and toilets.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Larry persisted in asking her about her resourceful approach toward work, droning on and on. Tori seemed to like the attention. Monte found it annoying.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Later in the evening, Monte didn’t want to listen to Larry, so he went to bed. After a few minutes, he was awakened by Cable’s entrance and the charged voices of both Larry and Cable. Monte could heard them arguing. It was a little after midnight. Larry had knocked back the rest of Cable’s bottle of Jim Beam, and there wasn’t much beer left, either. Cable was peeved and went upstairs, stomping hard; Tori followed, and their raised voices made sleep almost impossible.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Before breakfast, Tori told Monte that Cable found an old bottle of Percocet pills in Monte’s bedroom and was ready to help himself. That’s what the fight was about. She was still livid. “Opioids! He’s a likable guy, but he doesn’t have good judgment. He’s not for me.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> “I’ll deal with that,” Monte said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> “Don’t tell Larry. Cable has too much on his plate now.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“My fault. I should have dumped those pills long ago. Those were from my hip surgery. Cable is really stressed about his dad and his new job, but no excuse.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Later in the morning, Monte went with Cable to get groceries. They sat in the pickup and sorted out Cable’s problems in a way that made both feel good. Cable apologized and assured Monte that he would stay on track to help Monte with the things he couldn’t do anymore.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> When they returned they found Tori and Larry at Monte’s desk, pouring over his medical and financial documents, and looking up the value of his home according to Zillow. Larry was pontificating about the gig economy and advising Tori how to successfully move into the corporate economy. Monte was absolutely furious. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What the hell are you doing with my stuff?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“We were only trying to help,” Tori said. She avoided Monte’s glare and had the grace to look a bit guilty.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Is this the snooping economy? Whaddaya say, big brother? Hey, Tori, you know everything from Larry about the schmooze economy and the boot-licking economy. How about the go-away-and-don’t-come-back economy!” His hands shook as he tried to gather up various papers from the desk.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Uncle, I don’t blame you, but just chill. Dad, why do you have to keep doing this shit?” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Tori turned to Cable and said, “Larry has some good ideas for my employment.” She turned and left the room as Cable stood there shaking his head, not knowing what to say.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“This is fucked up. So, now what?” Monte asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“We really need to talk about things once you’re willing to listen,” Larry said. “Not that you ever will though. At least Tori gets what I’m saying.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’ve listened long enough. You need to listen to me! I’m done with this.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Cable helped Monte collect his documents and put them in a briefcase. Then Cable suggested he and Monte take a walk around the pond at a nearby park to calm down a bit. Getting out of the house would be good.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">When they returned, Larry’s luggage was gone and Tori’s belongings that she’d had in Cable’s room were gone, too. A short note was on the kitchen table propped up with a juice glass. In Tori’s handwriting, the note said, Taking UAL to LAX. We tried our best. Bye!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What? Isn’t this weird? Larry and Tori? This makes no sense.” Monte said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Really screwy, for sure,” Cable said. “I get my dad; he’s been like that all the time. But Tori? Yeah, my fault. Anyway, I gotta go to work.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte noticed a text from Larry: “Will call you soon.” He wanted to send a snarky reply, but that would start another dustup. He wouldn’t reply. He needed peace and quiet.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte tried to reach Nova every day for almost a week with no response. Cable told Monte that he was moping, and he agreed—moping about the crap from Larry, which Monte understood as issues that he needed to deal with, but it just bugged him that he couldn’t reach Nova. With a stroke of brilliance, he called Celeste. She told Monte that Nova was under the weather but she would be up for a visit any time, cleared by Abbey.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">So, Monte asked Cable for a ride to Nova’s place, once again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">During the drive, Monte recalled some fragments of things Nova had said about losing parts of your brain and about which disease was worse: Alzheimer’s or word-loss disorder. Either way, you could end up in the same place.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Wow, that’s really depressing,” Cable said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Well, it’s my world now,” said Monte. “Just trying to get a handle on things.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Once they arrived, Cable announced he would stay in the pickup.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Hey, Abbey’s just protective,” Monte said. “OK, that ‘wingman’ comment probably still stings. So stay here. I’ll be out soon.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Abbey’s door-bell camera sounded Monte’s arrival. When he stepped into the living room, Abbey gripped his shoulder and apologized for her previous outburst. “I’m glad you came, but take it easy.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">With a gentle knock, Monte entered Nova’s Room. He found Nova in a chair with a book in her lap, possibly sleeping. “Hey, Nova,” Monte whispered. “How are you?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Sleepy.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What are you reading today?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Sorry, I’m not grasping who you are.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Oh, I was with you when you yelled ‘bastards!’ in a full theater.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I did?” Nova said. “I did!” She looked up at him and grinned. “Monte!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Yes, it’s me!” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Now Abbey will let me go places with people we know, if I keep in touch. Juvie stuff, but better than nothing. She decided you’re OK.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“How did that happen?” Monte asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Celeste bombarded her with all the good stuff she found about you online, those outdoors articles and the speech at The Memory Team.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“How does Celeste make it from the doghouse to the penthouse so quickly?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“She’s smart.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">He sat next to the bed as they chatted about the movie. She did seem pretty wiped out. When he went back to the living room, Abbey asked him how Nova looked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’m not sure, she might have just been tired,” Monte said. “Anyway, she had a laugh.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Back in the pickup, he told Cable about his visit.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“So, what you’re saying is, it was good, but maybe watch movies at home,” Cable said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Next morning, Monte made a protein breakfast of eggs and sausages. He asked Cable to take him to the beginning of the rail trail. It was a great day for a hike and he wanted to make the most of it. Cable said he could drop him off, but he couldn’t pick him up until later. The bar was changing its decor and Cable would have to work a double shift. Monte was OK with that; he had packed plenty of water and a few energy bars. The day was sunny and his hip wasn’t giving him any trouble. It was so calming, being outside. After a while, he went off the trail onto a hilly path, just to see where it went. In no time, he ran into a guy riding an ATV. He hopped off his four wheeler and accosted Monte with a threatening stance. He told Monte that he was standing on his land and he needed to leave. Spontaneous conversations were the worst for Monte. He was jittery as he hoped words would pop out. He started to talk but every lane of speech was blocked. There wasn’t any script for this! He made an about-face and went back to the trail, shaken by the encounter. He hoped he wouldn’t see that guy again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte didn’t check his phone until lunch, when he found a long text from Larry telling him that he and Tori would come back later that day, and apologized about the invasion of Monte’s documents. Tori also sent voicemail apologies.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“We went to LA for a little fun and I ended up getting a job there in mobile banking, thanks to Larry,” she said. “I got just a week to pack, fly and find a place to live. Isn’t that great!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">At first, Monte was annoyed with Larry, then thought he should learn to be more amicable. After all, Nova was working through family issues; he could, too.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">As he finished his hike, he called Cable to see when he would be able to pick him up.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Not yet. Stay at the trailhead and hang,” Cable said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte sat on a stump for a while, then strolled around the area, noting a stream, a run-down house, and a highway sign decorated with bullet holes. Weirdly, a stretch limo rolled slowly up to the trailhead. The doors opened and piling out of the vehicle came Larry, Cable, and Tori. They seemed excited to see him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Hey, we’re on our way to the restaurant of a great country club, Three Sycamores,” Larry said. “We’re all going.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte was sizing up Larry, wondering how he could so easily help Tori but not his son or brother. What was going on? At least Larry came back. Maybe he was going to be reasonable after all.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Hey, how’s the hip?” Cable asked. “I took a long dinner hour. I brought you clean clothes. You can shower at the clubhouse. You’re really ripe.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Monte, smile, OK?” Tori said. “What did you see on your walk?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“A grumpy guy. I tried to talk to him. It wasn’t pretty.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Well, keep talking,” she said. “I looked up aphasia.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Yeah, I know about that, too,” Monte said, as they climbed into the limo.</span></p><div><br /></div>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-51904259183516537872022-11-07T13:55:00.002-06:002022-11-26T09:11:31.882-06:00Molly Healey’s work expands in many ways on ‘Lotus’<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQvoag6pg1gJFmkgolGZRri_l6Fsg54rep8b-IryKex_fM1sHNuYtmCRmUm-iJyDdcUOLsA_fcNjNF9t32SUz39qzL6i39JG1Y0IKqiTo2Oz-h7a2Y7NspJaSalksL7e7020kbJq0V6ZsO-0CfT4Wg7hmK42BDN3jinuDdZ2NWZfolDLpDoHRT1SGFVQ/s1800/Lotus%20cover%20digital.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQvoag6pg1gJFmkgolGZRri_l6Fsg54rep8b-IryKex_fM1sHNuYtmCRmUm-iJyDdcUOLsA_fcNjNF9t32SUz39qzL6i39JG1Y0IKqiTo2Oz-h7a2Y7NspJaSalksL7e7020kbJq0V6ZsO-0CfT4Wg7hmK42BDN3jinuDdZ2NWZfolDLpDoHRT1SGFVQ/w400-h400/Lotus%20cover%20digital.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cover for <i>Lotus </i>album<i>. </i>Photo credit: Andie Bottrell of Designing Indie </td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica;">Molly Healey, singer-songwriter and player of many strings, is rolling out her fourth album, full of imagination, variety and inspiring performers.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The CD release show for <i>Lotus </i>will be at The Cellar on November 19. The Molly Healey String Project will perform at 9 p.m. </span></p>
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<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Opening the night at 8 p.m. will be Molly (Molly Brady), a singer-songwriter who lives in Springfield.</span></p>
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<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">There are numerous factors that make this album so dynamic: </span></p>
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<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I love growth and I’m always in a state of it,” Healey said. One of her latest growth spurts involves the use of enhanced software (Ableton)<b> </b>for music. “It’s been wonderful! With that has come a trove of new ideas to start adding layers to songs that could never exist before. … It’s really a new level for all of us.” </span></p>
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<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Lotus</i> has a choir on “Nothing You Can’t Do” and an orchestra on “From Afar.”</span></p>
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<p style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I struggled for a while to find a title for the album because originally I thought the songs were so diverse,” she said. “But then I realized that a common thread through almost all of the songs was female individualism and empowerment. Lotus is a symbol of that. It’s not a ‘feminist’ album necessarily, but it is very much about the experience of being a woman in this time period, a woman who has a lot to say, and who has a fierce, independent spirit.”</span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXHzpmsF4cQ2UN0Ln0XsfZ_ZsTf1WLyffmKK0h_eprs_d7BXIWy68kGN9m39zdE8IILvaOjCBsnk5cCZrn45pHmaiK4hMFHkk7toLxcsz7cEtfqErqEYd8G0uMSfGv9jdlXEudBvGc8vPJGZDVlXgdx63QA_xhAqGzt4Wmy9FAhLUbNhY_o6kIUy_wYg/s4903/Band%20lotus%20BW.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3262" data-original-width="4903" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXHzpmsF4cQ2UN0Ln0XsfZ_ZsTf1WLyffmKK0h_eprs_d7BXIWy68kGN9m39zdE8IILvaOjCBsnk5cCZrn45pHmaiK4hMFHkk7toLxcsz7cEtfqErqEYd8G0uMSfGv9jdlXEudBvGc8vPJGZDVlXgdx63QA_xhAqGzt4Wmy9FAhLUbNhY_o6kIUy_wYg/w400-h268/Band%20lotus%20BW.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(26, 26, 26); color: #1a1a1a; font-size: large; text-align: left;">Molly Healey String Project, from left: <br /><b>Danny Carroll</b>,<b> </b>drums; <b>Molly Healey</b>, strings;<br /><b>Kyle Day</b>, bass; <b>Zach Harrison</b>, guitars <br />Photo credit: Scott Peterson</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(26, 26, 26); color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica;">Here are some high points of music and song by Healey</span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(26, 26, 26); color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(26, 26, 26); color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica;">s band and others:</span><br /></span><p></p>
<ul>
<li style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;">Zach Harrison’s twangy solo on electric guitar on “Vice”</span></span></li>
<li style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;">Kyle Day’s majestic entry to “Glory Box” on bass</span></span></li>
<li style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;">Healey’s solo cello on Portishead’s “Glory Box,” a dramatic slow ballad </span></span></li>
<li style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;">Healey and Annabelle Moore’s duo on “Forever Midnight”</span></span></li>
<li style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;">Rochara Knight’s voice on “Nothing You Can’t Do”</span></span></li><li style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ronna Haxby playing flute on “Us and Them”</span></span></li></ul>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Healey’s percussive chops on violin or cello on several songs feel like a bell announcing that vital music is coming now. The melodies that she writes also make ears perk up, such as those on “Forever Midnight” and “Eye to Eye.” </span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lyrics on this album present diverse moods. </span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“One Year In” is a COVID song that she wrote during that time. At one point, Molly and her friends were tired of Zooming. But at least they had the screen.</span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“That is what this song is about: that dark time of not being able to be around other people. But also it’s a hopeful song — we all have love. That’s the biggest thing.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>“Vice” is a song about addiction, in which </span><span>‘a mean little man’</span><span> causes addiction in the other person. </span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“‘Gravity’ is definitely the song that describes the album’s purpose. This is very much about independence and empowerment and taking control of your life. I wrote it with a female perspective, but it’s really for everybody who feels like they have to take control of something in their lives.”</span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b></b><br /></span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She has grown beyond the looper, and has found “… a new depth of songwriting and a new focus. It shifted from instrumental and simple looping to song-crafting and storytelling.”</span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“My songwriting has developed through the pandemic in a way that it might not have without all of the downtime. This is not to say that I’m thankful for the lockdown — far from it. As they say, when life hands you the lemon. …”</span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Healey works alone and with the band. Solo and full band are different shows, she said. “I love both. Playing with a band adds an essential element that I need in my life — playing with other humans — so it’s probably my favorite.”</span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the last year, Healey and the band had several peaks. </span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“We’ve done the Roots and Blues festival in Columbia, opened for the Ozark Mountain Daredevils here in Springfield, along with a few other festivals. Solo, I’ve had some really wonderful experiences as well, including a debut at Crystal Bridges Museum of Modern Art, and Thursday Night Live in my hometown of Jefferson City. It’s been a really fabulous year, and I’m excited about the future.”</span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Molly Healey CD release show</span></b></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Cellar</span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">507 West Walnut Street </span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">7pm-11:30pm, November 19 </span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;">417-351-2824</span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #103cc0; font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tickets: <a href="https://thecellar.springfieldbrewingco.com/"><span style="color: #103cc0;">https://thecellar.springfieldbrewingco.com/</span></a></span></span></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p></div>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-75114855507812490002022-07-10T17:06:00.006-05:002022-11-26T09:15:18.856-06:00Monte is Summoned to Building One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdqA9JGlj5s_pugOMerxKSi5fJeVLHFX_Kk08UAIqkuhD5biGfSXzv3K3nibBTCskwpZHscp6Ez9giDealSokvSY2cCtCyIJ9Dx7PV5z3YxHwte_sGFugTXymeHFHFs-bllgRD8meSZe2ZDiTqj1umiHQVSh8gYhNm7XTxY71k8ZjvnEr9u2MQ0wsXbQ/s680/Ed%20Peaco.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="610" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdqA9JGlj5s_pugOMerxKSi5fJeVLHFX_Kk08UAIqkuhD5biGfSXzv3K3nibBTCskwpZHscp6Ez9giDealSokvSY2cCtCyIJ9Dx7PV5z3YxHwte_sGFugTXymeHFHFs-bllgRD8meSZe2ZDiTqj1umiHQVSh8gYhNm7XTxY71k8ZjvnEr9u2MQ0wsXbQ/w186-h200/Ed%20Peaco.png" width="186" /></a></div><p style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">by Ed Peaco<br /></span></b></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Published by The Writing Disorder </span></i></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Summer 2022</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://writingdisorder.com/ed-peaco-fiction-2/"><span style="font-size: medium;">https://writingdisorder.com/ed-peaco-fiction-2/</span></a></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte Thompson was trying to walk quickly from the parking lot to the heavy doors of Building One. He was hoping to stay ahead of the big boss, who Monte felt closing in on him. Derick Blockmenn, the Principal Partner and CEO of DataProbing Network, was someone to avoid. However, Monte had to be careful on his titanium hip, installed six months ago, and which had been causing as much pain as the human hip that had seemed to slowly disintegrate. In recent years, he hiked Mount Washington with three buddies, ran a half-marathon, and slogged through a mud-obstacle course. A year ago, he hit 55, and AARP ratcheted up its barrage of mail and pressure to enroll, but what was worse in that year was a boatload of torture in the left part of the pelvis. Complaining to himself, he denigrated the surgery as an old-man’s thing, but it had to be done. Rehab had been extended with physical therapy sessions, three per week. But there was more than just the physical pain. He had been taking off numerous half-days to visit neuro specialists and to take a battery of tests and an MRI to determine what was making his thinking so sluggish.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Today was one of those days when he had to slip away for a follow-up appointment at the big hospital downtown. The neurologist wanted to show Monte the findings of the MRI from a few weeks ago. Monte hoped he could dodge Blockmenn.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Entering DataProbing’s front lobby, Monte heard some banging behind him. It was Blockmenn, shoving the hydraulic mechanism of the front door, barging through the entryway, shouldering the door as if he were a linebacker, causing a metal-on-metal screech, muttering obscenities down the main hall. Monte ducked into the men’s room, hoping that hanging out there for a few minutes would be sufficient to shake the boss. Monte came to Building One rarely, to check if any of his mail was lingering at the front desk, and for the occasional staff meeting. This morning, looking this way and that, he thought the coast was clear, but he was wrong. Gangly and clumsy, with long, springy hair, graying and unruly—a twisted Einstein—Blockmenn almost knocked down Monte at the men’s room door.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Hang on a minute,” Blockmenn said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Then, while urinating, Blockmenn told Monte, “Get with Buster about the Natural Deep pitch. We need audio, video, text, today!” Monte wondered what Natural Deep was. Blockmenn told Monte to call Buster King, Monte’s supervisor, the hefty put-upon Managing Partner, and have him provide details. Blockmenn’s request threw Monte; he paused to gather his words. Buster was a prickly manager who tried to conceal his girth with billowy shirts. Standing by the sink, Monte phoned Buster, but the call went to voicemail, which made Blockmenn stomp away, fuming.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The DPN campus was composed of three small buildings, spread apart along a spacious greenway, with a wooded area beyond. Building One contained administration. Building Two quartered the specialists and investigators. The communication services were housed, including Monte’s team, in Building Three. “Blockhead,” as the staff called Blockmenn behind his back, could blow at any moment, for any reason. Longstanding employees said he had trouble with anger, pharmaceuticals, and substances, precipitating meltdowns and blowups, including one featuring fisticuffs with Buster and another with an investigator. A visit to Blockmenn’s office could be frightful, with swords and firearms mounted on the walls. From time to time, Monte thought about how he’d avoid those outbursts, or worse, an assault. He often cringed at the mismatch between the helping function of the organization and its dreadful creator. Like a terrible jingle that he couldn’t get out of his mind, Monte couldn’t stand the pretentious phrases of the mission statement, the fatuous boilerplate. What a load of crap!</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">DataProbing Network: a platform for those who need investigative solutions for casualties of catastrophic events, fraud, crime, and corruption. When government and law enforcement can’t or won’t help, DPN can perform functions tailored for the client, including investigators, litigators, scientists and communications experts, providing data-visualization tools, research resources, and voiceover video.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Eventually, Monte tracked down Buster in a meeting in which Blockmenn was ripping Buster a new one over the latest disaster. Monte listened briefly in the doorway. He learned a few things: Natural Deep was a natural gas producer. One of its offshore platforms in the North Sea had recently exploded. Blockmenn was livid about an investigator’s blunders that could lose the Natural Deep account.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“We have to be the first to know about shit like this, and know everything about it,” Blockmenn said. “Get off your lard-ass, Buster. If something blows up or somebody gets screwed, we need to be on it immediately!”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">And Blockmenn to Monte: “Crap out all the appropriate proposals by the end of the day. Show them what we can do before somebody else does. Don’t waste time!”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte understood that this would not be a good day for slipping away for a doctor’s appointment. He shuffled back to Building Three and set aside the typical office morning chat, except for one dumb-ass Blockhead story: “I had a standing meeting in the men’s room with Blockhead!” Everybody had a good laugh, then Monte described the heap of work that had been dumped in their laps: the Natural Deep account. It was a setback for everyone and meant long hours ahead.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte took a moment to think about his own personal setbacks. His declining health and mental issues had recently caused the loss of a sweetie who had soured on him—one in a short list of sweeties following his divorce, including the dazzling Natalie, with whom he fumbled as she gave up on him. More important, he had trouble communicating at work: increasing forgetfulness, slow on the uptake, not finding the right words, all of which required co-workers to repeat discussions. Physically, his hip was flaring up with spiky shoots of pain, which required another visit to the physical therapist and the surgeon’s physician assistant. There would be no more running or hiking for a while, and not much walking, either. Just a mess all around.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">He tried to recall when his mental fog started. It might have been with the hip replacement, or even before. Long after the anesthesia should have lifted, his head was still muddled. He went to a rehab place for ten days, then spent two weeks rehabbing and working from home, with the help of his nephew, Cable, who had plenty of time to help his uncle, as he’d been laid off from his job when the bar where he worked closed. Cable welcomed the cash Monte gave him to help with chores around the house, although Monte sensed Cable, who lived in a nearby remodeled barn, wasn’t really up to playing full-time nurse. Then again, Cable was the one who insisted Monte get a referral for a full neurological work-up, including an MRI for cognitive impairment.</span></p><p class="has-text-align-center" style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte had arranged the time of the doctor’s appointment closer to lunch in hopes that his absence might not be noticed. He and Cable met the neurologist in her office to discuss the findings from the MRI. During a few minutes of pleasantries and questioning, the neurologist was looking at her screen. Then Cable piped up. “Sometimes when he talks, he sounds loopy, but not from those pills, because he won’t use them.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Loopy?” Monte asked.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“And a couple of times, he didn’t know where he was,” Cable said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Grinding his teeth, Monte told Cable, “Hey, could you stop talking?”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">She shot a glance toward Monte. “So, the report,” she said. “There’s no stroke, no tumor; but the scan detected mild atrophy of the brain.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“That doesn’t sound good,” Monte said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Well, few very small foci of increased T2 signal in the bilateral subcortical white matter. …”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What?” Monte lost her; nothing made sense, even after two attempts.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“You have mild cognitive impairment,” she said. “You might have early-onset dementia. The anesthesia from the hip replacement surgery some months ago may have accelerated cognitive decline. Tests show word loss and halted speech suggesting a progressive trajectory.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Meaning it gets worse, right?”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Yes, you may eventually lose speech entirely.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Oh, that sucks!”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“There are many kinds of dementia, and there is no cure. Sorry to say.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Sorry to what?” Monte asked.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’ll set you up for a PET scan. It’ll show more about what your brain is doing.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Cable tried to calm him down, but Monte got worked up when he heard <span style="font-style: italic;">sorry to say</span>. Then he stood up and walked out, reeling from the doctor’s words.</span></p><p class="has-text-align-center" style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Back at DPN and eating lunch at his desk, Monte took a moment to calm down and count his blessings, such as they were. At least he worked in Building Three, as far from Blockmenn as possible. His team was talented and energetic. The three people in the media studio were versed in writing, editing, and producing. Each had a specialty: Michael (words), Charity (visuals), and Monte (audio) including voiceover for video. He was known for his gentle vocal tone, even when describing the worst explosions, natural disasters, and massacres around the world. Ironic that his diagnosis would affect his speech.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">He and his team thought of the people in Building One as super-conservative and themselves as embracing a lefty fellowship. If anybody needed anything, Tori, the sharp-witted courier, would provide it. Tall and thin, she often speed-walked from building to building, pulling a red wagon filled with everything from printer cartridges to Earl Grey green tea. The best perk was the bucolic feel of Building Three, ensconced near trees and bathed in green space. Monte had always enjoyed walking around the grounds and into the woods on his lunch hour. A few years back, he hooked rope ladders over a weighty branch of a big oak and climbed just for fun. That was before the hip problems arose.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Michael, back from lunch, stopped at Monte’s desk. “I heard about fireworks at Building One today. Could it spread here?”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“You mean Blockhead might come to Building Three with a flamethrower? Not likely,” Monte said. “Blockhead likes to push around the sycophants in Building One.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’ve been thinking about—this might seem silly—but, what about an escape plan?” Charity said. “Do we have one?”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Like a secret passageway, a false wall?” Michael said as he chuckled.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The concerns of his co-workers, in lieu of that morning’s eruption, seemed to make sense. “Maybe we should think about that,” Monte said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Tori interrupted this conversation with her daily visit to Building Three. She stopped, as usual, at Monte’s desk to tease him about his work. “Here you are: The Michael Bublé of Bloodbaths, The Pavarotti of Panic, The Sinatra of Sorrow.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Thank you very much. Just trying to make terrible events a little bit more pleasant,” he said with a little bow, while trying to get back to work.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Reflecting on the appointment with the neurologist, Monte knew he’d been lethargic and forgetful since coming back from his hip replacement surgery. He spent much more time in the sound booth than he would have before the surgery. Colleagues had to address him more than once to get his attention. He had trouble pulling words out of his mouth. Moreover, he noticed that people were seeing him speaking off a script, and when the discussion went beyond the script, he went silent as he worked through a speech block. It was scary. What was happening? Dementia, more goddamn dementia! What were his co-workers thinking? He worked through dinner and into the night, eventually collapsing for a few hours of sleep on a couch in the studio. Still he wasn’t done.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The next morning, seeking coffee, he already felt fried. Buster tromped into the studio, elbows out, standing over the three co-workers. With a loud sigh, he said, “We lost the Natural Deep project. You guys were too slow yesterday. The big guy is not happy.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The threesome looked at each other, making grave faces. Buster conveyed again how disappointed Mr. Blockmenn was and described other work coming up.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Then Buster pulled Monte aside to ask him about his health and questioned the quality of his work. This was the first time anything like that had happened to Monte—ever. Both men remained silent for a short time.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“So, you’re the leader in Building Three. We need you, but, what’s up?” Buster asked.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’ve had some pain with the hip, and I don’t get enough sleep.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What can we do to get you back into the swing of things?”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“It’s up to me.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Yeah, but think about what’s going on with you. I don’t know what it is, but it might be more than just sleep. I’ve heard stuff about you, like, you’re not all there. We need you to be on top of things, all the time. Do you grasp what I’m saying?”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Give me a little time to get myself into shape.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’ll be checking in from time to time.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">No way was Monte going to use the word <span style="font-style: italic;">dementia, </span>or mention his visit to the neurologist. How long could he fake being fully functional? Occasionally, he looked at a word and couldn’t pronounce it, or it made no sense unless he focused on it for a while. His work pace had been slowing down, and he knew that Buster and Blockmenn had become aware of it.</span></p><p class="has-text-align-center" style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">A few weeks later, Blockmenn summoned Monte to his office in Building One on a Monday morning. Monte arrived early. Blockmenn was not in his office. His longstanding admin, Victoria Deutsch, with ash-blonde helmet hair and extensive makeup, extended a hand toward a chair for Monte. “Feel at home, this is an amicable settlement,” she said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What settlement?”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Didn’t he say?”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Suddenly, Blockmenn surged into the office and dropped loudly into his chair.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Victoria gave Blockmenn a stern-mother stare. “Be civil,” she told him. “Apparently, we have to start from the beginning.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Make it quick,” Blockmenn said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte sat across from the Principal Partner, who began pushing papers into a single pile. Victoria presented a packet of termination and compensation documents.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">She said, “Mr. Thompson, we know about the issues you’re confronting—”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">What she said made Monte flinch. He wanted to eke out a few months more. Stuff gets around. Who blabbed? Who cares? Nobody had to tell anybody. The issues showed up every time he opened his mouth.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“—and we want to help you in any way we can,” Victoria said. “We will extend to you twenty-six weeks of severance compensation and health insurance.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte felt like he was wandering in a thick fog. There was a lot of talking from Victoria that he seemed to hear from a distance. He wasn’t surprised, but he felt a little queasy. Victoria proceeded with the exit protocol. She described each document and showed the stickers pointing where Monte was to sign. The process became lengthy as Victoria recited various paragraphs that she seemed to think important.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Thanks for the generous payout, Derick,” Monte said. “Could be worse!”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Whaddaya mean? You want more?”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I meant to say—”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I don’t want to know what you meant,” Blockmenn said, fidgeting with pens and a stapler. He opened a drawer and brought out three handguns, fondling each, one by one, somewhat like he was strangely washing up with a big bar of soap. Then he placed the guns across his leather desk pad. “Which gun would you want to have?” Blockmenn asked.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Now Mr. Blockmenn, not that,” Victoria said, with a withering gaze, as if she’d seen this routine before.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte recoiled. “What the hell?”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Oh, Monte will like it.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte certainly never had anything to say to Blockmenn, even on a good day, which was almost never. What a ridiculous exit interview!</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">So Monte responded first with a smirk, then pointed to the more compact piece. “If I must, this one, but—”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“The Smith & Wesson Governor,” Blockmenn said. “Excellent choice.” He picked up the Governor in both hands and raised it a few inches as if it were a large piece of gold.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“This one looks like the gun that Dick Tracy used from comic books and funny pages I read as a kid,” Monte said, then he snorted, which escalated to a nervous cackle. Monte was surprised with his outburst; he was scared and boiling mad. If only he could find Blockmenn without firearms, <span style="font-style: italic;">I would beat him to a pulp.</span> Monte listened to the thumping of his charging heart, like it might explode at any moment.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What’s so funny?” Blockmenn lurched up from his desk. “Do you think this is silly? It’s a matter of death or life.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Come on, Derick. What would I do with a gun? This is weird!”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">In a spark of rage, Blockmenn swiped the weapon off the desk and to the floor, where it crashed with a sharp smack, spinning like a top on the ceramic tile. Seething, Blockmenn threw his head back petulantly. The gun lay spinning on the floor. Victoria sat there like nothing had happened.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Bug-eyed, mouth agape, Monte shot out of his chair, which fell back to the floor. “What’s this all about? Butterfingers! Screw you!” The gun spun slowly to a halt. Monte looked down and found that the barrel was pointed at his feet.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Victoria stooped to collect it. “Be careful, Mr. Blockmenn.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’m fine,” said the CEO. “Take care of these papers. Show me where I sign. Be sure he signs the non-disclosure.” Blockmenn grabbed some documents from the desk and others from the floor, and stalked out.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Victoria leaned to Monte, close to his ear, whispering. “You deserve a reason for Mr. Blockmenn’s demeanor. He is a gifted leader, but he has challenges. He sees things. He hears things. He has treatment, but he doesn’t take heed. Today, he went off his meds, and he has upped his vodka intake. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right in the end.”</span></p><p class="has-text-align-center" style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Blockmenn had designated Buster to escort Monte off the premises, but Buster was pulled away to deal with the current Blockhead tantrum, allowing Monte to hobble back across the green space to Building Three. He was eager to tell everybody about the disturbance that Blockmenn fomented.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> “I was summoned to Building One today, and the place was totally toxic. More bizarre behavior from Blockhead—he’s barking up and down through the corridors, he’s pulling a full-blown roid rage. He pulled out three handguns for me to examine. When he left his office, I saw he had another piece in a shoulder holster. He is absolutely unhinged!”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Creepy, but we all know that he experiments with all kinds of alcohol, drugs, and pills. He’ll make mush of his brain if he keeps going this way,” Tori said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Oh, and so why was I summoned to Blockhead’s office? He fired me. This is my last day at DPN.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Hubbub broke out as people wanted to know when, how and why; it went on for a while, requiring Monte to provide answers: Any feelers yet? Where ya looking? Try the local broadcast outlets? Great voice for radio. You’ve got connections.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“You guys know why I’m leaving, right?”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“You’re lucky,” Tori said. “You’re getting out of here.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Not exactly lucky,” he said, after which he looked for some way to get away from the crowd. He thought Buster would have already kicked him off the premises, but he wasn’t around. Monte went to the basement to find his plastic storage tub. He scrounged about in the tub, finding a few obsolete devices, old manuals, and binders, the rope ladders that he had stopped using, and a full set of clothes for back when he used to bike to work. He lugged all of it upstairs, where he unloaded the printed material into the recycling bin, and dumped the rest in a trash can. He kept the clothing.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">He steered Tori into an empty hall. “So, I want to tell you, but you probably had some notion,” he said. “It may be early-onset dementia. Brain power just gets less and less.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Some of us were thinking—”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“If I’m lucky, the disease will go slow,” Monte said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“—I wanted to say something.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Dementia comes gift-wrapped in many ways. Google it,” Monte said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">She briefly covered her mouth. She said, “Sorry.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“You can tell anybody,” he said. “Tell them I said you could. I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe later.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">He spent a few minutes with Michael and Charity showing them around the soundproof booth used for making audio tracks, extolling the quality of the end result, better than your own voice. In the bottom drawer of his desk he found a dusty Doctors Without Borders tote bag, and he stuffed it with the clothes and a few books. As he packed, the idea of leaving felt better and better.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">A squawk from the intercom startled the people of Building Three. The intercom was ancient and hardly ever used. The sound was loud and distorted. It was Buster. He was blurting hysterically. “Blockmenn’s on a rampage. This is real. He’s going after Monte. Active shooter alert! Active shooter alert! I couldn’t stop him. Go, go, go right now!”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte yelled through the halls of Building Three, “Let’s get out of here! Run to the woods!” He limped as rapidly as he could toward the trash can to retrieve the rope ladders. “Don’t go to your cars. The parking lot is next to Building One. Toward Blocker. I mean Blockhead. Who wants to run for the fence? I’m going now.” He pocketed his phone, gathered his rope ladders, hollered, “Last chance!” Then he went toward the trees. Five co-workers—Tori, Michael, Charity, and two others whose names he couldn’t remember—followed Monte’s limp-shuffle adrenaline-fueled gait across the green space into the brush. Some of the group were frantically texting and calling 911. He trudged through the prickers, the saplings, the big sycamores, and the downed-and-rotting trunks. Now he was hurting. He kept looking behind to make sure the others knew where he was. The escapees sped up when they heard a short spattering of gunshots. Monte stumbled upon two homeless men camped out with blue tarps and sleeping bags. He invited them to come along to avoid the crazy guy with guns, but they were only startled, and waved Monte away.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">At last, the fence came into view. Monte hooked the first ladder over the top of the fence on the DPN side, then awkwardly climbed half way up, feeling something like a butcher knife jabbing into his thigh. He paused, then took it slow, placing the second ladder on the other side, and went over to check that the ladder was properly placed. Oh, throbbing pain! He waited for the pain to subside a bit, and he found a way to pull himself up mostly by his arms. He went back over to the DPN side to help those who needed it. Tori had trouble trudging in her sandals, and she was apprehensive about the ladders, but she managed to get over. One of the guys whose name Monte couldn’t remember, a hefty fellow, decided not to attempt the ropes. Michael said he had something like these ladders on his bunk bed growing up, and he hastened up, over and down. Charity, looking jittery, threw her pumps over the fence, and took the steps quickly. Monte followed.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“We made it!” Monte said. “So far, anyway.” He collected the rope ladders and carried them under each arm.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Charity looked around at the scrub trees and high grass lining the road, then she declared, “Whoa, we’re in the boonies. I’ve never been on this edge of town.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Me, neither,” Monte said. “When you enter DPN, you’re still in the city. But over the fence, we’re really out there.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’ve been beamed up to another planet,” she said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Wincing with every other step, Monte led the crew down a gravel road toward what he hoped was a main road.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Hey, we have to keep moving,” Monte said. “We need to get far enough away so we can’t be seen.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Why are you toting those ladders?” Michael asked Monte.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“They’re souvenirs.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“For crying out loud. I’ll carry them,” Michael said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte fell back from the group, and they went around a bend. He slowed down, looked back where they had walked, then looked ahead. He didn’t see anybody. Panic set in.</span></p><p class="has-text-align-center" style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Well, shit, let them go wherever they’re going, but I’m gonna sit here and feel each throb. Too loud to think. Am I thinking?</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Can’t process. Getting canned: that calls for an </span>up yours!<span style="font-style: italic;"> Psycho Baby playing with guns,</span> shit for brains<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><span style="font-style: italic;">Those gunshots: that demands a full-throttle</span> mother fucker!</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Spent my best years in pig slop—that boilerplate, the pretentious crap</span> that I wrote!</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Blockhead, why didn’t you fire me long ago? </span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Early on: Got divorced. Then there was Natalie. Wow </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Natalie</span><span style="font-style: italic;">! Posted to Dublin. Could have followed her out of bumfuck DPN. What a sledge head I was! </span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I</span><span style="font-style: italic;">’</span><span style="font-style: italic;">m the blockhead!</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">No more hikes, no more races. </span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Gimmy a wheelchair and fuck yourself.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Surgery stupor, now dementia, what’s next?</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Aphasia, my sweetie till death?</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Won’t see the guys anymore. No trails. No mountains. </span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">No woman would mess with this mess of me.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Losing everything! </span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Oh, what’s this? Something’s wrong. What’s happening? </span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Where am I?</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p class="has-text-align-center" style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">As the first one to notice Monte was nowhere in sight, Michael back tracked and found Monte on the shoulder of the road, panting, howling in a gutteral basso profundo.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’m kinda messed up,” Monte said. “Really lost. Scary.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Michael pulled him up to sit and put an arm around Monte. “You OK?” Michael asked.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte looked around and saw the ladders. He said, “Oh, ladders. Yeah, yeah, ladders.” He didn’t want to stand up yet. Something had hit him like that wigged-out feeling from that anesthetic. “When I saw the ladders, I knew everything again—weird.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Tori held his hand. “How do you feel? What do you need? You can’t help it, right? It’s that dementia, right? Sorry. I gotta shut up.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I think it was that I didn’t see you guys,” Monte said. “I was nowhere. Not sure where I was.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I don’t know either,” Charity said. She gave her water bottle to Monte.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“It’s a different not-knowing,” he said. “It’s not, it’s different—I can’t find the word. Sorry.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Hell, no. Don’t be sorry. You saved us from that madman,” Michael said. “You’re our hero!”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">As Michael and Tori helped Monte get on his feet, Charity went ahead to a Smarty-Mart store. The others arrived in a few minutes. She bought bottled water for everybody. They sat on plastic chairs and called family and friends to say they were OK.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Oh, my brain let me have that word. No, it went away. No, yes, I got it: <span style="font-style: italic;">embarrassing</span>. A different kind of not-knowing.”</span></p><p class="has-text-align-center" style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Monte wanted Cable to stay with him that night. Next morning, Monte’s phone was crammed with calls and texts with concerns for his wellbeing and news of what happened at DataProbing Network. Buster’s voice message: <span style="font-style: italic;">Blockhead went just-a-stumblin’, the Governor in one hand, bottle of Grey Goose in the other. I called the cops. They came in five minutes. When Blockhead heard the sirens, that was when he tried to blow his fuckin’ head off, but he botched the job. Nobody else got hurt.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></p><p class="has-text-align-center" style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Two days later, Tori came to Monte’s house and sat outside with iced coffee.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’m not going back,” Tori said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“We’re still alive!”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Another thing. I have a business proposition for you,” Tori said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Oh, really? I have no money to invest.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Tori laughed. “Just saying, I’m gonna be a personal shopper—woo-hoo!”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Cable gets my groceries.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> “You’ll need more help than that. Come on, you could be my first client.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Not sure I’m ready for that,” Monte said.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“You can function almost all the time, except for when you can’t.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’m going back to the neuro doc to have a PET scan,” he said. “That’s supposed to be the be-all, end-all for the diagnosis.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Then what?”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(75, 75, 75); color: #4b4b4b; margin: 0px 0px 21px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Just carry on until I can’t, whenever that is.”</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.52400016784668px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #c0a154; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13.52400016784668px; text-align: left; text-indent: 36px;"><br /></span></p>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-46253151267590011212022-02-18T09:07:00.003-06:002022-11-26T09:15:44.295-06:00The Punk of Spring or The Rite of Punk<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguF6-OS_Xj_VPYDX8QQNSYM1aUTnD6ijCSEZCYN-d_7YN3lRmWFsF40aCIrGbWDt-6M7U8SdS417ow--dLRFXOgNNVBG_jdw86dNEsBTyU4BniNGI_Z8o7qDdn9n-CPlYO_PU6V-vf1STtihr9IwA-pkWukY4qe-82EL9DRY0-6IiaR17RyWK2wkvWmg=s680" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="610" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguF6-OS_Xj_VPYDX8QQNSYM1aUTnD6ijCSEZCYN-d_7YN3lRmWFsF40aCIrGbWDt-6M7U8SdS417ow--dLRFXOgNNVBG_jdw86dNEsBTyU4BniNGI_Z8o7qDdn9n-CPlYO_PU6V-vf1STtihr9IwA-pkWukY4qe-82EL9DRY0-6IiaR17RyWK2wkvWmg=w180-h200" width="180" /></a></div> <p></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b>by Ed Peaco</b></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>Published by The Writing Disorder </i></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">Spring 2021</p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://writingdisorder.com/ed-peaco-fiction/">http://writingdisorder.com/ed-peaco-fiction/</a></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">According to Amazon, the score of Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring cost $14.93 in paperback. This discovery delighted guitarist Franko Tucker, a self-branded prog-punk musician who was hipped to Stravinsky by Hermes Agee, a young Franko fan and fellow guitarist, though classically trained. From their friendship, they decided to make a punk version of The Rite of Spring for Franko’s band, Franko and the Futile. Franko had just turned 30 and wondering what he’d accomplished in life, and he realized he needed Hermy’s conservatory expertise to pull it off.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko, a tattooed stick figure of a man whose main nutrition came from bar food or what could be eaten quickly from a can, was squabbling with The Futile over whether to work up The Rite of Spring or play covers of songs people liked and knew. The Futile (prematurely balding drummer Merk Moskwa with his fedora, and Fletcher Harrington on bass with a heavy keychain slung over his hip) weren’t getting how cool The Rite of Spring could be. Franko settled the matter when Hermy, back from Berklee for the summer, insisted on Stravinsky and insisted to be there to avoid total collapse.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hermy, currently wearing a man bun and a vintage sport jacket with elbow patches, had enlisted two players from his former high-school group, the Teen Strings, to make the effort sound more or less like Stravinsky. He demonstrated on his tablet with a music keyboard.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">While Hermy was a necessity, Franko sometimes found him arrogant, an egghead type, irksome. However, he worked well with The Futile. They came around when Hermy told them their roles would be mostly the same — Fletch’s fuzz-bass throb, Merk’s double-bass kick-drum machine-gun approach. Better for The Futile, Hermy wrote a couple of raucous punk pieces for them — “Punk Prelude” and “Pots and Pans” — despite his mother’s preference that he stay on a strictly classical path.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko sported a colorful sleeve of tattoos on one arm, a scene of slithering creatures emerging from jungle greenery. He had a good fan base, at least in the sprawling city of Bristol Springs, Missouri. But some of his old friends from high school were the kind of folks he’d now normally avoid, as they were excelling in their careers and starting families.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He made an exception for Olivia Ellis, who he remembered from concert band.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">One day, in Walmart, he was wearing his LeBron James number 23 jersey and shorts. He thought he spotted her in Produce, but he could have been wrong. He remembered Olivia as a gangly girl with long, shiny dark hair, strong minded, prickly, with few friends. He recalled she was married to a guy named Bob. But 12 years later, she looked filled-out, curvy. Her hair was short now, with a long shock that fell over her right eye. He had to say hello.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Wow, you’ve put on a whole lot of ink since I saw you last — maybe since school?” she said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It’s on my fingering arm, to keep peoples’ eyes on me,” he said. “I’m making enough cash with my music these days: casinos, private parties, exhibition halls.” Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to talk about meeting quotas in call centers or busting down boxes at loading docks.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Cool,” Olivia said. She talked about her work in real estate. “Did you know I’m working on a new development on the Central Square? Didn’t you say you lived there, on the west side of the square?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yes, I heard something about that.” He had received numerous booklets and updates in the mail about the project, and consistently ignored them.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“The plans are for mixed use. You might end up where you are, but nicer — elevator, no more stairs.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“How’s Bob?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Who, Shithead? His real name can’t be used,” she said with a clenched fist.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I get the gist.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, you don’t,” she said with piercing, dark eyes. “There’s more. I got a great attorney and the house.” Then Olivia launched into a story of being screwed at the real estate office where she worked. “I coddled a bunch of investors over a month or more,” she said. “I wiped their asses! Then the boss took me off the project. I don’t care anymore.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">They made plans for lunch after he returned from a two-week mini-tour of Russellville, St. Joseph, Ottumwa, Marshalltown, Kirksville and La Crosse.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">MONDAY</span></b></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">After the overnight haul from La Crosse, the first thing Franko did was hit Aunt Millie’s for a pancake breakfast. Then he went to his fourth-floor walkup, but he found that fencing, blockades and huge wrecking machines were in place.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He bawled like a cow as he remembered he forgot about the demolition. He fell to his knees and bawled again, loud enough to be heard on the other side of the square. Franko had meant to look at the information before he left for the mini-tour, but as usual, he blew it off.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now he was panicking, sweating in his armpits and crotch. He thought about Olivia Ellis. He couldn’t find her phone number at first, then he found it in his contacts.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thankfully, she picked up. He tried to speak to her, but he was slobbering: “Help. I fucked up! Really fucked! Forgot. What to do, help me, help me. Help!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What’s going on?” she asked, trying to extract what Franko’s trouble was. He hadn’t removed his belongings from his studio apartment. “Stay where you are. I’ll meet you there. Franko, just breathe.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When she arrived downtown, people were standing around, watching the setup for tear-down activities.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“All of this probably happened a day or two after the band headed out on the tour,” he said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Did you really leave all your shit in the building and go away for two weeks?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“’Fraid so, but I did have some stuff with me.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She swept into action, grabbed some city official in a suit, tie and orange plastic hard hat. He said they had a lost-and-found in the Public Works building, just a few blocks off the square. The plastic-hard-hat fellow told Franko to go there immediately.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Could I take a quick look in my place before everything falls apart?” Franko asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The hard-hat’s reply: “No.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">At Public Works, Franko was grateful to find some of his belongings: boxed-up documents, a plastic tub including random things like dishes and a few books, a skateboard, spare guitar and keyboard, but not his laptop. He felt foolish but pleased to be with Olivia. He asked about his ancient MacBook laptop, but it was not among his effects.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko thanked the official and stood awkwardly, then skulked away. He returned to the square, where the crowd had expanded. Olivia drove home in her 370Z two-seater. She promised to return shortly with her spacious Chrysler 300 she kept for tooling around with clients. Well-to-do people in the crowd were cheering, and a few activists flew black flags indicating contempt over the destruction of longstanding structures.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko felt like flying a black flag, too, but he spent time avoiding people he recognized. After a time of sinking hope, Olivia returned. They filled the back seat and the trunk with Franko’s diminished chattel. He asked about the two upscale rides. “They’re used. You know, impression is everything in the real estate game,” she said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko’s items actually amounted to a fairly substantial heap. They unloaded his crap into a spare room at the back part of her house, where Olivia made a place for Franko to work and sleep until he could find a place of his own.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Have you checked with your insurance people?” Olivia asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Who?” he asked, “No,” not wanting to admit he thought renter’s insurance was a big waste.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You might get a check for some of your losses.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko said, “My laptop is all I really want. It has all my music — all the tracks for The Rite of Spring. I had to break down and redo what Stravinsky did. I thought I was being brilliant by leaving the laptop behind so it wouldn’t be lost on the tour.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Have you heard of a memory stick, or even better: the Cloud?” He sat on an ottoman and hung his head between his knees. “I have a Mac. It’s got GarageBand. Use mine,” she said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Will I bother you staying here?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, nice to have you here instead of Shithead.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">After dinner, Hermy came over to Olivia’s place to work on The Rite of Spring with Franko. Hermy plugged in and messed around with some intricate chord changes for a few minutes and immediately blew Franko’s mind.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You have more talent in one broken fingernail than all the gray matter in my little tiny cranium,” Franko said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Have you actually looked at what Igor did?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yes, that’s why I’m freaking out. I’m inputting chunks of The Rite of Spring in ways that will make sense for a six-piece. Franko and The Futile is just a simple garage band. What did I get myself into? Can we loop some of this?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, folks will think it’s canned, and they’ll be right. We’ll just have to do the best we can.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“One bar of 3/4, next one bar of 5/4, to a bar of 7/4, and, for a breather, three bars of 6/4, and back to 5/4. That’s why I’m getting ready for these screwy rhythms. And that’s why Merk and Fletch need something they can handle. Igor has made it really hard.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko cued the second “episode” of The Rite of Spring on Spotify, then he gyrated and lurched from the abrupt directions of the piece. “We need a different title: The Punk of Spring or The Rite of Punk. Or both!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">By now it was midnight, and Olivia was sleeping. Franko and Hermy decided to take a walk around the block. It was a mild evening. Halfway around, Franko was bathed in a sweet scent of something. He advanced toward the scent; he didn’t really know where it came from — flowering shrubs? He stepped onto the springy grass, seeking a more intense aroma.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hey, you better stay off people’s lawns. They don’t like that,” Hermy said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">At that moment, Franko detonated a ringing alarm, along with several flashes from the front-door area. A clumsily moving figure dashed out with a huge flashlight. The alarm stopped. The scowling man’s unruly hair became gauzy in the back-lit spotlight.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko, remaining stone-cadaverous still, saw that the approaching figure was wearing pajamas and a bathrobe. The garment slunk at an angle, with one side drooping. Then a big dog, growling and barking, appeared beside the man.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Pleetus Ambercrombie,” he said, glaring at Franko. “And who, the fuck, are you?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then another fellow emerged from a home across the street and moved toward the others.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pleetus looked over at the emerging neighbor. “Take it easy, Gibby,” Pleetus said. “I got Adolf here. He’s got a good bark that makes folks take notice.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But you might want to straighten up your britches,” Gibby told Pleetus. “These guys don’t look like much of a threat to me.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko attempted to engage Pleetus, but the scruffy homeowner put his hand up like a traffic cop giving the stop signal.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No trespassing,” Pleetus said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko noticed that Pleetus had a chin beard about eight inches long, decorated with short stacks of beads.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Glaring at Franko, Pleetus thrust his hand into the pocket in the drooping side of his pajama bottoms and said, “Don’t approach me.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko backed up. “Sorry, I just wanted to smell the shrubs. We’re just out for a walk. I’m staying around the corner.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pleetus busted out in an eruption of chuckling. “You’re a shrub smeller, ay?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The big dog closed in on Franko, who tried to move away. It was making a muttering sound and did a half-circle to get behind Franko. Adolf was busy: nuzzling, growling and nipping. Then Franko felt something. “Hey, that dog bit me! Call him off!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pleetus said, “Adolf won’t hurt you. Nothing to worry about.” Gibby looked on, eyes darting from Pleetus to the two interlopers. “Go back to your house, Gibby,” Pleetus said. Then he focused on Franko and patted the drooping pocket of his pajamas. Pleetus called the dog, and it reluctantly returned to his master.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko pulled out his phone shakily and made a call. Luckily, Olivia picked up.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Who’s yer callin’?” Pleetus asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Our friend Olivia. She lives around the block,” Franko said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, L’il’ Olive Oyl,” Pleetus said. “Just keep in mind, I got access.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“To what?” Franko asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I got access to use a firearm. Don’t approach me. Just think about what ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ means to you in your situation.” Pleetus patted his bulky pajama pocket, causing the bottoms to droop to his knees before he could hoist them up.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko had a little nervous titter over that, and Hermy whispered to him to shut up.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">A vehicle arrived and parked two houses down the street. Olivia emerged. “Hey, I’m looking at you. Yes, you, Pleetus, the Barney Fife bum-fuck of the block,” she said. “You know the police have blown you off.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No trespassing,” Pleetus said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You are a pathetic old man. Just go back to bed with your dog,” Olivia said, as Adolf resumed barking.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Olivia corralled Franko and Hermy and brought them away from the fray. As they packed themselves into the 370Z, she explained that people have door-bell cameras for security. “I wish I’d told you all of this before I fell asleep,” she said. “Pleetus’s system is on a really sensitive trigger, and the lens is really powerful. He’s known as a local nut job.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">TUESDAY</span></b></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko stayed up that night, recreating the score on Olivia’s Mac. While taking a break, he found old-west memes on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter and the neighborhood website, portraying Olivia, Hermy and Franko as bandits. He recognized the photos all doctored up. Damn, the geezer had pretty good social-media skills, Franko thought.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When he woke up, Olivia was out. He hoped she wouldn’t see the pictures yet. Each mugshot was cast as an old-time sepia frame. Wording at the top of the image was One Way or Another, probably because Pleetus had enough social-media savvy not to use Dead or Alive.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Later in the morning, the two other perpetrator/victims of Pleetus’s digital onslaught found out. Hermy phoned Franko to whine about his mother’s nagging him for staying out late.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Olivia texted to Franko, “messed up last night. shudda stayed away”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko: “gonna blow over”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Olivia: “pleetus can be toxic”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Merk and Fletcher found out, too, and they thought the photos were fantastic. The only thing they didn’t like was that they weren’t included.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">That evening at rehearsal, Hermy focused on the business of The Futile not being able to deal with five, seven, and such. “Not judging, just sayin’.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko nodded toward The Futile and said, “Listen up.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hermy introduced Brianna and Bethany, twins from the Teen Strings, and handed out some sheets. “They’re known as The B’s.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Who’s who?” Merk asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It’s easy to tell them apart,” Hermy said. “Bri plays the violin and has one side of her head shaved. Beth plays cello and has really long hair.” Then he launched into some notes. “The B’s will play the main dance melodies — ”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“ — if you can call them melodies with those brutal changing time signatures,” Bri said. “I had to add 13 new time sigs into my software. I haven’t feared time so dreadfully.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I wrote a short piece in four that will sound Rite of Spring-ish, or call it something else. It’s something you guys can riff on when we need it. Everything will be integrated,” Hermy said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hold up,” Beth said. “This is the coolest — the really bitchin’est stuff — we’ll play until college. Hey, Bri, are you saying we should water down this stuff just for convenience?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bri swiveled toward her sister: “It’s a score for a ballet. How can dancers step to all this tangled rhythm? Some of that pounding at the end could just as well be in three or four.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Igor didn’t want to make it easy, but we can if we want to,” Hermy said. “Franko and The Futile will play over the B’s in 4/4 or just go orgasmic.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Or like a three-year-old?” Fletcher asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Same for me?” Merk asked. “Noise ahoy! That’s ‘Pots and Pans,’ right?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Let’s carve out a chunk of the score so each player gets a solo. Do whatever we can,” Beth said. “There’s a lot of momentous shit for all of us.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll point when we want explosives,” Hermy said. “Then I’ll give the throat-cut sign to back off. Don’t worry, Bri, the strings will be amped up just like everything else.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hey, Hermy,” Beth said. “If it’s OK with you, let the B’s name thing go by the wayside? This will be our first professional gig.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“So, how do you want to be called?” Hermy asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“By our names.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">FRIDAY: THE SHOW</span></b></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko had two T-shirts for gigs, the prog choice, showing Frank Zappa’s album, “Hot Rats”; or the punk selection with a smiling skeleton holding a cocktail with “Holiday in Cambodia” by the Dead Kennedys. Zappa was the choice for his prog show of all prog shows.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The B’s showed up at the Error Code Bar, each wearing a Teen Strings hoodie.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Before set-up, Franko wanted to give a pep talk, but he couldn’t get anyone’s attention. Instead, he just chatted with Merk and Fletcher, while the B’s whispered between themselves about Hermy.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Merk interrupted the B’s, seeking another review of who’s who. Then Hermy went over some rough places and how he’ll cue them. The two string players tuned up, then they switched instruments and tuned again.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The B’s had a good laugh while others were confused, not getting the twins’ humor.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was hit time, but few people were in the place yet. Two tables were occupied by girlfriends and the father of the B’s. Hoping to lure sidewalk traffic, Franko kept the front door open and continued to call for numerous unnecessary sound checks. After a while, the musicians got bored with the sound checks and dispersed.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bri played magic tricks to pass the time. Beth fidgeted through all the sound checks and chewed gum to bother her sister. They decided to lose the hoodies; they’d be too hot on stage.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The open door brought in a few people. However, the tactic lured a police officer in as well. In a professional tone, the officer told Mike, the proprietor, that the loud music coming out of the open door was disturbing the patrons of the restaurant next door who were dining al fresco.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mike told Franko, “Never prop the front door open ever again, and never do anything that would cause a cop to enter the building.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then eight young women barged in and told Franko, who was sitting on a bar stool, that they were on a bachelorette scavenger hunt. They assumed Franko was the owner. After a little banter with the women, he sent them to Mike. They had a large list, including something soft and something hard — “Could be from the same guy,” said the ring leader. After this quip, massive merriment burst out among the squad. Mike poured complimentary shots of cheap vodka all around and handed out beer coasters as business cards. Franko wished he were the owner and could have poured free shots for eight women.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The scavengers left after a disorderly chat with Mike, and in a short time, the room was beginning to fill up. The band assembled again. Olivia arrived and hopped onto the stage and collared Franko. “Hey, remember, if you make anything from your show, it goes to mortgage and food.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Once Franko sent Olivia off the stage and the musicians assembled, they made a last and genuine sound check. He greeted the crowd, which was big for Franko and The Futile. They began to play The Punk of Spring or The Rite of Punk, with a two-part overture, “Pots and Pans” melting into the “Prelude to The Punk of Spring,” both by the trio of The Futile. Then the strings and Hermy executed some Stravinsky time fracturing.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Twenty minutes or so into the performance, in Episode Four, “Spring Rounds,” Franko thought he was seeing something around the front door. As people were moving toward the stage, he could make out an elderly bearded fellow wearing a black full-dress tailcoat tux and a stovetop hat. He was speaking into a bullhorn and scurrying table to table. During a quiet passage, the bullhorn overtook the music.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko thought it was some kind of fire alarm or tornado thing. He couldn’t hear the music. The bullhorn sounded like puking in his head. Then he could hear, and he heard words:</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Stop! You must stop!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You’re destroying America!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Degenerate music! Europe syrup!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The crowd booed the intruder, but Franko still didn’t know what was up. He turned to the band and called for more “Pots and Pans.” Then he jumped off the stage, where he could more clearly hear the spew of the bullhorn.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Degenerate intellectuals!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Horseface cosmopolitan!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“A total botch-job sleaze!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko realized that the asshole with the bullhorn was none other than Pleetus and his intricate chin beard. Adolph the dog was by his side.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko found a security guy. “Where were you?” Franko asked. “He needs to leave!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I thought it was part of the show. Sorry, boss.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“The dog goes too,” Franko said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Dog? I thought it was one of them comfort critters. We’ll get it, chief.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bereft of his bullhorn, Pleetus could still bellow. On his trip toward the sidewalk, he had one more chant: “No trespassing!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko hopped back on stage for the end of “Pots and Pans.” The crowd cheered.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The string players launched into the last episode of “Part 1, The Adoration of the Earth,” which sounded like a different kind of chaos. A ferocious, extended roar came from the audience. The plan was to have an intermission, but they played through instead.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">After the show, Franko said, “It seemed to go really well until Pleetus got in the way. Even when he pulled out the bullhorn, it was OK. Did you see him getting the boot?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“We couldn’t see it,” Hermy said. “I think the audience thought he was part of the show!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Olivia came up to compliment the band. Franko said he couldn’t find her until he came down to deal with the mess that Pleetus was making.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I was sitting with the B’s father, and we were comforting Adolf. He was whimpering under the table because the music was so loud, poor thing,” Olivia said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Anyway, ‘Pots and Pans’ was fun, the ‘Prelude’ sounded like a real tune, I mean something better than the stuff I write. And the actual Igor parts blew my mind,” Franko said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“For me, the douche with the bullhorn was the height of my evening,” Merk said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hell no!” Hermy said. “The B’s were killin’ it.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Joke!” Merk said. “You B’s were great!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Beth was about to say something, but Bri hushed her sister. “Don’t get worked up about people calling us B’s. Come on, just be cool. We got our names in the flier.” Bri approached Hermy, cuffed him on the upper arm and congratulated him on his solo: “The shit!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Beth did a curtsy before Fletcher and said, “The first distorted electric-bass solo on a piece by Igor Stravinsky. Well done!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It wasn’t distorted, it was fuzzed. I like the ZVex fuzz pedal,” Fletcher said. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Well, oh, anyway, Igor should be here.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Merk caught Fletcher and asked him, “Hey, about what Franko calls us, ‘The Futile.’ We aren’t futile anymore. How about ‘Franko and the Funktones’?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, we must own our futility!” Fletcher shouted.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Well, I’m not going on tour being called futile,” Merk said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">NEXT MONDAY</span></b></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko never read the paper except when somebody tells him he’s in it. This time, Merk was the one to tell him. The fussy performing arts freelancer really slammed The Punk of Spring or The Rite of Punk. They got a good laugh.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Desecration of a hallowed imperative of the canon, not to be smeared with excrement by barbarians. “Pots and Pans”? Disgusting!</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hermy wrote in a text: “kinda like Pleetus, different POV”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fletch weighed in: “excrement, cool!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Normally, Franko ignored phone calls from people he didn’t know. A few minutes later, he listened to the voicemail. It was Jane Zhah, the music director of the Bristol Springs Symphony. He thought, another nasty review? I’m up for it! Franko immediately called back.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Zhah said she was in the Error Code Bar for The Punk of Spring or the Rite of Punk. After Franko’s sputtering, Zhah told Franko the symphony is always looking for innovative music from local and regional composers whose work could be arranged for the whole orchestra.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“We have a ‘Best of Bristol Springs’ evening every season. This process would require a great deal of work for you and your ensemble, me, and our concertmaster. I hadn’t made up my mind about next season,” she said, “but after last Friday night, I’m all in for The Punk of Spring or the Rite of Punk. How about you?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Olivia, at her cubical, called Franko, still energized by his conversation with Jane Zhah. Olivia asked him to come downtown for lunch. “Pleetus is parked next to the office. He has a huge banner on the side of his pickup with our faces like those Instagrams. Everybody in the office can see it.” She sounded a little jittery.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When Franko showed up at the restaurant, he found her, elbows on the table, head in her hands. “Everybody in the office was looking out the big windows, snickering, shooting weird glances at me. I just want to unload a lot of crap from certain people making my life miserable.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">After a few minutes, she stood up and led the way out, emphasizing her need for a drink. “What’s this, a liquid lunch?” Franko asked. When they sat down at a nearby bar, Franko saw that Olivia was trying not to cry, and he decided not to hug her or touch her hand.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">They cozied into a booth, and she ordered a double of Maker’s Mark. She was furious, tearing up a cocktail napkin into little balls.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“My boss fired me with a text. It said he couldn’t have bad publicity, ‘people like you here.’ Can you believe it?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You’ll be OK. You always wanted to be your own boss.” Franko was doing his level best not to look happy or say anything about the symphony thing.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I would have laughed except for the humiliation, but instead I almost lost it,” she said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He asked for a club soda with lime, and the server asked Olivia if she wanted another. Franko was surprised that she was already ready for another.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“One thing, maybe a strange thing to say: Wish my picture on the banner wasn’t so bad,” she said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It’s OK.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, it really sucks!” She laughed.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">After a third and a fourth and maybe more, Franko suggested they leave. He was concerned about what she might do next.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She said, “Well, what the fuck, screw them all!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Later, back at the house, she calmed down. He insisted that she drink some water and eat something. Her mood soured even more.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Mr. Franko Tucker, what did you do this fine day?” she said with a sneer.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I ran into some friction with The Futile. They were disappointed that they didn’t get their pictures up on the banner. But I like mine.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You like it, do ya? I’m the only one who’s getting crapped on for this. All because of you!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“How’s that?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Think about it,” she said, throwing Franko’s favorite coffee mug across the room, making a gash in the wall and scattering pieces on the floor. “I got fired, terminated, dumped — do you understand any one of those?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“OK, OK, OK. My bad.” He moved toward her in hopes that he could prevent her from destroying something else.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sitting on the carpet, she pulled her knees up to her chin. She said, “One good thing: You’ve been in the house for a whole week and you haven’t screamed and threatened me yet. That’s 1,000 percent better than Shithead.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I know it was all my fault. What can I do for you?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“When I get some clients, you can clean homes before I put them on the market,” she said. “And sorry I smashed that mug. Oh, and Public Works found your laptop.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">SIX WEEKS LATER</span></b></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko got busy that Thursday morning when he heard Olivia pounding stakes for a real-estate sign: Open House: Sunday 2-4. He started in the master bathroom where he expected the worst scum. It was his first cleaning job. The tub looked OK, basic white, but with every squirt of chlorine-based cleaner and each swipe of the non-abrasive scour pad, the tub got more gleaming than before. One problem about this project was that the vicious fumes irritated his eyes and throat. It wasn’t all that bad, but his fingers, palms and wrists were on fire. He wondered how his new side job would affect his guitar work.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">At least he could listen to The Rite of Spring on Spotify blaring from his phone.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko was still working on the tub as his stomach suggested lunchtime. Thankfully, Olivia arrived just then with sandwiches. His hands had turned a rosy brilliancy.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No gloves, no knee pads, no safety glasses?” she said. “I told you to go to Harbor Freight and get some gear. I even gave you cash to do that!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I didn’t think I needed gear, but I guess so.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah, your hands are melting!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Not really.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She scrounged through her bag. “Here, it’s shea butter. Spread some on and work it in.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Nice,” he said, but he didn’t like the smell of women’s stuff on him.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">They went to the store and Olivia outfitted Franko with a pair of PVC-coated rubber gloves and construction-grade knee pads with foam padding.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You’re treating me like a kid,” he said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, I’m treating you like an adult, which you do not do for yourself,” she said. “Do you still have those five twenties?” Olivia selected the gear and placed it on the checkout counter, and Franko delivered the cash.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Back at the house, she gave Franko a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew for the afternoon. Hermy dropped in to see the place and to see what Franko was doing. Olivia gave Hermy a tour that wrapped up in the master bathroom.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Franko’s working hard, and so am I,” she said. “I got my LLC from the state and the crap from the IRS. I sold the 370Z. Boo-hoo! But I needed quick cash.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hermy announced to Olivia that they were doing The Punk of Spring project again in the fall and next year with the symphony.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah, that’s all I hear from Franko,” she said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Franko had little to say. For the first time, he had a chance to simply enjoy her presence. Her shampoo or cologne reminded him of the scent of the shrubs on Pleetus’s lawn. The association made him feel good and bad at the same time. He understood this mess had been the best thing that ever happened and the worst, tied up in a series of unlikely events.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She said she’d be visiting a few people who might want to list their homes with her. She told Franko his job was to finish cleaning the house by the end of the next afternoon, in time for the open house.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">After Olivia left, Hermy sat down. They jawed about music and women, and Hermy complained about his mom.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“True, but you’re suffering from whiny-baby syndrome,” Franko said. “And you’ll be going back to school soon.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“And isn’t it bliss without any crap from Pleetus since the show — nothing!” Hermy said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">While Franko finished the bathroom, Hermy remarked on Olivia’s beauty and her excellent lawn signs that made her look even better. “She looks like Kylie Jenner.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Really?” Franko said: “No, she’s older and she’s an actual person.” Then he wandered into daydreaming. He took pride in not doing something stupid, such as making a move on her. He felt like he was somehow being a grown-up, and it felt weird.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When Olivia returned, she was at first annoyed to see Hermy still there, but she eased up when she saw that Franko had made progress. “So, you really do have some useful skills — beyond the guitar,” she said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“That wasn’t very nice, but I can live with that,” Franko said. “What about Hermy: Shouldn’t he be held accountable, too? He was there at the beginning of the whole Pleetus episode.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You, Hermy: You’re just an accessory,” she said. Then she turned her attention back to Franko with a guarded frown. “You’re the guy doing community service.”</span></p><div><br /></div>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-3225976266577570632022-02-18T09:03:00.015-06:002022-11-26T17:59:06.435-06:00Additional Guests<p> </p>
<p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b></b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivF8M0JKV0X672Zv6ZUmIRgC3YRVV_cZn-6HYYXCsuR8iGID4vmbK8pvEeRUhLMenFVOZS9Phv9GQdfG7dxisRFTbudA8o9h0jDnei9oH-wgnhemFZDaoCf-kRWyEmbkgRt3SQoLbC2EZv2chzpwKTBJ-NoY5yE_eJQ1Qni-qR3sxdUaFe8NYnU7LWkw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="698" height="122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivF8M0JKV0X672Zv6ZUmIRgC3YRVV_cZn-6HYYXCsuR8iGID4vmbK8pvEeRUhLMenFVOZS9Phv9GQdfG7dxisRFTbudA8o9h0jDnei9oH-wgnhemFZDaoCf-kRWyEmbkgRt3SQoLbC2EZv2chzpwKTBJ-NoY5yE_eJQ1Qni-qR3sxdUaFe8NYnU7LWkw=w121-h122" width="121" /></a></span></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b><div><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">by Ed Peaco</span></b></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Published by The MacGuffin </span></i></p>
<p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Vol. 37, No. 1, Winter 2021</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://home.schoolcraft.edu/macguffin/the-macguffin"><b>https://home.schoolcraft.edu/macguffin/the-macguffin</b></a></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center; text-indent: 36px;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></i></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-style: italic;">This is a short story about a Christmas gathering of an extended</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> family and additional guests. Things happen that are odd, secretive, angry, absent-minded and yes, reasonable. See what happens in the end.</i></span></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here we were, Doralisa and me, making the four-hour drive to Mom’s house for Christmas Eve, and I was trying to think of all the things that could happen and how I would handle each one. Doralisa hadn’t met my family yet; we’d only been seeing each other a few months, and I hadn’t shared a lot of my past with her yet. It was in the early stages for us, and I know I’m not the best communicator. We had only a few miles to go. So I looked over at Doralisa, whose unruly hair stuck out of her tight-fitting knit hat that concealed much of her face. “Would you like to take off your hat?” I asked her. “I could turn up the heat.” I wasn’t wearing a hat because I didn’t want my hair to get plastered down. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, I like it a little chilly,” she said. Normally she talked more. Her job of finding places for homeless people to live made her think out loud for long stretches. Now she was probably nervous about meeting my mom and brother and his family, though probably not as nervous as she should have been.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“One thing I’d like to do this year—I want to be the one to buy the tree,” I said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Bit late for a tree, don’t you think?” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, it’s tradition. We put up a tree for Mom on Christmas Eve, with everyone all around. My brother Bobby always goes out and buys it, as if it’s his deal. But I thought I’d show some initiative this year, show up early, go for the tree before they arrive.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“The choice of tree can be an intensely personal thing,” she said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I said, “You know, I’ve always wished my family could enjoy some quiet time once the tree is up. Spike some eggnog, put on some Nat King Cole or Johnny Mathis, and just chat. But the place is always so crazy with my brother’s kids.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She turned in her seat and showed me her stern face. “You’re lucky. You don’t know what it’s like having to pass a little one back and forth at the holidays. Christmas can be mighty cold when it’s your ex’s turn to hold the hot potato.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I choked on the thought of Doralisa’s reckless, delinquent son, and once again I felt lucky that my marriage went up in flames a long time ago, without kids. “You’ll really like Mom,” I said, “but she doesn’t have much of a filter when she talks.” Worry was starting to creep up on me. I hadn’t gotten around to telling Mom I was bringing Doralisa, or even that she was a factor in my life. I was feeling the gravity more than I expected.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When we arrived, a car I didn’t recognize was in the drive, so I parked on the street. One of my nephews greeted us, which I didn’t expect at all. He wore a Kansas City Chiefs cap, blazing red, his face buried in the bells and whistles of a hand-held electronic game. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I couldn’t tell if he was Toby or Greg or Matt, because each time I see them, the younger ones seem to have moved into slots vacated by the older ones, and the oldest looks like a stranger.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You’re Toby, right?” I asked. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doralisa turned to me and said, “He reminds me of my Cliff at that age.” She took off her hat and shook out her hair into exactly the same semi-kempt mop it always was. I took her hat and coat and opened the closet. My little wisp of a mother was chatting in the kitchen with a younger woman whose face I couldn’t see. Mom was wearing her mall-walking shoes, green sweatpants, and a red sweatshirt. Doralisa and I took two strides into the living room. Mom was fussing over the other woman, whispering in her ear. The unknown person kissed Mom on the cheek and said some urgent thing in her ear. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then the other woman turned around. I flinched at the sight of my horrible ex-wife, Carly, and by that kiss and those whispers. I quickly turned my back to Carly and, sadly, I bumped into Mom’s curio cabinet filled with glass and delicate porcelain figurines. A few of them shuddered and fell over. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doralisa steadied me with a hand on my back. “Stay focused,” she said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I told her who Carly was and why I recoiled when I did: “She’s someone to avoid.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Is there a secret exit nearby?” Doralisa said, smiling.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I hoped Mom or Carly didn’t notice any harm in the curio cabinet. And I hoped that maybe Mom would get rid of Carly, and nothing would happen. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doralisa offered to perform a damage check of the delicate pieces. She nodded, summoning me for a quick peek. She found a broken pelican, and several items had fallen over but luckily were still intact. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom hurried to greet us. “Marvin!” she shouted. I rushed to Mom, and Doralisa came along in a minute. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Why is Carly here?” I asked Mom.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You were early,” Mom said. “Carly likes to see what Bobby’s kids are doing.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Well, we’re here,” I said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“We?” Mom asked. I hugged her, and I got a whiff of her old lady’s perfume, like an overripe peach. She pressed her forehead against my chest, then pushed off. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I want you to meet someone,” I said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Oh really?” Mom asked. “Who?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I forgot to tell you about my additional guest.” Mom forced a smile. I introduced Harriet, my mother, to Doralisa.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You didn’t mention a lady friend,” Mom said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I was thinking it could be a surprise,” I said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“And it’s a surprise for me, too, in a sense,” Doralisa said. She formed a circle with her mouth but didn’t say anything more. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“We met a few months ago,” I said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom gave Doralisa a once-over and glanced nervously around the living room. “You’re older than Marvin,” she said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, she’s not,” I told Mom. “I thought we’d just say hello before we went out and got the tree.” I switched to the tree as a way of getting out of the house to avoid any possible run-in with Carly.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“The tree? That’s Bobby’s job,” Mom said. Then she turned to Doralisa and asked, “How old are you?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’m forty-six,” Doralisa said, pinching the bridge of her nose.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Really? I’m only forty-two,” I said. “I had no idea.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Surprise,” Doralisa said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Welcome to our family,” Mom said. She cupped Doralisa’s face with her hands.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Have we interrupted anything?” I asked, peering beyond her to the kitchen. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, no,” Mom said, stroking her chin. She turned to Doralisa and said, “I was just thinking—can you bake?” Doralisa shrugged. “I mean now,” Mom said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Maybe we could both bake,” I said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Before anything could be decided about the baking request, Bobby barged in and seemed to say something, then he caught a glimpse of Doralisa. “Whoa, who are you?” he asked. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’m with Marvin,” she said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, great. Somebody has to be with Marvin!” Bobby said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I am here upon my own volition,” Doralisa said with a smirk.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What are you trying to say?” I asked Bobby.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;"> “Well, anyway, Marv, help me unpack,” Bobby said, finishing his tumbler of whiskey.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">After I told Doralisa I’d be just a few minutes, I wondered what Bobby would have to say as we went out to his hulking SUV. Stepping into the cold, I expected Bobby to start projecting his jerk personality in full force, with manic leer and annoying toe-tapping. I asked, “What bags do you want? My fingers are freezing already.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He had grown a little balder since the last time I saw him, last spring. He gouged my shoulder with his thumb and said, “Carly is looking good, don’t you agree?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You prick. Why haven’t you ever told me about the deal with her and Mom?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Sorry, top secret,” Bobby said. “If I had blabbed, you would’ve gone postal.” He erupted in hooting and maniacal whinnying, the maddening sounds I’ve endured all my life.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Your vehicle looks like a hearse for two,” I said, feeling good for a moment. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“So how did you find your new angel?” Bobby asked. “What did you do, call an escort service?” He winked, nodded.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Fuck you,” I said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I would,” he said, “but I fear you might like it.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Once they finished toting the massive bags, Marvin joined Doralisa and Mom in the front hall. With the front door wide open, Mom was shivering. She seemed to be giving Doralisa instructions of some sort, who then turned and murmured to me that Mom didn’t mind that she hadn’t done any baking this year or last.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Anyway, let me put you two to work,” Mom said, tapping my shoulder and ushering us down the hall to the kitchen. She pointed to the cupboard. “See for yourself what you can find. I’ve got sugar, flour, eggs, butter—I hope.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I see,” Doralisa said. There was an edge to her voice. “What should I bake? What is it you need me to bake?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, most anything. Something yummy for the young bunch. Just clean up the mess,” Mom said. “I have to check on some things, or we might have problems.” She left the kitchen.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Problems?” Doralisa asked. “We might have problems?” She grabbed her wrist and massaged it like she had carpal tunnel. Then she did the other wrist as she turned to me. “I tried to tell you the holidays are not an easy time for me. So why are you doing this to me?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I had no good answer to that. Instead, I listened for the sound of the front door closing. I wondered where Carly was. Doralisa curled her fingers into fists, then relaxed. She fidgeted with the toaster, microwave, and cookie jar. She opened the bread box, pulled out a bunch of black bananas, and fondled them. “Banana bread,” she said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Walking while staring into his device, Toby collided with Doralisa, who lost some of the flour that she was measuring as it fell to the floor. I swept up the mess. The boy seemed to be angry with his game and with something else. He stomped a foot, then he asked Doralisa to open his bag of M&Ms.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doralisa asked, “Did your mother say yes?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Sorry, guy.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, crap,” Toby said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Like my Cliff at an earlier age, so absorbed, or distracted,” she said. “Me and my ex got him a video game for Christmas long, long ago. He was playing with that when Wendell and I fought our final battle.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Must have been terrible,” I said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It was just one of those things. I screamed, he screamed, and you know how people with nothing to do for the holidays end up volunteering at a shelter? Well, that was me,” Doralisa said. “Don’t worry, I won’t freak.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Sorry. I know this day has been pretty weird so far. But, believe me, you’re in good hands.” I got a little smile out of her with that. It was quite an accomplishment considering I was still listening for the sound of Carly’s exit. I had no idea if she was still in the house. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“By the way, about the curio cabinet,” Doralisa said. “I think the best way to go is to leave it in a little bit of disarray instead of fussing around trying to put everything back in place. That might cause more commotion. We can tell your mother about it later.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Most of the folks were migrating toward the living room. Doralisa said she’d be there as soon as the bread was in the oven. I made my way down the hall, and I heard whispering at the front of the house, which set me off. Carly! What a black mark she was, spinning out of the ten-year blind spot in my mind’s eye. I bolted toward the living room, wondering, with what was left of my senses, whether it might be a better idea to tiptoe and spy. But no. I pressed firmly ahead, toward my mother and my ex-wife. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Carly,” I said. “Why are you here?” She had what I’d call a weird haircut, with her neck shaved halfway up the back of her head, so what hair she had shot out over her forehead and made her look even more self-important than I remembered. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Carly glared at me like I was really dangerous. Then she asked Mom, “Is he supposed to be here this early?” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">That kind of little jab made me start to stew, just like I did when I was married to Carly.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When Doralisa appeared, Mom made introductions. “Carly and Marvin were married once. But everything is fine now. It really is, honey.” She tapped Doralisa’s shoulder, and Doralisa cringed at the touch of my mother’s bony little fingers.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The familiarity between Mom and Carly just hacked me off. As I was trying to simmer down, I turned to my mother. “You had a chance to ask her to leave, so why didn’t you?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Carly is my guest,” Mom said. “Carly has always been part of the family, whether you knew it or not. Maybe it’s for the best that your paths are crossing just at the holidays.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was thinking never, but I was trying to not say anything.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Why don’t we all sit down and have a nice glass of plum wine?” Mom said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’d like that,” Doralisa said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I had no idea Carly would be here,” I said through clenched jaws. I said that mainly for the benefit of Doralisa, but she didn’t like my little outburst. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What was that for?” she told me. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Marvin is all about ruining things, such as a pleasant Christmastime afternoon,” Carly said, pointing at the curio cabinet. “Or a nice display of relics and novelties: I saw what you did earlier. Was it on purpose?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Of course not. It was just a little mishap,” Doralisa said. “A surprise interruption, that’s all.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Carly slit her eyes at me. “Marvin has a way of tripping you up from time to time,” she said. At this point, she was addressing the committee of the whole. “He can be a menace, you know. Have you ever made him mad?” she asked Doralisa, who arched an eyebrow in reply. “The slightest thing can set him off.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hey, there’s no reason for such talk now,” Doralisa said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, then when?” Carly said, glowering.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It’s Christmastime,” I said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Carly was still eying Doralisa. “But have you ever crossed him? Have you ever tried anything so much as having a life of your own? Then, one year, accidentally or otherwise, your house is set on fire for some reason.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hey, none of that,” I said, feeling a salty-sour taste in the back of my throat. “For one thing, I didn’t burn down the house, and I’m certainly not a menace.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Why, Carly, I’m surprised at you,” Mom said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Me, too. I’ve had just about enough,” Doralisa said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t blame you,” Carly said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hey there little missy, get a grip,” Doralisa said with a blazing glare.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom wrung her hands. “Perhaps a glass of plum wine some other time,” she said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I decided to pretend nothing had happened beyond running into my horrible ex-wife. Maybe Doralisa would think Carly’s remarks were just a load of shit. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doralisa pushed me toward the kitchen. “It’s the only area of neutrality,” she said, peeking in at her banana bread. I went back to make sure Mom was really saying good-bye to Carly.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">We sent Carly out into the cold, and Bobby, with three fingers of whiskey, also went outside. He spoke to her, and she said something back, shaking her head. Bobby’s wife, Bridget, came out with a throw blanket around her. She said something that got a laugh. They looked toward the front door. I couldn’t tell if they were looking at me, specifically, or just at the door and I happened to be there. It pissed me off that they might be messing with me. When your brother is a total asshole, there’s not a hell of a lot you can do about it. Carly proceeded to her car and headed down the street. After she was out of sight, and Bridget went into the house, Bobby asked me to stay outside for a minute. Once more, he gouged me in the shoulder with his thumb. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hey, Marv, wait. I gotta say something.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You always have something to say, so this time, just cram it up your ass.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah, but—”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Not taking the bait this time,” I said. “I don’t ruin things. I am not a menace. I don’t make people mad. But I’m steamed now.” When I said I was mad, I got madder. A part of the walk down to the street was icy. I really didn’t try to shove Bobby on the ice, but down he went. Then he tried to push me, but luckily I remained vertical. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Why did you shove me on the ice?” he asked. “What’d I do?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You’re the only person here worth body-slamming to the ice. Carly wasn’t here anymore.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, it hurts. My ass! Don’t tell Bridget. She’ll be pissed. I always mess around with the kids, and I end up going to urgent care. Don’t say it’s horse play. Just say it’s an accident.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll take it under advisement.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hey, I wanted to say something, before you shoved me on the ice. Your girlfriend, you know, she’s cool.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I know.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I mean she’s really great. Don’t let her get away. Don’t fuck it up!”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bobby and I slogged our way back into the warmth. Doralisa grasped my arm and muttered in my ear. “Wow, I’m really glad that Carly left.” I refused to say anything. She nodded firmly. “That’s it, chin up. Go with the flow. You’ll be glad you did.” At a moment when I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d decided to leave, she patted me on the back like I was some kind of old pal.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom clutched Doralisa’s arm. “How are you progressing in the kitchen, my dear?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Good news,” Doralisa said. “I am pleased to announce that my good friend Toby has donated a substantial quantity of his private M&Ms stock to underwrite a highly experimental and yummy form of banana bread.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mom looked pleased at the smell of banana bread, and she told everyone in the kitchen that Bridget would be working on supper. “Now, Marvin, you be nice. Carly is good to me,” Mom said. I felt her cold, bony grip tightening. “She comes in and helps with the little things you and your brother can’t do because of the distance.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I knew this was as much explanation as I would get. Basking in the burned-off fog of Carly’s departure, I was willing to think about forgiving Mom. I was lost in these thoughts when Bobby approached. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“By the way, Marvin wants to get the tree this year,” Mom said. I had almost decided I didn’t care about the tree anymore. Then I decided I really did care.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bobby stepped back theatrically. “Really,” he said, frowning with mock sternness. “Don’t get sentimental like Charlie Brown and choose a pathetic tree.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You should think more about the true meaning of Christmas,” I said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“All right,” he said, “I pass along the mantle. Find a tree for us. Go in good health.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">After Doralisa pulled the banana bread out of the oven, she came up and locked arms with me. “We’re off,” she said and escorted me to the front door. We threw ourselves into our coats and went out into the refreshing cold.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I didn’t talk to her as I drove, and didn’t mind the awkward silence. But she started talking. “You know, your mother had plenty of time, once she stuck us in the kitchen, to get rid of Carly.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Mom was probably trying not to be impolite to her.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Politeness seems to come and go in your family,” she said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">My temples pulsed. No pain yet, just throb. I listened to my head until we were standing in the middle of the Christmas tree lot, where sale tags showed the market was in a Christmas Eve free fall. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“At these prices, we can get a redwood,” I said. We walked along one of several rows of trees resting against sagging temporary fences.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She found a scrawny Scotch pine, grasped it near its top, and held it upright. She studied it and finally said, “Who cares? My cheeks are brittle right now.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“We need a really impressive tree,” I said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She seized a pine branch and shook it in my direction. Brown needles sprinkled the asphalt. “You know, there is one good thing about not holding the hot potato on Christmas: freedom from trees.” She flung the tree against the fence. The warm, fuzzy effect of baking seemed to be wearing off. “I’m not saying it’s all that much of a crime to kill a tree for Christmas. That’s why they’re grown. But it sure is easier to leave all the memories packed away in a box in the attic.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was listening, kind of, while browsing, trying to find the biggest tree that would fit through the front door. “I wish I could do that,” I said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She hurried down the row of trees, slapping branches as she went. When I caught up, she raised herself on her toes, took my face in her hands, and gave me a great big kiss. Then she asked me a question. “That pyro stuff Carly hinted about. True?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ever since I’d met her, I’d been anticipating this moment. “I resolved long ago that if I ever met another woman I liked, I’d share the story. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“This is what happens when you procrastinate,” she said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You know, year after year, you take the Christmas tree for granted. Then, one year, you accidentally set it on fire.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She moved toward the Douglas firs. They looked like good, healthy trees—green, not brown. I tagged along. “It’s all right. You can keep talking,” she said. I think she was trying to outmaneuver the guy selling trees, who was now bearing down on us. I waved him off. She pointed to me with her full hand, as if she were giving me the floor. “And?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I decided to press firmly ahead. “I hated Carly’s friends. They were making money, and I wasn’t, which didn’t have to matter, except they made it matter. She invited dozens of them for one of those holiday open houses. I’d have to face them for a whole afternoon. So that day, just after lunch, I started a fire in the fireplace and I went into the kitchen for a moment or two. Carly had gone out for some extra wine. The tree was too close to the fireplace. There was one of those big pops that I did not tend to. A wayward spark was all it took, and it landed on the tree. You’d be surprised how fast one of those things goes up. It ruined the open house, it ruined Christmas, the house and my marriage. But it was an accident!”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She spotted a really nice fir tree. She looked at it, not at me. “My God, I’m surprised you wanted to pick out the tree given what happened.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She set down the tree and twisted the sleeve of my coat. “I always tell myself, when I see I’m making a mistake with a man: Don’t worry. Nothing’s happened yet. We aren’t married. We don’t have kids. We haven’t even had sex yet.” Even as she said this, she pulled me closer, which I wasn’t expecting. We spent a few moments like that. Then she said, “So you want to get a tree to atone, symbolically, for the one that was incinerated. Is that it?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“She made it sound like I set the tree on fire on purpose,” I said. “My family sided with Carly after she told them about my carelessness. But she didn’t tell them, or at least I doubt she’s told them, that she kind of blackmailed me.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doralisa raised one eyebrow. “What now?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yes, it’s bizarre,” I said. “She told me, while we huddled under Red Cross blankets, later that fateful afternoon, that she would claim I did it on purpose, unless I divorced her and gave her a hefty settlement. Our marriage was over anyway. All things considered, it was a pretty good deal for me.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“That’s just screwy.” Doralisa closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know whether I should say this, but I kind of like you. Just make sure you stay away from fire.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“At least I’m telling the truth about what happened,” I said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She covered her mouth, then she took her hand away. “All right, Marvin, here’s the deal. You’ve been over to my place quite a bit, and it’s still standing. But listen up: You owe me, big time. And I’m a blackmailer of sorts, too. It’s going to cost you more than what Carly sucked out of you. If you don’t pay up, that’s it.” She smiled a small smile of encouragement. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What do I owe?” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You think about it,” she said. “Come up with a payment. If it’s not beautiful enough and truthful enough, the deal is off.” I looked at the tree she had picked out. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“This tree is perfect. It will impress everyone when we bring it home.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Keep in mind, your brother is going to eat you alive, no matter how beautiful the tree is.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But maybe not,” I said. “Let’s just see what happens.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;"> “So what? This is the tree. Come on.” I was glad she was caught up in the Christmas spirit, or whatever kind of spirit you want to call it, even against what seemed to me her better judgment. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“So, I need to make a big downpayment on generosity and honesty in just a few hours,” I said. We hoisted the tree, me by the base, she close to the tip where the star would go, ready to carry it off while a million little needle pricks demanded immediate action. But we weren’t going anywhere. She looked back at me because I had stopped, lost in thought. I was going to say something. I was trying to formulate words, something about how I felt abnormally blessed and glad she was with me. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She cut me off. “Shut up. Buy it. Throw it in the trunk. Let’s go.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I hope there’s some banana bread left,” I said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">As for Doralisa, she said, “And lots of plum wine.”</span></p></div>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-44394426316020109192022-02-18T08:51:00.007-06:002022-11-26T09:16:13.303-06:00The Precarious Limb<p> </p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">by Ed Peaco</span></b></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Published by River Oak Review </span></i></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Winter 2000-Spring ’01</span></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Chosen for <i>Santa Fe Writers Project</i> fiction contest, <br />
2002, posting among the best 65 entries</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Phil Schilling watched storm warnings creeping across the bottom of the screen while he sat on the living room couch with his wife, whose favorite television program was about to begin. Their county did not appear among the names of counties scuttling by, which made Phil question the point of the unrelenting creep of words. They wormed along, proclaiming the type of weather threat, the affected areas, and the suggested precautions. Then the words slunk by a second time. Minutes later, the process began anew. It interfered with Phil’s appreciation of the medical drama, in which a calm doctor suggested a patient would recover if treated with pills, while an excitable doctor wanted to try a tricky operation he was not qualified to perform but which he claimed represented the patient’s only hope.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Phil once lived a lively life of the mind as an aspiring member of the English faculty at a large university, but he’d jumped off the tenure track a year ago. At first, he insisted he’d been forced out by trendy theory and identity politics, but he’d come to accept that his dissertation was late and not brilliant enough. He ended up working on a cemetery grounds crew and earned nearly triple what he would have made teaching on a per-course basis at a community college. After an exhausting yet enlightening summer — he learned how to do everything but operate the backhoe — the funeral home chain that owned the cemetery moved him up to plot sales and then into marketing. In a few days, he would reach the three-month mark in this new job, at which point he stood to gain full-time, permanent status and a twenty percent raise. Now that he had a job in the real world, as he once called it, he had plenty of time to sit around in the evenings, watching television whenever his son, eight-year-old Nathan, did not seize control of the tube for video games. With this show, Phil usually took an interest in the orchestration of medical professionals’ soap operas and bloody messes crashing through emergency-room doors. In some cases, the professionals faced decisions in which either choice contained elements of wrong and right. While admiring these dramatic elements, Phil winced at the implications of his musings. Yes, with the collapse of his long scholarly enterprise, the years of hardship and suffering of fools, he had achieved a new consciousness that would have made him a star academic — he found merit in television!</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Halfway through the program, the storm warning expanded to include their county, which only aggravated Phil more, because the weather outside remained calm. Distracted and, at last, resigned, he sought sleep. “I’m packing it in,” he said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You’re going to miss it,” Anne said. “Somebody’s going to die, or nearly die, and somebody else will get into a heap of trouble.” Phil shrugged and waved goodnight. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">During the night, the wind came up, and thunder and lightning kept Phil awake. A driving rain drummed on the roof, intensifying with frequent wind gusts. Anne rose and shut the windows. “Sounds pretty bad,” she said when she crawled back under the sheets.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t think much of anything will happen, do you?” Phil asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s a matter of wind, rain, thunder and lightning — where it hits and how hard. Who could possibly say?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The wind built to a howl, and hail strafed the windows, which did give Phil pause. He thought Nathan would plod whiningly into their bedroom, trying to disguise his fear of thunder with some other complaint. But Nathan did not appear. Lately he seemed to be growing up a little. He had taken to calling everything stupid and frequently asking Do I have to? These thoughts comforted Phil as he drifted in and out of sleep through the tumultuous night.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Phil awoke to find branches, leaves, and assorted debris cluttering lawns in the neighborhood. He surveyed his property and found a few twigs here and there, but his roof and his trees remained intact. In the back yard, he looked up into the great side-by-side maples. They looked sound, too. The lack of damage relieved Phil; cleanup always wasted so much time. He did notice a disorganized clot of branches and some peeling bark in one of the maples, but he dismissed the apparent mess as nothing more than a temporary windblown tangle. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">His wife poked her head out the back door, and Phil said, “I told you nothing would happen.” </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Midway through her morning sequence, she had her wet hair wrapped in a towel. “How’d you get so lucky?” she said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The previous year, when Phil went to work in the cemetery, Anne scrambled to find a job with benefits and landed one in the accounts receivable department of a cell-phone startup. Despite the hectic schedule, she’d been happier ever since: she didn’t exactly approve of Phil mowing lawns and filling in graves, but at least he’d freed himself from the university, and now they had two substantial paychecks and fewer worries. Nathan even liked the few hours of day care they had to arrange for him. In this light, Anne’s question took Phil aback. It sounded more like the old Anne, doubting and, at times, spiteful. “What do you mean I got lucky?” he asked. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You’re the one who dozes in the face of danger.” She looked around, no doubt for neighbors who might see her in her pre-primped state, then ventured into the back yard. He hugged her. She unfurled the towel and shook out her hair, sprinkling Phil. “Our ship comes in this week, right?” she asked. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;"> “I wouldn’t go that far,” Phil said. True, he would get a big raise contingent upon a favorable review at the end of his three-month probationary period, but that money merely would put him at the salary the company promised when it promoted him. He always thought of the kind of job he had now as impossibly mundane, mediocrity’s last resort. It was a letdown from last year, when the cemetery rescued him from the wreckage of his hopes. Life at the cemetery — pulling one’s own weight, lending a hand, setting goals and accomplishing them as a team — such refreshing concepts. But that cemetery summer now seemed like nothing more than a vaguely recollected dream. Nowadays, he had to control himself at work so as not to snicker at the abysmally absurd corporate group-think he faced every day — differing only in content from the oppression of faculty politics! “It’s not that big of a deal,” he said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It’s more money than we’ve ever had,” she said. “I say we celebrate. Long live the funeral factory!” They kissed, and, still standing, Phil wrapped a leg around Anne’s leg, and Anne curled her free calf around Phil’s unoccupied thigh — a relatively new pose that Phil traced to Anne’s newfound contentment. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Nathan appeared at the door, giggling. “Why do you do that if I can’t watch it on TV?” he asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">That evening, Phil arrived home and found Anne playing with the cats in the back yard, encouraging them to jump for a string she twirled from the end of a flexible wand. She spotted Phil through a window and beckoned for him. Still carrying his casket catalogs and strategy binders, he stepped out to the patio. Anne looked up into the maples and pointed. “What’s that?” she asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What?” He squinted in the direction she was pointing. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It’s a branch,” she said. “It’s broken off, and it’s stuck up there, all tangled in the trees. It’s a really big branch.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Phil kept looking and at last recognized the branch in question. Halfway up one of the maples, maybe thirty feet up, a long, thick limb had split off from the trunk. It dangled by a flimsy length of splintered wood, and the other end of the limb had fallen into the branches of the neighboring maple. It was, indeed, a big limb, maybe twenty feet long and about eight inches in diameter at its thickest. But it remained stuck up there, high off the ground. “Well, that’s fortunate,” Phil said. “As long as it’s up there, it can stay up there.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But what happens when it falls?” she asked. “It probably weighs a ton.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Nothing will happen. It’s not hanging over the house or the patio. A tree surgeon would cost an arm and a leg.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“So would medical and legal bills if that big branch fell on a person.” She had her hands on her hips. Silence persisted between them. She took a deep breath and said, “You need to call somebody.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next evening, Phil arrived home and found, to his annoyance, Nathan in the back yard kicking a soccer ball against the foundation of the house. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“How many times have I told you not to do that?” Phil asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But it’s so easy,” Nathan said. “The ball bounces right back to me.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You might put out a window or dent the siding.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, I won’t. I shoot at the stone part. It helps me keep my shots low.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Phil pointed out several smudges and dents in the old aluminum siding. “Looks to me like you shot a little high a few times.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But most of the time I shoot low.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“How about not shooting there at all?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Aw, shit.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Watch your mouth.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Aw.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“How about I play goalie for you — in the middle of the yard.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hell, no.” </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hey, I’m warning you,” Phil said as his son stalked off. Phil considered punishing him for swearing, but that would only lead to a scene in which Nathan would commit further infractions. Where would it end?</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anne tapped Phil on the shoulder. “Did you call somebody about the tree?” she asked. She apparently had seen the confrontation but didn’t care about it as much as she cared about the tree.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Not yet.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She raised her hand as if to make an argument, then let it fall weakly to her side. “I’ve got to tell you, you’re behind the curve here. When you were teaching, you never had time for anything; or, if you had the time, we had no money. Now we’ve got a little of both. I’m telling you: We can afford to call somebody. So, call, OK?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“When it falls, I’ll rent a chain saw and cut it into firewood.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“A chain saw? You’d decapitate yourself!” She strode to the twinned maples and positioned herself beneath the precarious limb. She looked up, spread her arms, then looked over to Phil. “How would you feel if this branch crashed to earth and killed your dear, loving wife?” She fell to the ground and lay flat on her back, arms and legs akimbo, pretending to be dead.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, come on,” he said. She always did this to him, planted seeds of doubt.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You know something?” she asked, pointing upward and tracing something in the air. “This branch really isn’t all that far from the patio, which really isn’t all that far from the house, as you can plainly see. Not to mention the cable TV line and the phone line. If the branch fell, it wouldn’t necessarily fall straight down. It would definitely bounce off the limbs in its path — this way and that, like a ball bouncing in one of those old pinball machines.” She pointed to the various branches off which the would-be severed limb might bounce. “I hate to tell you, but it might even hit the house. Or, it could fall straight down and hit someone standing directly below.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Get away from there.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Why? What could happen?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Nathan ran over to his mother and flopped down next to her. He said, “Look, Dad. I’m dead, too! Are you happy now?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">That night, the wind came up again. No storm developed, but gusts occasionally rustled the trees loudly enough to waken Phil. He envisioned people he didn’t particularly like — the faculty bastards he liked to blame for his academic demise, his new boss of corpse capitalism, the bratty neighbor kid — each of them running, one by one, under the maple tree as the terrible limb repeatedly fell and squashed its victim. Phil entertained himself with this parade until he decided his thoughts were a little warped, even for him. If the branch fell, would it fall on the house as Anne warned? No, that seemed rather unlikely. Yet it might take out the utility lines. He listened to the wind and estimated its force. He judged the chance of the limb falling that night as unlikely. But eventually, it would surely fall. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next morning, Phil rose late, hurried through his routine, and rushed out the door. Later, in the middle of a long, boring meeting about the customer service implications of standardization of bereavement packages, it occurred to him that he had not called the tree surgeon. He made a mental note to do so as soon as the meeting ended. But, immediately upon adjournment, he rushed to the bathroom and did not think again about the tree surgeon until he returned home that evening, too late to call with expectation of reaching anything but a recording. With his feet up on the patio table and his eyes drifting to the split-off, tangled-up limb, he considered calling with hope of leaving a message, but then Anne called to say she’d be late. Phil responded by swinging into action to prepare dinner for her arrival, and he did not think about the tree surgeon again until his head hit the pillow.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">As he grumbled toward sleep, he had to admit that, in some part of his mind, he had been aware of the alarming limb well before Anne pointed it out. Now he felt sure he’d seen the damage on that morning after the storm. Perhaps he had become so accustomed to ignoring problems and putting things off that his mind had dismissed the tree damage before he allowed himself to fully evaluate the matter. Furthermore, he supposed that, if he had indeed fully evaluated the matter, he would have steered himself to the same conclusion: doing nothing represented an acceptable risk. The limb could be dealt with much more easily, efficiently and cheaply once it fell to the ground — if it ever did. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next day barely dawned through black billows of storm clouds. Phil had grown accustomed to long sieges of springtime gloom, but this episode accentuated his dread over the menacing branch. Sipping coffee, he stepped out to the patio to view the sinking floats of leaden cloudscape. He squinted through spitting rain and found the limb undulating in unison with attached branches in the breeze, which swelled steadily, reaching what Phil had to admit were rather strong gusts. At the point of greatest wind intensity, the dangling branch oscillated faster than its fixed neighbors, creaking like a rickety old rocking chair. He wondered if the limb would fall, right then and there. But the wind died back, and, to Phil’s misery, the limb remained aloft. He wondered why the scene aggravated him so much. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Phil turned and found Anne in the opening of the back door, staring at him. “Hey, today’s the day, is it not?” she asked, running her thumb back and forth across her fingers. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You should know,” Phil said. “You’ve only had it circled on the calendar for eighty-nine days.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’ve got some surprises for later.” She kissed him, and they flexed into their newfound pose, and she kissed him extra hard, with special emphasis of tongue, surely to suggest the nature of the surprises she planned. Then he turned her around so he could keep looking at the tree.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anne pulled away. “It won’t fall unless you stop watching it,” she said. “Why are you making it into such an ordeal?” Before he could think of anything to say, she went inside. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What about Nathan?” he asked. “I mean tonight, with the surprises and all.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anne sighed. “That can be something for you to worry about all day.” She gathered her purse, sack lunch, keys, and umbrella, and herded Nathan toward the garage.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">After his wife and son departed, Phil considered the trunk of the wounded tree. He still felt the sting of Anne’s worry all day comment. He took pride in his critical thinking skills; he didn’t worry. He eyeballed the distance from the ground to the first fork of the tree trunk. Phil owned an extension ladder he used twice a year to clean the gutters. The ladder, by his estimation, would reach nearly to that fork. One foothold higher, the tree forked again. Above that point, many small branches suggested footholds and handholds, leading to the affected limb a few shinnies away. As he had already established days ago, the limb in question had split most of the way off, so the remaining wood to be sawed represented a fairly manageable job. He could deal with that damn branch himself. He could, and he would.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Later that day, Phil’s boss met him in the hall and asked Phil whether he’d checked his pay stub. Phil nodded, and his boss gave him a thumbs-up and went on his way. So, this emergence from probation amounted to no more than a stale gesture, Phil assessed. In a small way, he felt let down; and yet, what did he expect, some silly certificate? champagne? No, he felt grateful that this rite of passage did not include, say, a drearily intense session of prioritizing and goal-setting. In another way, he felt vindicated. He was right and Anne was wrong: It was not a big deal. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">All day long, Phil’s mind drifted toward home, toward the back yard. By mid-afternoon, something reached critical mass in his throbbing temples, and he left work early. Back home, he emptied his pockets on the kitchen table. He fetched the extension ladder and the small, dull saw that hung on a nail in the garage, and headed out back. He could have borrowed better tools from the cemetery. Last year, the whole crew would have come over to help, in exchange for a twelve-pack. But all that ended the first day Phil showed up wearing a tie to work the phones in the air conditioning. No, he was on his own now. He took off his tie and passed it through the handle of the saw. Then he strapped the tie over one shoulder and under the other armpit and tied a knot, creating a holster for the saw and freeing his hands. He suddenly realized he had forgotten to change his clothes — too bad! There was no turning back now. He carried his equipment to the base of the maple. He extended the ladder as far as it would go and started to climb. When he reached the first fork, the ladder wobbled, but he kept climbing. Tiptoeing on the second-from-top rung, he swung a leg over into the fork, and popping into his mind came the memory of having suffered from a fear of heights years ago. Would it overcome him now? He hoped his sense of purpose would thwart his fear. Resolving not to look down, he moved up to the next fork, out along the thick branch to a point where he could reach the wounded limb above him. Straddling the fat branch and resting his neck against the stump of the broken limb, he untied his tie and drew his saw. When he swiped once back and once forth, generating a modest sprinkling of sawdust, he grasped that the job would require a fair amount of time. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What on earth?” cried a voice from below — Anne, accompanied by a man in work clothes, carrying a tool with a very long handle.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll be down in a little while,” Phil said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Get down now. I’ve got a professional here.” </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Give me a break.” He began sawing but stopped after a few passes, his shoulder already aching. “What did you call him for?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It was one of my surprises.” She stamped her foot and balled her hands into fists. “You got your raise, I see,” she said, waving his crumpled stub, “and now you’re trying to kill yourself.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’m not afraid. I thought I would be afraid, but I’m not, all that much,” he said. “Stand clear!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hold on up there,” the professional said. He extended his hand upward. He wasn’t pointing; he wasn’t exactly beckoning. He was reaching out to Phil in a gentle, cautious manner. “What you’re doing ain’t advisable,” he said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’m fine,” Phil said. He resumed sawing.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“If you was to come down outta that tree, I sure would be happy to get up there with my tools and fix you right up.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Phil maintained the continuous motion of his work. “Don’t worry.” He hoped that if he demonstrated dedication and control, those below would back off. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anne glanced up and down, churning where she stood, muttering, “Please, please, please.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“For one thing, sir,” the professional said, “it don’t look like you puzzled out what that limb’s fixing to do once you saw it off. You need to study that through before you cut. I got ropes and things to bring it down easy. The way you’re going about it ain’t exactly advisable.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Phil said nothing. His arm hurt, so he switched hands and resumed sawing. He quickly found he couldn’t saw very well left-handed, so he switched back and sawed through the pain. He made more progress than he expected over what seemed like a short period of time. Anne and the professional moved away, and she stopped muttering “please” and started muttering “damn fool” and “stupid bastard.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It’s coming,” Phil called down. His arm and shoulder burned with liquid pain, but somehow he ignored it even as he felt it. Suddenly the limb cracked and peeled and swung free. The long-awaited moment took Phil by surprise, such that he could not move out of the way as the limb fell toward him in his perch directly below it. As the limb fell, the jagged end grazed Phil’s cheek. It landed with a loud thud, another event that took him by surprise. At first he dismissed his injury as minor, like a cat scratch. Then it started to sting, and blood dripped down his chin and floated toward the lawn in droplets that broke into spray. Still, he’d get over it, he thought; the wound couldn’t be that big of a deal. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anne ran over and looked up at him. “You’re hurt. Don’t tell me you’re not.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I did it!” Phil shouted.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She stepped back to avoid the blood drip. “You idiot!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“That sure is a big ol’ limb,” the professional said, peering up at Phil. “You might want to have that cut looked at.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It’s nothing,” Phil said. He touched the scrapes, and they hurt.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Phil started thinking about the possibilities inherent in the moment. The thought of coming down began to rattle him. Backing down the ladder would require him to step where he couldn’t see. He probably would get scared, and he wanted the professional out of the way when that happened. “You haul brush, right?” Phil asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah. So?”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Great. As long as you’re here, we’ve got quite a pile of debris over there behind those shrubs.” Phil had been wanting to get rid of that pile for months. However, the professional did not go to work on the pile. He kept watching Phil.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anne approached the downed limb and tried to kick it with the heel of her flat shoe. It didn’t move. She craned her neck and stared at Phil. She was huffing. “Please get your ass down here,” she said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The professional came over and said, “I’ll hold the ladder so you don’t break your neck.” Phil took heart at this offer. His chest constricted as he lurched backwards and down to find the first foothold on the ladder. The professional climbed up and steadied Phil’s buttocks during the descent. Phil did not appreciate the gesture, but, from another perspective, he felt thankful. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Phil sat in a patio chair and palmed his bleeding face while the professional used a power saw to divide the big branch into sections. Anne brought out a first-aid kit and a dish of ice. “See if this stuff will help,” she said, letting the kit crash to the table. “You probably need stitches, though. At least we can meet the co-pay without any problem.” She flipped his pay stub onto the table like a card in a poker game. The professional finished sawing and began carrying off the sections two at a time. Anne shook her head in disgust. “But you blew your other surprise. I arranged for Nathan to spend the evening at Paula’s,” she said, referring to their neighbor across the street, whose son, Caleb, was Nathan’s age. “We’ll have the whole house to ourselves for the first time in ages,” she said ruefully, slapping her hands against her thighs. “But now this! I’ll round him up and get him over there before he sees you in your condition.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Fine.” </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The professional now went to work on the debris pile, one armload at a time, trip after trip. Phil rarely sat around while another person toiled, but what other choice did he have? His stinging cheek wound turned into something of an ache. He pressed ice cubes against his cheek and waited for the ice to produce its effect, whatever that would be, but the treatment only yielded a stream of pinkish dampness that dripped onto the patio concrete.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bearing another load of sticks, the professional passed by the patio. Phil looked up from his task of trying not to dribble on his clothes. “Tell you what,” the professional said. “That ice ain’t doing you one bit a good, and I’ll tell you why. Your hand warms it up, and it turns to water on your cheek, and the water only helps the blood keep bleeding. It’s the same deal as how people commit suicide by slicing up their wrists in the bathtub.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“The ice — that’s my wife’s idea.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t matter. Still oughtta get that looked at.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yes, of course,” Phil said. “I just want to assure you I’m not trying to commit suicide. Whatever it is, it’s not that.” But the professional already had moved on, leaving Phil alone to enjoy his own quip.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anne reappeared. “Have you seen Nathan?” </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No,” he said. She stood over him, hands on hips, breathing loudly, making a fine display of her aggravation. “Come on, lighten up,” he said. “I got an idea in my head, and I made it happen. Nothing I’ve done lately can beat this.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It could have been a lot worse.” She stepped toward him, then stepped back. “I just don’t want to lose everything we’ve gained in the past year, all because of you and your screwy ideas.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“A little scratch is a small price to pay.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I should let you bleed to death out here.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hey, if you brought out a little more ice, I think that could be arranged.” As soon as Phil made this remark, he realized it was not the best choice of words for the moment, and, worse, it lacked context. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She looked closer at his face and grimaced. “That’s it. We’re going to the ER.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He fully expected some severe ugliness to erupt between them, but then Nathan came around the side yard into the back with Caleb.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;"> “Whassup?” Nathan asked. Phil didn’t try to hide anything. What was there to hide? He was sick of trying to stop his ever-trickling flow of blood. He simply faced the boys and bled.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Wow, Mr. Schilling. That blood looks real,” Caleb said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It is real,” Phil said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What happened?” Nathan asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I was doing a little tree trimming. A branch hit me.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Cool!” Caleb said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Shut up!” Nathan shouted. He tried to touch his father’s cheek, but Phil leaned away. “It must really hurt,” Nathan said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It hurts a little,” Phil said. “It sure does.” Anne slit her eyes. Phil hoped she wouldn’t say anything; he found it easier when she just stood by and fumed.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Phil showed off his face to the boys. They studied it closely. “There’s a lot of skin that’s not there,” Caleb said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Are you gonna be OK, Dad?” Nathan asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Probably,” Phil said. “Don’t let Caleb scare you.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’m not scared,” Nathan said, staring at the patio cement.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anne stepped forward and steered the boys away by the backs of their necks. “Come on. I’m sending both of you back to Caleb’s while your father and I go to the emergency room.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I want to go too!” Nathan said, twisting out of his mother’s grasp. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No you don’t,” she said. “It will be just a lot of waiting.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Nathan chewed furiously on his lower lip, something he’d started doing when worried or dismayed. Phil quickly dried his hands on his pants and clapped Nathan on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. It’s just a little blood. Stuff like this happens when you’re having too much fun.” He kept his hand in place, willing Nathan’s jaws to stop working. At last, the boy did relax. I’ve got the magic touch today, Phil thought.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Can I go, too, Dad?” Nathan asked. “We’d all go if I had to go to the ER.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Phil looked to Anne, who shook her head vehemently. He shrugged and reached for the first-aid kit and looked for some cotton, but he didn’t find any. He pressed his pay stub against his cheek. The sturdy, smooth document stock failed to sop up blood, but it would have to do for now. He withdrew his hand, and the pay stub stayed stuck to his cheek. It worked as a useful tool, eliciting a smile from Nathan and a fiery stare from Anne. “Come on,” he said, hugging his son and reaching out to Anne. “Let’s make it a family outing.”</span></p>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-33245056699657296032022-02-18T08:48:00.003-06:002022-11-26T09:16:37.166-06:00Prologue<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b>by Ed Peaco</b></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>Published by River Oak Review</i> </p>
<p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">No. 15/16, Winter 2000 / Spring 2001</p>
<p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">Chosen for <i>Santa Fe Writers Project</i> fiction contest, </p>
<p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;">2002, posted among the best 65 entries</p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">From my favorite window booth in the coffee shop, I watched Doralisa chatting on the opposite sidewalk with a man dressed in rags. I didn't mind that she was making herself late. I liked the old coffee shop, which was in the grand old office building I worked out of, and I liked watching her. She broke away and hustled across the street, her semi-gray hair flying wildly, her feet scurrying under the yardage of her jumper. She saw me and waved, and her small blue pack, the kind kids take to school, slid off her shoulder and down to her wrist. She sat down, stowed her pack under the table, and started in. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was Monday, which for me was blue serge day. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“An apartment just opened up. There’s room for one family,” she said. “I don't know whether it should go to the family with the single mother who has cirrhosis of the liver or the people living in the refrigerator box.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She was famous for doing the dirty work agencies couldn't seem to get done. We'd known each other a couple of weeks. We were supposed to be ironing out the details of the grant she'd received from the community do-good group I raised money for. She'd talked us out of quite a little wad. But I'd reached the stage of hoping we'd talk about new things. “Pick the single mother,” I said, “even though she's an alcoholic.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But Marvin, she's not an alcoholic. She has the congenital form of the disease. There are so many reasons why we need money.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I let her unruly dark-and-gray hair distract me when she pushed it off her forehead and it fell back into her eyes. Blue eyes, though pale. “About your proposal, I've still got a few questions,” I said. Among the movers and shakers in Change for the Better, as it was called, I was known for getting things done, which was a big plus in a group full of moralizing blowhards. I wasn't exactly a model member, but I had my own reasons for belonging.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“She says she can't work, but the state says she can, so her benefits were cut off, and they all ended up on the street. She says she needs a stress-free environment, preferably with air conditioning.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Don't we all.” A figure in multiple overcoats passed by the window, and Doralisa smile and waved. We'd gone off track. I wondered how long it would take that congenital cirrhosis woman to end up like my friend Hank, wasting away in a nursing home. He wasn't old; he had M.S. I was about as old as he was when he bought a motorized wheelchair from me, which, at this point, he couldn't get out of bed to use anymore. How quickly the years had been dragging on, and yet a lot of things had changed. I wasn't selling just wheelchairs anymore. I was managing all manner of medical supplies for hospitals and clinics, getting paid not for pushing product but for saving money. It was a new era, and things were going pretty well for me.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“She's invested in a grave plot,” Doralisa said. “She says she has ten years left, at best.“I watched her lips move. I didn't feel like serving my community.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“That's rough,” I said, thinking Hank had been laid up about that long, and might have that long left to go. I looked down at my list of questions. We were taking a chance on her; she was known as something of a maverick. But, with box people and a grave-plot woman on the table, I didn't see a way of getting back on track. So, I said, “I know a guy whose days are numbered.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“And what do you do for him?” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Talk to him, when I can think of something to say.” A group of my office neighbors strolled by the window. They waved at me, and I nodded and gave them a two-fingered wave back. Truth be told, I'd forgotten to visit Hank the week before.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“There's more you could do.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sure, I could do more, I thought. I could spend all my considerable free time with Hank instead of drinking beer, watching ESPN and eating from my never-ending pot of something meaty on the stove. I could let Doralisa spend the money I piss away even after maxing out my retirement plan. I finally said, “I do what I can. I stick with him.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“So, who would you choose?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“For what?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Aren't you listening?” she asked.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was wondering what she would think if she knew about the perpetual stew on my stove. If things kept going, she'd eventually discover things about me. “Ten years?” I asked. “How does she know?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“She's been told.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“How does she seem?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Resigned.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“That's a long time, actually,” I said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Or, there's the laid-off couple that got wiped out by medical bills,” she said. “The daughter went on a hayride and fell under the tractor and lost her scalp. Now they live in a box.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Normally, when people talk a lot at me, I tend to tune them out. Maybe that would have been a better way to go. Instead, I laughed. “Her scalp? Is she getting help for her scalp?” I asked. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doralisa leaned over. “You should meet Cliff, my son. He likes to laugh at others' misfortunes.” Her glare was scary. “How can you find anything in that family's situation the least bit funny?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I don't know. Sometimes you just have to laugh.” I hadn't told her the whole story of Hank, which I could only hope to chuckle over. I hadn't told her yet I'd been divorced for ten years and living on my own in a trailer, which I thought was hilarious. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She stood up. “I hope you understand why I'm leaving right now.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I'll make it up to you.” It was all I could manage. I couldn't believe she was leaving over no more than this. The way I remembered it, you had to be screaming at each other before you got up and stomped away. And you weren't supposed to skip any steps. You were supposed to relish each little ratcheting up of the conflict.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She stooped for her pack. “It's not me who matters,” she said from under the table. Then she reappeared, dug through her pack, and produced a sticky-note pad. She wrote something on it and pasted in on my side of the table, upside down to me. It said, You're warped. She slung her pack over her shoulder and left.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I went to visit Hank that night, the people at the home said he'd been rushed to intensive care after inhaling his puree. He'd been there before and always bounced back, so I wasn't too worried.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I went on to the hospital. A phone hung on the wall next to the double doors to intensive care. A sign said to call Extension 2761 before entering, but I ignored it. The doors opened on their own after I touched the big shiny dot on one of them. Inside, everybody looked busy, so I found Hank's bed myself and opened the sliding glass door. He had tubes up his nose and in his arm and wires taped to his chest. The equipment whined softly and flashed like a stack of VCRs. Hank looked puffy. His face was sweating, and he was breathing heavily. The room had a clock, a window, and wallpaper of that dirty-pink color my ex-wife would call mauve, with a paisley pattern, probably to soothe people who had tubes in them.“Where you been?” he asked. His cough shook the tubes. It was a messy, rattling cough, like gargling, but deep in his chest. The sound gave me some trouble in the back of my own throat. “They about buried me last week,” he said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You mean you were worse?” I asked. He tried to laugh but gave way to rattling, then hacking. It turned into one hell of a coughing fit. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">A nurse and an orderly burst in and blew by without looking at me. Staring down Hank's throat, the nurse asked me, “What do you think you're doing in here?” Hank coughed and gasped while the orderly stuck a tube down his throat and suctioned him, which sounded like draining the last of a milkshake through an industrial vacuum cleaner. The nurse clutched my arm and pulled me aside. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Are you family?” she asked.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Friend.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You'd better put on a mask and gloves, my friend. You want some of what he's got?” I looked at the suctioning, and Hank lying there with his mouth wide open, chest heaving. I apologized. “Stay a few minutes, but don't let him say much” she said. “Come back any time, but call first.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">While Hank settled down, I put on a mask and a pair of surgical gloves. He stared at the ceiling. Sure, being Hank's friend was tough for many reasons. But in other ways, it was easy. I could say anything I wanted, or just sit. Showing up was all that mattered. How tough could that be? I looked out the window for something to talk about. “We're nine floors up. Did you know that?” I asked him. “The sun is low, and this building has a shadow six blocks long. You can't see from up here, but the leaves are turning. Remember when we used to go outside during leaf time?” I wished I hadn't rambled onto something to remind him of his wheelchair days. “Remember when you used to tear down the hall and scare the old ladies? Remember when I helped you escape?” I'd looked the other way as he sped down the sidewalk in the chair I'd given him, one of the early motorized jobbies. He cruised the neighborhood, and I finally found him at a hopscotch meet. The escape was a silly stunt, the kind of thing you'd get away with maybe once, but worth a try. So Hank had really done all right by himself, as far as I was concerned. It was possible for good things to happen, even surrounded by bad.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hank tried to speak. I bent over and listened. “Say something new,” he said. I shrugged, groped for a line, and came up empty. I was still remembering the old days, when he could swallow safely and I fed him, when he had power over his fingers and pestered me every day with phone calls. I'd left my number on the customer service label stuck to the side of the chair. But there was nothing new there, which made me think of bringing up Doralisa—what the hell. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I met a woman,” I said. Normally I wouldn't bring up such a subject, because it was a sore spot for Hank. His wife bailed on him when he was still pretty much able-bodied. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hank opened his mouth and made a little ticking sound, as if a flap over his windpipe had blown open. “Fluff my pillow,” he said. I fluffed it.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“She's really nice, but I kind of set her off today at lunch.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">There was a long pause while Hank swallowed and breathed. “Take off that blanket,” he said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You don't have a blanket, just a sheet.” I raised it to let the air circulate, caught a glimpse of his withered legs. I knew they were there, and I knew I'd cringe at the sight of them. But I looked anyway. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Got that bonus?” he asked. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It's looking good.” I'd told him about how there’s a little extra held out of every one of my contracts. If I bring the client in under budget, that extra is my bonus. If not, it goes to the client. It’s a fair and civilized way to make a living.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hank widened his eyes and opened his mouth, but he didn't say anything. Then he said, “Careful,” and his chest heaved a few times. “She'll cost you.” I shouldn't have brought her up. So we sat in awkward silence, which was made worse by Hank’s not being able to say much anyway. He finally said, “Open a window.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“The window doesn't open.” I wasn't going to let him run me all over intensive care. We were silent, and then Hank started coughing again, but he stopped short of another disaster. “I hope you beat this thing and feel better soon,” I said. He shook his head, which I took to mean he didn't care. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Last time I'll say it,” he said, eyes widening, which was his way of screaming at me. “She's gonna cost you.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I'll be back tomorrow.” He shook his head again. Up until then, he still seemed pretty strong—strong enough for me not to think about what was happening to him, only about cheering him up for a few minutes each week. But now he was weaker and skinnier than ever, scary to look at, even for me. How much more would he have to put up with? I couldn't help but think he'd be better off dead, and I don't think like that as a rule. As I marched out, I wanted to slam open the double doors. But I forgot they opened on their own. They resisted my shove, and I had to stop and watch them swing out slowly. Pissed me off even more.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I ran into Doralisa on Tuesday, brown worsted day, on my way from the building to the parking garage. I was on my way to the cleaners to pick up my Wednesday and Thursday suits before a one o'clock appointment. Our downtown isn't much, but it's big enough to have squalor and commerce side by side. Doralisa was talking to an old-looking man bundled up in several layers of overcoats. She waved at me and kept talking. I shifted my briefcase from hand to hand until he went away. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Have you ever seen that man before?” she asked, looking after him. “I ought to introduce you to China. He's quite a guy.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Can't say I'm acquainted with the gentleman.” It was just something to say. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“About yesterday,” she said, running her hand through her hair, which fell back into her eyes after she let go. “I can forgive you if laughing was your way of dealing with the stress,” she said. “Was that it?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“That's too easy,” I said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I can tell if you're lying.” She ground her heel into the sidewalk. “I hear nothing but lies all day long. Then I go home to my son and more lies.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It was just the way you were going on,” I said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She looked up suddenly and grabbed my arm. “Come on, I'll show you something.” She led me down an alley between two old buildings no more than six feet apart. It was damp and dark. I was thinking about being late for my one o'clock. Halfway down, a fire escape blocked our way. Something was dripping from way up, puddling where we'd have to wedge ourselves between the steps and the wall. Doralisa gathered her jumper against her legs and slipped cleanly through. I had to shuffle sideways. My briefcase got stuck long enough for a big drop to splash on the top of my head. I touched the wet spot, felt a trickle down my temple. We turned the corner and came into a clearing of sorts, a courtyard of weeds and piles of trash hemmed in by four blind walls. Light shone overhead, but shadows filled most of the chilly space below. Up against the far wall, a cardboard box big enough to carry a refrigerator, or maybe a walk-in meat locker, rested in a patch of sun. I smelled urine and booze. One of the piles of trash moved. It was two guys sitting against the wall, arms around their knees. One of them waved at us. “They weren't here yesterday. Neither was their box,” she whispered. She waved back. “This is where you land after you fall through the cracks.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I figured out that my parking garage was on the other side of that wall. I recognized the back walls of a historic theater and a bank, but the fourth wall stumped me. The courtyard was a sad sight, but what do you say? It looked like the cleaners, not to mention lunch, was going to slide right into my one o'clock, and the rest of the day was going to be all jumbled up. At least she didn't spread a blanket and insist on a picnic. We faced more light on our return trip through the alley. At the fire escape, I timed my shuffle and avoided the drips. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">On the street again, I decided that if I gave up everything before the one o'clock, I could stop worrying. “Can you do something for those two?” I asked. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Maybe next week.” She shook her head, threw her hair back, and it fell into her eyes again. “Anyway, I want to cook for us,” she said. “My son eats garbage. He never comes in till late. We can have some peace and quiet. Tomorrow night?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now I didn't want to leave. I put down my briefcase so I could touch her, but how and why? “It will beat the hell out of the pot of ham and beans waiting for me.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Maybe I should come over to your place. Sounds like you're already set to entertain.” She let her pack fall off her shoulder. Then she held one of the straps and swung it back and forth.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Last week I had chunks of kidney in there with the beans.” I rubbed my belly. “There's still some of that kidney floating around.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She stopped swinging. “Let's stick with my plan.” She pulled a datebook out of her pack and logged our dinner. She pulled out a sticky-note pad, too, and wrote something. She slapped the note on my briefcase and took off. The note said, Organ meats are bad for you.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">After work Wednesday, tweed day, before going to Doralisa's place, I went to the hospital to see Hank. This time, I used the phone outside the double doors. I put on gloves and a mask. “He had a rough night,” the nurse said. “He's better now, but that's not saying much.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hank was sleeping, and he looked like hell, breathing dryly from his gaping mouth. Grey-greenish milky stuff flowed from a bag down a tube into a nostril. I pulled up a chair, repeated his name until he woke up. “How are you feeling?” I asked. He spoke in a slurred whisper. There was a rattle in his chest, but nothing like the day before. I had to ask him to repeat his answer.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Tired,” he said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You seem better.” My face already felt clammy against the mask. He blinked and stared at the ceiling. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Nurse says so,” he said. He cleared his throat and said, after several silent attempts, “Open.” I heard him but didn't understand. I asked him to repeat. “Open the gate,” he said, and I knew I'd heard him right. “Been stuck here too long.” He breathed a few times. Then he took two deep breaths and got a look of determination on his face. He was looking at something between him and the ceiling, or else beyond the ceiling. “Let me loose,” he said. It was loud—loud for him. I lurched back, bumped the bedrail with my knee. “If you won't, I'll find somebody who will,” he said. He kept his head where it was but aimed his eyes at me. I don't know if he meant it, and he must have known I wouldn't do it. He was just in a bad mood. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hank, I don't understand everything you're saying, but I get the general idea.“ I wanted to hear my voice before I tried to say anything important. “I got to say, over all the years, all you've been through, I'm impressed by how strong you've been.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Not much left of me.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But you're getting better,” I said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“So?” He looked away. I touched his hand; it was cold. He went back to sleep. I listened to his breathing, loud but regular, as peaceful as I could hope for. I slumped back in the chair and tried to match my breathing with his. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">In Doralisa's driveway, I parked in front of a motorcycle, which I assumed belonged to her son. I arrived empty-handed and out of sorts. She led me past the TV room, the living room and the formal dining room with two places set. She pointed me toward the den. “Get yourself a drink,” she said. “Everything in the kitchen is reaching critical mass right now.” She turned away. The place was crammed with shiny woodwork, stuffed furniture, and big mirrors in frames. It was just as well that I had nothing to give her, because she probably had anything I would have brought. I didn't like seeing myself wherever I looked. She glanced back long enough probably to see some look on my face. She stretched her arms as if to embrace the whole house. “What can I say? It was part of the settlement.” She left the room.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I poured myself some of her whiskey and went searching for her. I met her head-on at the entry to the dining room. She was carrying two plates. She nodded; I pressed myself against the wall as she passed. The back of my head touched something. Doralisa set down the plates and rushed past me again. I reached back to be sure I wouldn't dislodge anything. Then I moved my head and looked at what I was holding—an ornate wooden spoon hanging from a hook. I held the spoon in place as I moved away from the wall, then I turned around, still fingering the spoon. It had been a while since I'd been in a house with stuff on the walls. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doralisa returned with a bottle of wine. “That spoon is from Wales. It's a spoon for good luck,” she said. “Come on, everything's ready.” I had to adjust to dinner, salmon with almond rice and asparagus. She told me the wine was a white Bordeaux. The meal was pretty much over my head, but not out of my reach. If I thought about it, I could taste that it was special. I ate without saying anything. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then Doralisa launched into something. “We found subsidized housing for a single mother and her three kids whose father was a non-union construction worker who got killed when a nail gun went off by mistake.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Please,” I said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Eight nails in the head. He almost survived.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“If you don't mind,” I said. She looked hurt. “Friend of mine's at death's door. I just came from there.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doralisa cupped her chin. “Oh, no, and here I was, going on.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It's not unexpected,” I said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Now is when you'll be needed most,” she said, pressing her hair against her forehead. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I'm not giving up on him.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She glanced at the ceiling and struck the table with the side of her hand, a gentle karate chop. “You’re having a crisis, and here I've just gone off.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No crisis.” I chuckled, trying to smooth things over. Then I stopped trying.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doralisa put her napkin on the table. “I know. I have just what's needed right now.” She stood up, refilled my glass, and excused herself. In a moment, she returned with her blue pack. She sat down, pulled out a clear plastic package, and pushed it across the table. It looked like a bag of beans. It had printing in strange writing and in English. “You're giving me a package of lentils,” I said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Do up a pot of them with scallions, celery and carrots, a bay leaf, a little cilantro. Better than meat, and you'll like it.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Thanks.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“They're special. From Pakistan.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Maybe I shouldn't take your special lentils.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Then what kind of lentils would you take?” she asked. I liked that. The whole lentil thing was a perfect distraction from Hank. But because I knew it was a distraction, it made me think back to Hank, although the sad thoughts were easier to handle. Then I saw myself in the mirror over her shoulder, and I didn't like having to look at myself. Doralisa must have noticed. “Sterile in here, isn't it?” she asked. “Maybe we should have eaten on the floor in front of the TV.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">At that moment, the crashing of a door sounded from the back of the house, and her son, Cliff, stomped toward us. He appeared in the dining room, backwards baseball cap, sleek-shaped sunglasses, dirty T-shirt, baggy shorts, black high-tops. She introduced us. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet. My calves ached just watching him.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He slit his eyes at me and said, “Move your car.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Why?” I asked. At first he didn't bother me. I was calm, thinking of all the angles, like I do when a client brings up something that's not in my pitch.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“This is my friend, Marvin,” Doralisa said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“He's blocking my machine,” Cliff said. “Tell him to move his car.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Cliff,” Doralisa said, her neck tightening against what looked liked cables under her skin. I didn't want to know her this way.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I'll move it,” I said, throwing my napkin down. I felt like telling him off, but why? He was just a kid.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">We went out the back door. He was right; I'd wedged him in. He told me, “My mom is a sad, lonely bitch. You must be a real loser.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Fuck you,” I said, which surprised me. He gave me what I'd have to call a threatening look. After I backed down the driveway, I got out of the car, and Cliff sped toward me. I jumped back to avoid a handlebar in the ribs. But I forgot about my feet, and he ran over one of them. I don't think he tried to do it, or realized he did it, but who knows? I fell to the asphalt as he sped away. My foot felt as if it were still being run over. A rod of pain throbbed down the middle of my tongue. Doralisa came to my aid. “I've been crushed,” I said. I grabbed her and held on. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She struggled out of my grasp. “I'll drive you,” she said. I started to worry when I saw the look on her face. She wasn't wailing, but she was gnashing her teeth. “You see what I put up with,” she said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">My boss told me to lose the crutches. He outfitted one of the demos with a support for my foot and gave me a van with a lift. I used to demonstrate chairs all the time, but it took me a while to adjust to the pace and accept the machine as my source of power. Once I did, everything was easy. I wasn't trying to pitch the chair, but I did attract attention. As far as I could tell, clients didn't think I was faking or trying too hard; they were impressed. So I had to indulge them. I did all the usual things—slow, fast, reverse, spin around. The product sold itself as never before. No wonder Hank liked it so much and felt bad on days they didn't get him out of bed. And then they never got him out of bed, and his chair just sat there until I took it away.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I visited Hank that morning, Thursday—blended navy with beltless slacks, not my best day—even though I feared he might envy me and my chair. But I felt like showing off. I went up to intensive care and invited myself in. His bed was empty, which meant one thing to me: death. I'd often wondered how it would happen and how I'd find out, but it always seemed too far off to worry about. Now I was thinking this was it, and I felt ready—it might as well be now, when we were both ready. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The nurse said he'd been moved out onto the floor. She told me the room number and said, “It's normal for visitors to think a patient is dead when he's really only transferred.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I'm relieved to know that.” I'm glad she gave me something to be annoyed about, because I felt queasy for feeling so calm when I thought he was dead. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She glared down at me in the chair, like maybe she thought I was faking. “What happened to you?” she asked. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“My foot got hurt,” I said, rolling away. I pressed the big disk at chair level to open the double doors. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I followed the nurse's directions to Hank's room. I threw on a mask, pulled on gloves and rolled in, waving. “You did it,” I said. “You're on the mend.” The head of his bed was raised; he was sitting up.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What's with the chair?” he asked.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">I took his hand, which did not move. It felt warm through the rubber glove. “Traffic accident,” I said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You OK?” He did something with his hand. I think I felt a little grip. I didn't know he had any. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“They say I'll make a full recovery, so I decided not to be mad.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Same kind of chair as mine?” he asked.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“More power.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He winked, a slow, shuddering wink, and raised one eyebrow a little. It was a lot for a guy who couldn't move much. “Still in love?” Then he eyed the window without moving his head. “Close the blinds. Too bright.” I backed up, rolled toward the window, and did what he wanted. When I returned, he said, “Bring her by if you want.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“All right. I'll do that.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hank chuckled; I didn't know about what. Then he said one word, “Battery.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Battery?” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Keep it charged.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I'll remember that,” I said. I didn't bother to tell him this model had a built-in recharger. The one he used didn't.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He kept looking at the window. “Dead battery means you can't keep up, and somebody else is catching up.” His eyes rolled over to me, and he blinked. “Dark in here. Open the blinds halfway?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“As you wish,” I said. It was turning into one of those visits. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Come back here,” he said. On my way back, I sideswiped the bedrails and overturned a wastebasket. He shook his head a little. I thought he was making fun of my driving, but he said, “Buy yourself a new suit. You've had that one for years.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It's my Thursday suit,” I said. I let the wastebasket stay on its side. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Makes you look like a salesman.” He sniffed, or rather he blew a little air out of his nose. “New threads, OK? By the time they send me back to the home.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Anything you say.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“That bonus? It's gone. You'll have to blow every dime of it on her.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">— — —</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doralisa’s jaw went slack while I slalomed to her table Friday at lunch. “Want to press charges?” she asked. “If we get a conviction, they might send him to a long-term adolescent psych program.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Forget about revenge,” I said. “You would want that for your kid?” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Of course. He's troubled.” She put her elbow on the table and rested her head on her hand. “I wish there was something I could do,” she said. “Can I do your shopping?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hell, no,” I said. “Just have lunch with me. Talk.” But then I feared she'd tell more horror stories, so I kept talking. “I tried the lentils.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She looked surprised. “How did you manage?” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“By standing on my good foot,” I said. “Ate some early, and they were chewy. Let them simmer awhile, and they were soft. Good either way.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“When they’re chewy, they’re like meat, only better for you,” she said. I didn’t tell her I just added them to my standing pot and let them go, adding water whenever I got down to sludge. I played with the power button at my fingertips on the right arm of the chair, just to see the red light flicker on and off.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You kind of like that chair, don't you?” she said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It's like getting a pager. You wonder how you ever got along without one.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“That's a terrible thing to say.” She threw back her head, and her hair flew out of her eyes for a moment, then fell back.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I can't help it,” I said. She looked down and flashed a smile at the table. Then she looked up again, and our eyes met. She started to say something. She averted her eyes, but I kept looking at her eyes and her moving lips, and a feeling of peace came over me, and she stopped trying to talk. By peaceful, I mean pleasantly tired and thinking good thoughts. I wasn't sure how it happened. It seemed to come from nothing. The usual distractions flickered in the back of my mind, such as my schedule and Hank's strange warnings, but for once I swept them away. I wanted to give her something, and I broke out of the peace because I had nothing to share. I looked at my hands, checked my pockets, reached around into the pouch behind. What could I have hoped to find? At a loss, I peeled off the adhesive label stuck to the side of the chair. It had my name on it and my office number, to call if the user should have any questions or problems. I pasted the label across her wrist, and she looked away again, probably because it was a silly thing to do, and she didn't want to watch. But I was ready to do it, and she must have been ready to let me do it, because it happened. And there was no sense in stopping with just a sticky label. Right then, when she wasn't looking, I took her hand and kissed her fingers.</span></p><div><br /></div>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-49388490612541979772022-02-18T08:44:00.003-06:002022-11-26T09:17:03.581-06:00Systematic Desensitization<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />by Ed Peaco</span></b></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Published by Alabama Literary Review </span></i></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Vol. 5, No. 1, 1991</span></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Chosen in <i>Santa Fe Writers Project</i> fiction contest, 2002,</span></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">posted among the best 65 entries </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">One summer night in the not-too-distant but long-forgotten past, when Max Headroom was a cult hit on television and the home-improvement boom was in its infancy, a dense whine haunted Duane Dyer’s dreams. As his sleep receded, the noise grew louder, and at last he bolted from bed and followed the roar through the house to the garage. Blinking into the dust, he found his wife, Sue, in goggles, jeans and bra, scouring a table with an electric sander.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">An air-traffic controller, Sue worked nights while Duane worked accountant’s hours, and sometimes they woke each other up. Sue shut off the sander and removed her goggles, revealing wild eyes still energized from her job.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Duane squinted at the paste of wood powder ringing Sue’s belly button. “I c-c-could have slept through it if I knew what was c-c-c-coming,” he said, stuttering, as he had all his life, when he felt nervous or tired.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I want you to meet a phobia guy I ran into,” she said. “I think you have a phobia, not a speech impediment.” They had worn out an army of specialists with nothing to show for the hourly fees, and Duane was sick of Sue using every opportunity to nag him about a new treatment. The fear of stuttering had tormented him for years, but he had learned to work around it. He anticipated feared words and steered his sentences around them, as if madly paddling a canoe to avoid boulders that didn’t exist for anyone else. But now people at the office were on his case more than ever about his speech.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">They connected Duane’s stuttering with the behavior of pop-culture hero Max Headroom, who seemingly stuttered through faulty guerrilla transmissions onto television screens in his weekly struggle against a Big Brother broadcasting enemy. Not much for TV, Duane had only a dim awareness of Max Headroom. But the series gained appeal, and stuttering became the inspiration for on-the-job theatrics, with jerks jumping in to finish Duane’s sentences or imitate Max Headroom. So-so-so-sue me! was Norman Carter’s office refrain, delivered with Max Headroom’s rhythmic head jerk, demolishing in a crush of laughter anything serious Duane was trying to say. Fed up, he felt a rekindling of his faith in experts, and he agreed to make an appointment.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Grantz, the phobia guy, said Duane’s stuttering was a learned response to some unknown stimulus from the past. The goal would not be to discover what caused the response, but to work on unlearning it. “Your brain is not a VCR,” Grantz said with a devilish grin that threw Duane a little. True, we can rewind if we want, but when we view the old tape, we get garble. The best button to press is play!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Grantz proposed a therapy called systematic desensitization, by which the patient masters the phobia by encountering it in increasingly stressful but controlled increments. He asked Duane to make a list of nine uncomfortable speaking situations and rank them in order of increasing stress. He gave Duane a mission: start with number one, put himself in the situation and do the thing he was afraid of doing, but do it in a purposeful, controlled way. He told Duane to intentionally stutter, listen to himself, and observe the reaction. When he mastered the situation, he would move up to the next one.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Grantz then asked Duane to name the most frightening speaking situation he could imagine. Trembling, Duane described delivering a speech at the annual meeting, with all staffers and the fearsome CEO listening.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No problem. Make that number ten!” Grantz said, cackling. Then, more calmly, he said, “Maybe you won’t have to climb that far up the ladder before we see some change.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">In Grantz’s office, they tried step one, a phone call to a stranger. Duane called auto-service shops and asked the price of a t-t-t-tune up. “You see, they’re just waiting for you to finish,” Grantz said afterward. “No problem. If someone has a reaction farther up the line, note how you feel and how the situation resolves itself.” Grantz told him not to feel pressured to change his behavior, just focus on the exercises. “Make the biggest bomb you can, and see what happens when it goes off!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Grantz helped Duane refine his list by rating the types of stress he would face, then he turned Duane loose to perform the exercises. Over several weeks, he threw himself into the process of unlearning, making rapid progress up the ladder:</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">2) Phone conversation with friend or acquaintance. To the receptionist at the office: “Any m-m-m-messages for me?” (Nothing from the other end but businesslike shufflings and keystrokes, and then a friendly rundown.)</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">3) Face-to-face with friend in private. To a handball foe: “N-n-n-nice serve.” (Gr-r-r-r-reat ceiling shot” came the mocking reply. Easily ignored.)</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">4) Benign stranger in relaxed, public situation. To a police officer:<br />
“W-w-w-which w-w-w-way t-t-t-to W-w-w-walnut St-t-t-t-treet? (Nothing but a not-unkind gaze, even after all this exaggerated stuttering, a self-caricature.)</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">5) Benign stranger in a more pressured public situation. To a grocery bagger at a crowded checkout station: “P-p-p-paper, p-p-p-l-lease.” (Briefly strained, quizzical look of impatience.)</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">6) Potentially skeptical stranger. Duane“s original plan was to accost someone sitting on a bench outside his building. But he noticed the new backyard neighbor, watering her garden on the other side of the chain-link fence. She looked convenient, and she was wearing nothing but cutoff shorts and a bikini top: “Those zu-zu-zu-zuchini sure are th-th-th-thriving,” he said. (Quizzical glare and attitudinal pose with hand clutching slender hip.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Is this some kind of Max Headroom pickup line?” she asked, confirming the wildfire appeal of the TV character. “Wait a few weeks, and I’ll show you my tomatoes,” she said with an ironic twitch of her nose. More trouble than expected, but fun.)</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">7) Potentially skeptical acquaintance. To a client, one on one: “Th-th-th-that would be a s-s-s-savings of f-f-f-four per-c-c-c-c-cent.” (Double take, then a slight smile of gratitude.)</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">8) Small group of strangers. To a stutterers” support group ” Duane figured he might as well have a little fun: “H-h-h-hello, y-y-you can call me D-D-D-D-Donnie. But th-th-that’s not my r-r-r-real n-n-n-n-name.” (Were they laughing because they thought he was lying or just joking around? He went on telling jokes, making up lies, stuttering at turns intentionally and uncontrollably ” it didn’t seem to matter. He paused to observe the reaction and found that his fellow stutterers were glued to every tortured burst.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He seized the thrill of a breakthrough: It wasn’t whether he stuttered, but whether he cared. “Everything I said is f-f-f-false,” he said as he wrote a fictitious phone number next to his admitted pseudonym on the new-member info card. More laughter. “Nobody stutters when they laugh,” he said fluently as he skipped out, leaving behind these poor people and their pathetic impediment.)</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">9. Small group of acquaintances. Presentation to work group: “It’s not s-s-s-something we’ve tried be-f-f-f-fore, but it“s the direction we sh-sh-sh-should to be m-m-m-moving in.” (Norman Carter said, “Suit-suit-suit me up. I“m ready to play!” whereupon the director told him to stop imitating Max Headroom during an important planning session. Duane noticed he wasn’t worrying about his stuttering. Instead, he saw, for the first time, what an oaf Norm was.)</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">From that moment, Duane felt fearless. Instead of avoiding speaking situations, he threw himself into them just to see what would happen. His stuttering blocks turned anticlimactic; the overwhelming importance he attached to them vanished.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">At home alone the next evening, Duane couldn’t help noticing the now-familiar figure, this time in cut-off T-shirt and shorts, working in her garden. He ambled over to the chain-link fence. She asked him why he disappeared so quickly the evening before, and they introduced themselves. Wendy said her husband, Vern, worked nights at the post office, and she was between jobs. “I just sit around and go crazy,” she said. Duane, staring at her glistening belly, said his wife worked nights, too.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Want to come over for a drink?” she asked. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her offer threw Duane. “I d-d-d-don’t know,” he said, feeling the first wave of authentic stuttering anxiety since his transformation. But he collected himself, noted Wendy’s reaction, which was minimal, and moved on. “Maybe we could get together sometime, all four of us.“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t know when,” she said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">After that meeting, Duane took special care to position himself in the back yard in early evening. He often found Wendy across the way, coaxing him. He went over once to check under her lawn mower, once to admire her zucchini vines, again to taste her zucchini casserole. Her tomatoes were coming along nicely. He always resisted her invitations to enter the house, and later, fantasies inflamed, wished he hadn’t.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">They discovered each other one night when the electricity went out on Wendy’s block. She passed through the gate in the back fence and knocked on Duane’s back door. She was wearing a long T-shirt that stretched to her knees and covered whatever else she might have been wearing. She asked for a candle.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It“s all dark on our street, and I saw your light.” She stepped inside, and they didn’t get any farther than the firm yet springy living room carpet. He appreciated the ease of it all.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next time, Wendy led Duane through the gate to her house. He worried about being spotted, but Wendy said she felt safer using her own couch so she wouldn’t have to make up reasons why she didn’t answer the phone if Vern called. They created a system: She kept the back light on until after Vern would be finished with his ten o’clock break, the latest time he was likely to call. Then she would shut off the light, a signal for Duane to creep into the no-man“s land of facing back yards, shadow to shadow through the sparkling night of harsh yard lamps, dim interior bulbs, and a neighbor“s insect-killing light, a lurid molten violet, crackling with each dispatch.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Duane based his hopes around those evenings. Upon fulfillment of those hopes, he retraced his steps and, using earplugs to shut out Sue’s arrival, settled into a contented sleep. He wasn’t so much rejecting Sue, whom he once desired intensely; he was celebrating the joys of Wendy, like scrunching her heavily teased, heavily moussed hair. And, best of all, no stuttering!</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">At the office, Duane faded into the business-as-usual environment of the firm, which, he now grasped, was how he had always fit in before his impediment became a fad. Eventually, Norm noticed the change in Duane. “Hey, pal, you need a refresher course in stammering,” Norm said, handing Duane a videotape of a Max Headroom episode. “Check this out. I think you and Max were sep-sep-separated at birth!“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">That night, Wendy“s back yard went dark, and Duane ventured through the gate, but the floodlight switched back on. It was a photon ambush, and Duane hit the turf, a lust commando pinned down on the open lawn. Wendy popped her head out the back door and grimaced in fear when she spotted him. “Go back!” she shouted in a hoarse hiss. She closed the door and shut off the light. By the kitchen“s inner glow, Duane spotted Vern chatting with Wendy. Duane slunk back, his cranium pulsing with fear worse than the fear of stuttering. Back home, he paused to note his surroundings, and he understood that, as far as anyone else was concerned, nothing had happened.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Early the next evening, over the chain-link fence, Wendy told Duane that Vern had come home early to burn off overtime. Duane had a sudden thought. “Th-th-this isn’t easy, but do you mind if we stop?” he asked, glaring in a way he thought might look stern, although he had no idea because he had not prepared himself. Wendy stared back.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Are y-y-y-you mad?” he asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No. But shouldn’t one of us be?“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“N-n-n-not if we can avoid it.“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">She smiled in a sad way then frowned. “That talking problem of yours. Is it a put-on, or is it real?“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It was fake only the first time.” Duane watched confusion overtake Wendy’s face. It was the perfect note to leave her on. “See you around, neighbor.” He turned away, into the gathering darkness, and wondered what he should do now. Could he rediscover Sue? Lately the two of them were at a standoff: She had her power tools; he had Wendy. Now things were out of whack.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">To distract himself, Duane popped in Norm“s Max Headroom tape. It was strange ” television executives with British accents, a petulant adolescent computer whiz, and a young man outfitted in electronic gear. Max Headroom seemed to have only a minor role of bizarre outbursts. He appeared on a screen, or seemed to live inside the screen, within the matrix of the broadcast process.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Against a background of modulating parallel lines, now horizontal, now diagonal, he said things that made no sense, such as “Don’t let the bedbugs bite. Sleep on your feet! Feet! Feet!” The animated head, which Duane thought sounded a little like Grantz, didn’t stutter at all; he simply repeated himself in the sputtering manner of an electronic glitch. The office jokes were misguided, and Duane chafed at the idea that people had been making fun of him in a way that wasn’t funny. He stopped the tape and slouched off to bed, his mind drifting to Wendy, not with disappointment but, if anything, relief.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next morning, Duane woke up next to Sue, who was sleeping like an antique sideboard gathering dust in a junk shop. It was Saturday, their day together, until Sue went to work in the afternoon. He rose first, made coffee, and reviewed the Max Headroom tape over breakfast. Max was trying to prevent Network 23, the Big Brother network, from broadcasting a dangerous form of advertising.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">These commercials blasted gusts rapidly shifting images that meshed with brain activity for maximum effectiveness but also caused some viewers’ heads to explode. Max, digitized and occasionally hiccupping in epigrammatic techno-babble, was prowling the electronic pathways to subvert the diabolical scheme. Max wasn’t just a quirky TV creation; he was a self-sacrificing hero, reducing himself to electrons and an unforeseen glitched existence to fight the forces of social control. The story intrigued Duane in a way his colleagues would never understand.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">While Max unknowingly took on fake stuttering while striving to do good, Duane willingly threw off actual stuttering while floundering as a cheat. Duane kept replaying this formulation in his mind. He admired the similarities and the oppositions, how everything balanced out, sort of like a spreadsheet, left to right and top to bottom. Maybe he could put everything together and take another giant step forward.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He heard stirring from the other end of the house, and Sue appeared, yawning. “What“s this blip I“m detecting heading toward the living room?” he asked. She floated over, squinting, and he took her in his arms, brushed a few flecks of wood dust out of her hair, and kissed her neck.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Why so affectionate?” she asked. “You must be hiding something.“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Not anymore.” He pointed to the television.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">On the video, a man“s head exploded as he watched a supercharged commercial. Then Max interrupted a similar broadcast: “If you“re watching me, who“s watching Network 23? ” a network with a great future behind it.“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“So this is the crap I’m missing by working during prime time,” Sue said.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Duane went to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee for Sue. On his way back, he looked out the window and saw Wendy and Vern on the deck. She was wearing a bikini top and shorts, as usual. For the first time, he regretted having betrayed Sue. It occurred to him that she could still find out, even though it was all over. This fear felt worse than the merely negative feeling of regret. He noticed that his emotions, dissociated from the thoughts that had provoked them, resembled the old stuttering anxiety. Could he master this discomfort as well? He had a reckless desire to confess, but maybe not so reckless. Perhaps he could confront what he dreaded under conditions he could control.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Duane picked up his empty cup and went to the kitchen for a refill, and on his way back, he checked out Wendy again. He viewed sections of shiny flesh between horizontal deck slats. “What are you staring at?” Sue asked.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Nothing.“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“The hell you aren’t. It“s that girl who prances around in her swimsuit.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Well, yes.“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I knew it. I’ve seen you out in the yard, staring at her. It would be really embarrassing if she saw you. And I“m sure her husband wouldn’t like it.“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Duane knew his opportunity for mastery had arrived. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said. It was a reckless thing to be doing, climbing the ladder by leaping to the highest rung. “Her husband works nights, too,” he said, willing a light-hearted leer. “Wendy and I have been seeing each other for weeks, creeping around at night while our spouses were hard at work.“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You even know her name?“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Max Headroom said, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite. Sleep-sleep-sleep on your feet!“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Silly boy,” Sue said. “You’ve been acting weird ever since you started going to the phobia guy. He fixed your stuttering but warped the rest of you.“</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Another burst from Max: “If at first you don’t succeed, clear your screen and try again! Try again! Try again!”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Who me?” Duane said. “I never felt so good in all my life.” He had to remind himself that, to Sue“s way of thinking, nothing ever was particularly wrong. He listened to himself and noted Sue“s reactions. He accepted his last remark as essentially correct. She smiled at him condescendingly, as if he were some kind of nut, gleefully telling teasing lies. That was good. She did that when they were getting along. No problem.</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; min-height: 17px; text-indent: 36px;"><b></b><br /></p>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-36675783838136865362022-02-18T08:32:00.006-06:002022-11-26T09:17:41.268-06:00Wood, Stone, Metal and Bone<p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span><br /><span style="font-size: large;">by Ed Peaco</span></span></b></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">Published in Four Quarters</span></i></p>
<p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Vol. 27, No. 4, Summer, 1978</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">THAT MORNING the key to the padlock on the tool cabinet was missing again. Rich Lomax looked all over the workshop for it while McFee, kneeling on the concrete floor, made a tripod out of three ten-foot two-by-eights joined with a nut, bolt, and clamp. When Lomax came back empty handed and saw George Dumo, wearing those stupid cutoffs and talking with that long face to McFee, he knew that Dumo had locked the key inside the cabinet again.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The tractor shovel had broken down again. Even if they knew what was wrong they could not repair it before the burial that afternoon because the wrench and the ratchet set were locked in the cabinet and this time they could not burn off the lock with the acetylene torch because the flints for the torch were also locked in the cabinet. And McFee would not let anybody use a burning rolled newspaper to light the torch. Dumo did it that way until the time he lit the torch and stomped out the burning newspaper next to an open can of naphtha and almost blew up the workshop. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Without the tractor shovel, or any means to repair it, McFee and Lomax decided the only way to move the concrete vault from the work yard to the gravesite was by lifting it with a hoist attached to the make-shift tripod, backing a pickup truck under the vault, driving out to the gravesite and unloading it the same way. Rich liked McFee at times like this. Ever since McFee was promoted from grounds worker to supervisor after the mechanic quit, McFee always gave Lomax the chance to think about problems that mattered. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bill Dole came in and they were all talking. Dole’s tee-shirt was spotted grey with concrete poured two days ago when they made the vault. Around the middle of his head he wore a red bandana which gave his unruly hair and untrimmed beard the appearance of a mass of frayed electrical wires bound in the middle. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I didn’t; I couldn’t of,” Dumo said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But you were the last one to leave last night,” McFee said. “If he sabotaged the cabinet then I crippled the tractor,” Dole said; “I drained off all the oil yesterday when nobody was looking.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Now you shut up,” McFee said. “You guys are just fuckin’ off while Rich and I are trying to work with what we have.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now that they had finished thinking about the problem, Lomax did not like McFee so much. McFee was throwing his weight around again as if he owned the place, and Lomax wanted no part of it. He would take the first chance he got today to side again with Dumo and Dole. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">McFee said, “This morning: Rich, you get on the rest of that mowing and you two guys get onto that sod-laying. If we got a funeral today this place has to look nice. We move the vault after break.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lomax regretted that McFee gave him the better job; it would be that much more difficult to get back on good terms with Dumo and Dole. Cutting grass made you forget you were alive, but laying sod forced you to work harder to forget what you were doing. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lomax gassed the tractor and connected the mowing attachment. Within minutes the pleasant rhythm of the tractor and the soothing moisture on his body and in the air settled him into the routine of long mindless straightaways interrupted at either end by the turns, which required his attention. It was getting hot early and since there was no heavy work today he knew he would be enjoying it by mid-afternoon—that gentle film of wetness that accompanied you everywhere and comforted you as long as you cooperated by not working too hard. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">On one of his return trips Lomax stopped at the junk heap out back behind the picket fence, where Dumo in the dump truck took loads of scrap from the workshop. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lomax wondered what Dumo was up to now. Dumo had been working there since he dropped out of high school. He knew the place so well that he could take charge suddenly by summoning up his vast knowledge of the place and announcing that this or that, which had occurred to no one, had to be done immediately. Lomax resented George and his projects because he pursued them whether or not they were needed at the time and whether or not he was permitted to do so. McFee would do nothing about Dumo because he was valuable, the only one willing to work more than a single summer. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’m clearin’ out that back room of the workshop,” Dumo said. “That place been a mess for a long time.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Out of the dump truck he carefully removed pieces of broken brick, beams with exposed nails, and parts of machinery long ago discarded. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Why do you sort the stuff so carefully?” Lomax asked. “We have to know what we have case we every have to use it.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Wood goes here, bricks and stones over there, and parts there. Cover the parts with plastic tarp later,” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What are you doing after that?“</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Wanna get high?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Sure,” Lomax was hoping Dumo would say that. It was the chance he was waiting for.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Bill says to meet him by the drainage ditch. I’ll be there when I’m done with this,” Dumo said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lomax drove to the drainage ditch, at the far end of the cemetery, where Dole was laying a brick retaining wall on either side of the steep part of the ditch, to arrest the process of erosion along the banks. He had thought of the project so he could be independent of McFee and he had asked Lomax to help. They had used a pile of concrete bricks that Dumo had stacked up out back the year before. For the purpose of staying clear of McFee, the project was so much work that it hardly seemed worthwhile. But they enjoyed themselves until Lomax decided to strengthen the bricks with more iron reinforcement bar than it turned out the place could afford, and, when McFee found out, he was pissed at Dole for wasting a lot of materials on one project. When Lomax found out that McFee was pissed at Dole and therefore Dole was pissed at Lomax, he left the project to Dole. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lomax said, “The wall looks good. How did you learn to lay bricks that well?” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I didn’t. Taught myself as I went along.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Does McFee really believe we need it?”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Of course we need a wall here,” Dole said. “See all this clay? Topsoil’s been washed away. Unless we stop that the whole area won’t have anything but weeds growing on it. We have to make this place look nice. Yep, what this place needs is this wall right here.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lomax looked at Dole’s smile and told himself he should have known the wall would have been better off weaker, so that it might soon provide Dole with more of his own kind of work. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">THEY SAW DUMO coming out, rumbling over the potholed service road in the dump truck which had no shocks, Dumo’s figure tossing behind the wheel, nearly launching through the roof as he accelerated, the truck growling in low gear, with deafening crashes of metal on metal.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“If it wasn’t for Dumo I’d be bored all the time around here,” Dole said to Lomax.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Time to get stoned!” Dumo said, leaping from the truck. “You’re already stoned,” Lomax said. “Get out of here and go do some work.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hold on; this guy’s been working hard,” Dole said. He looked at Dumo and cracked a smile, then produced his pipe and his pot. Dumo said, “Yeah, I been moving bricks.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“See, he’s been moving bricks,” Dole said to Lomax.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You like moving stuff, don’t you?” Lomax asked Dumo. “It’s a job that had to be done,” Dumo said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“In a couple of hours this guy moved a roomful of stuff from one place to another,” Dole said to Lomax, “while you spent the whole morning sitting on a tractor and driving it maybe ten miles but haven’t moved a damn thing further than where you were when you started.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">There was more to smoking with Dole than simply having fun, and Lomax hated it, but on the job he made it work to his advantage. Dumo would act like an imbecile and Dole might say something regrettable. Lomax would carry on as usual, though silently, as if in secret. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dole inhaled at length on his pipe and passed it to Dumo. He said, “Rich, you’re getting a little too serious around here. You’re becoming more and more like McFee every day. I mean this tripod bullshit.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Got any other ideas?” Lomax asked. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah,” Dole said, “I got this idea that instead of raising the vault you’ll end up driving the legs of the tripod into the ground.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“That hoist will lift a couple tons,” Lomax said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But the two-by-eights won’t,” Dumo said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Those boards will hold up a house,” Lomax said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But a tripod’s never been tried before,” Dumo said. “Long as I been here, nobody’s ever thought up anything like that.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“If you can waste time doing projects,” Lomax said to Dumo, “there’s no reason I can’t try to save time by thinking them up.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah, but you have to look like you’re doing something,” Dole said. “Instead you’re just standing around acting pompous. Like McFee.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lomax drew on the pipe Dumo handed him. The pleasant morning veil of wetness lifted; what was once moist and limp was now dry and brittle. He had wanted to patch up things but everything was going wrong. He felt renewed contempt for Dole with his cuts and Dumo with his petty wisdom, “What’s wrong with McFee?” Lomax asked.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“He’s an all right guy,” Dumo said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, he’s not,” Dole said. “Since he became supervisor he gets paid more than we do and he does less. He works on his own car all the time but lets all the equipment around here go to hell.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“The dump truck works fine,” Dumo said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But you do the same thing,” Lomax said to Dole. “You go your own way and never do what has to be done.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah, but I do something,” Dole said. “McFee doesn’t know anything and he doesn’t do anything. So he ends up letting you design stupid tripods.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It wasn’t all my idea,” Lomax said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t gimme that,” Dole said to Lomax.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“It’s not McFee or me or anybody,” Lomax said. “It’s this place. The only reason McFee is supervisor is because nobody else wants to be.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But he’s still the supervisor,” Dole said. “He’s the one to get pissed at.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“This looks pretty stupid,” Dumo said. “Two trucks and a tractor parked in the same spot. Three guys sittin’ in a ditch doing nothing.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">The pipe came around to Lomax again. He inhaled and exhaled more than he inhaled. Leaning his head against the bank of the ditch, he fixed his eyes on the horizon, where the heat shimmers soothed the throbbing in his temples and behind his eyes. The combined effect of the conversation and the pot made him care little whether he went back to work or remained sitting; the two choices seemed equally worthwhile. It distressed him that he should ever take the work seriously, as if he were the supervisor. Though McFee had the authority, he could do nothing because he did not know what to do, which made him no different from the others. At what point did this work matter? To whom? Why? </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">WHEN IT WAS TIME for break they drove the vehicles to the workshop. Lomax was slowest with the tractor. From a distance he watched McFee, hands on hips, probably asking Dumo and Dole what they had done about the sod so far. Dumo stood with his weight on one leg and Dole took off his bandana and wiped his face with it, his hair maintaining the imprint around the middle of his head. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">When Lomax pulled up McFee told him, “An undertaker is here for a surprise visit and these guys are too squeamish so you’re elected. While you’re doing that we’ll move the vault with the tripod.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Wait a minute; it’s break time,” Dole said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You guys look like you already had your break,” McFee said. “It’s hot out here,” Dumo said. “We have to cool off.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Do you think we look cool?” Dole asked. “Rich is cool. He can stomach anything.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“All in a day’s work,” Lomax said. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Maybe you could work for him,” Dole said to Lomax. “There’s more in it for you and it’s even easier than sweating on a tractor. And you’d work where it’s air conditioned.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah,” Lomax said, “but all that lifting. And the chemicals are bad for your health.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Though they were still talking about him Lomax walked into the crematory room. He had made his remark and had timed it well enough; he was not too stoned. The undertaker was waiting in the crematory room. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hi. I brought you some business straight from intensive care. There’s no service but I said they could have him by tomorrow morning. Is that too soon?” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No, that’ll be fine. Let’s put him right in.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lomax opened the heavy metal doors and raised the concrete block and the undertaker wheeled his cart parallel with the cart that was always in the crematory room and he unzipped the oblong vinyl bag. He offered Lomax a pair of plastic gloves. “I think he’s clean, but you never know,” the undertaker said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I never use them,” Lomax said. He put a piece of plywood on the cart, which had rollers on its surface. Lomax took the legs at the calves and the undertaker took the shoulders and they moved him from one cart to the other. Lomax wheeled the cart in front of the opening to the crematory. Sliding the plywood along the rollers of the cart, they pushed the body into the crematory. Lomax lowered the concrete block and shut the metal doors and latched them. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Thanks,” the undertaker said. “Be seein’ ya.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lomax turned on the lower burners and waited until they warmed up then switched on the gas jets. He checked through a small porthole to be sure there was no smoke. The first flames, which completely obstructed his view through the window, died down, and the blackened form expanded, the chest bloating, then separating lengthwise, the viscera emerging, sizzling and magnificently rising, culminating in a mound of ash, and suddenly falling. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">There would be no smoke for now; Lomax was glad for that. He did not want anybody for miles around to know that a cremation was going on. A man, having lost his life, was now losing his familiar form. This event had an importance for Lomax which he could not describe. He could only compare cremation to burial, in which it was important that the body decompose in the solitude of its own grave. It was not important to the body, but to those who buried the body—and to everyone who believed in burying the dead, on whose behalf Lomax believed he acted. Cremation was one of the few things this place was properly equipped to do, and Lomax was determined to do it well. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">LOMAX PUT THE CART back where it belonged and swept the floor and emptied the waste can into the large bin outside. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He saw Dumo waiting in position with the pickup truck, ready to back up under the vault which McFee had secured with heavy cables connected to the hook on the hoist at the top of the tripod. Dole waited to steady the vault. McFee heaved on the chain from the hoist. The vault lifted a foot off the ground. Dole steadying it. McFee heaved a few more times and the vault continued to rise until one of the beams of the tripod snapped and the vault fell to one side and broke into several pieces on the ground, Dole running back to get out of the way and McFee standing among the pieces with his hands at his sides and still holding the length of chain. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dumo hopped out of the truck and said, “What happened? What are we gonna do now?” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“We have plenty of vaults out back but no way to move them,” McFee said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lomax came up and asked, “Where’s that goddamn acetylene torch?” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hanging on the hook by the workbench,” Dump said, “but there’s no flints and hardly any fuel left in the tank.” </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Fuck the flints,” Lomax said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lomax went into the workshop and took the torch off the hook and put on a pair of plastic goggles. If he could open the cabinet where the tools were kept, maybe they could use the tools to get the tractor running before the funeral. But no one knew how to repair the tractor. He imagined himself and McFee crawling under it, one with the owner’s manual, the other with the tools, both hoping for the best. No matter whose fault it was, or if no one was at fault, not to be able to have a burial at a cemetery would be embarrassing to everyone. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; text-indent: 36px;"><span style="font-size: large;">He opened the valve on the torch and produced a match. He knew that what he was about to do was not a good idea, but in his anger he lacked the patience to find anything more suitable than what he had at the moment. And he had helped build the tripod, which turned out to be a far worse idea than lighting a torch with a paper match could ever be. Everybody else had stupid projects to work on and it pained Lomax to know that his projects were not only stupid but dangerous. If they ever got through the afternoon, maybe they could start doing things right when it mattered. When he put the lit match to the gas he felt the rush of the flame against his knuckles. He went to work on the tool cabinet. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 12px; min-height: 14px; text-indent: 36px;"><br /></p>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-16364994654348243902022-01-30T08:17:00.001-06:002022-01-31T17:53:15.832-06:00SGF weirdness in January!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Here are screen grabs of three SGF weird things.</div><p></p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_8nQ_TBgpb6MnNaJ81zkFyafDnDN7Q10cUjjupzZyG_J_kC3Z8MelDZcfmYRieYCUroHtFAc587WvzfkNtv2ReRz15k7WjU8VGe8mJ9trZX6dje-_xnnA-u8ZXqxJxM352Oa9YDm2n-tqi1EKc6QOl2kj1LaHIN38LVTdoI03CFFZ0OwHeuNriHSrvA=s1798" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1012" data-original-width="1798" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_8nQ_TBgpb6MnNaJ81zkFyafDnDN7Q10cUjjupzZyG_J_kC3Z8MelDZcfmYRieYCUroHtFAc587WvzfkNtv2ReRz15k7WjU8VGe8mJ9trZX6dje-_xnnA-u8ZXqxJxM352Oa9YDm2n-tqi1EKc6QOl2kj1LaHIN38LVTdoI03CFFZ0OwHeuNriHSrvA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Denver Mattress presented </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">a goofy commercial, </span><span style="font-size: large;">set on New Years Day. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A mother with a headache is holding a child. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is a very odd way to make sales, </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">in my opinion, but it might work.</span></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVpBLz7HO35QMX_DEgIl6PQ_aDtFY384oPJp19ORU3tBnqZkezATgNHugWskKlhELPgufUBtqZ0VB_qjInXQea5ZyFBNy-6W_8sxM1avfUp3LV9h1Lzcl_6BdCuSXqSrKUEdsGLR01Ygn6apnz7wCLXNh2PcV3fVMsE6nvY-YHoNoKyu6lhLpCBrRKRQ=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVpBLz7HO35QMX_DEgIl6PQ_aDtFY384oPJp19ORU3tBnqZkezATgNHugWskKlhELPgufUBtqZ0VB_qjInXQea5ZyFBNy-6W_8sxM1avfUp3LV9h1Lzcl_6BdCuSXqSrKUEdsGLR01Ygn6apnz7wCLXNh2PcV3fVMsE6nvY-YHoNoKyu6lhLpCBrRKRQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Springfield Roto-Rooter workers </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">made a kick line to show their dexterity.</span></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGxlc6E-_IirkBda3xuTGoSdITU7X4lY_4U4Mkam5ndO0WBVgWFCI25qqazc9waOPBqL568DIptJ7FxQCbiNwbF23iWL1hx53Lbslx66_4AOmhXSHPOBRwWk8Hj2hTbD7ap6S2V0Ubr1-nUwFmdWlEn5UeXntUJwFCJxDFd63cCpf07hf8DIvFcwIRTw=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGxlc6E-_IirkBda3xuTGoSdITU7X4lY_4U4Mkam5ndO0WBVgWFCI25qqazc9waOPBqL568DIptJ7FxQCbiNwbF23iWL1hx53Lbslx66_4AOmhXSHPOBRwWk8Hj2hTbD7ap6S2V0Ubr1-nUwFmdWlEn5UeXntUJwFCJxDFd63cCpf07hf8DIvFcwIRTw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The city is arranging push-button lights </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">that vehicles must heed, but will them? Beware ...</span></div><br /></div>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-7598580772732613302021-12-16T17:34:00.008-06:002024-02-19T17:12:31.202-06:00Rothko, in pain and glory<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3aU2DVOMzcLSNwYu1A9yKCox5JLKKuyDFX8ms33yDVVsZkXI1e64_S7Bs7founEr3PopB-kkO4dWl4KPoVmdsnhI08AJqc8v4fBrkYG5nj0jZlUSLjJCONl-xtaB-LPKZKNOZuGGwZdUIf3m8frQAJwB9pBrZ95NfhnkXm5Yh--OBSE2I5zVABBKMaFvG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="952" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3aU2DVOMzcLSNwYu1A9yKCox5JLKKuyDFX8ms33yDVVsZkXI1e64_S7Bs7founEr3PopB-kkO4dWl4KPoVmdsnhI08AJqc8v4fBrkYG5nj0jZlUSLjJCONl-xtaB-LPKZKNOZuGGwZdUIf3m8frQAJwB9pBrZ95NfhnkXm5Yh--OBSE2I5zVABBKMaFvG=w598-h640" width="598" /></a></div><br /><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You may recognize Mark Rothko’s paintings, even if you can’t recall the artist’s name: tall canvases of bold, floating blocks of color. Their titles, such as “No. 13,” “Red on Maroon,” even “Untitled,” are just as abstract as the paintings themselves.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Foundation Louis Vuitton art museum in Paris will host 115 of Rothko’s works in a blockbuster retrospective that runs through next spring. The exhibition, which fills four floors, proceeds in a somewhat chronological order. Paintings of city scenery from Rothko’s early career lead to his experiments with Surrealism; to the abstract, foggy rectangles he’s known for; and finally to the dark, colorless canvasses that embodied his later work.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Over and over, in soft-edged blocks layered on filmy backgrounds, he modeled a commitment to abstraction that charged at the hardest questions of life and art through refusal of the easy path,” my colleague Jason Farago, an art critic for The Times, writes in his review of the retrospective.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rothko preferred to show his paintings in low light, and away from the work of other artists. The show mostly stays true to those wishes, though it gives space in the final gallery to one artist Rothko at least approved of: Alberto Giacometti, whose spindly, bronze sculptures of attenuated human figures appear alongside a set of Rothko’s black-and-gray paintings.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The retrospective is a success, Jason says, though he notes that one can only view so many Rothkos in a day before they start to merge together. “They are spectacular, even if they soon all became broadly similar,” he writes.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And there’s more to appreciate about this show then just the paintings — particularly, the ordeal of getting them all to Paris.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No museum has attempted a Rothko exhibition of this scale since the 1990s, and for good reason: Almost none could afford it. The paintings are not just expensive (one was up for sale for $40 million last month), but also difficult to move because of the fragile materials Rothko used in his paint.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Moving so many Rothkos safely is something perhaps only a billionaire could afford. As it happens, the Louis Vuitton conglomerate’s chief executive, Bernard Arnault, is one of the richest people in the world.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“In organizational terms,” Jason writes, “this show is a milestone.”</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If a trip to the Vuitton in Paris is out of reach, there are opportunities to see Rothko’s work in the United States. The National Gallery of Art in Washington is holding an exhibition of Rothko’s paintings on paper starting November 19. The Phillips Collection, also in Washington, is hosting an installation through the end of March. The Museum of Modern Art in New York has its own Rothko collection. And in Houston there is a permanent installation in a nondenominational church, aptly called The Rothko Chapel.</span></p>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-43099536567077463492021-11-03T18:25:00.003-05:002021-11-03T18:47:19.375-05:00i.V KiNG's Queer Revival finds space for LGBTQ+ at NACC Church & beyond<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQwiPq-Rdzqncj5fWkwvvhwAWDlrOxFw6mIOFrtpQRdS2zclBVYqFXugUG9bSkyLOWC7HOQgw9oYQN0tes_DVb5v_iuY67PVG8bo2UKdTI9tbaB_n7wy7caGeI4yRTx-9zpIn4nzETp8_/s1192/i.V+KiNG.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1110" data-original-width="1192" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQwiPq-Rdzqncj5fWkwvvhwAWDlrOxFw6mIOFrtpQRdS2zclBVYqFXugUG9bSkyLOWC7HOQgw9oYQN0tes_DVb5v_iuY67PVG8bo2UKdTI9tbaB_n7wy7caGeI4yRTx-9zpIn4nzETp8_/w400-h374/i.V+KiNG.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">i.V KiNG has created the <i>Queer Revival</i>. <br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo credit: Andie Bottrell</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">By Ed Peaco</span></b></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">For Ed’s Occasional Posts</span></b></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">National Avenue Christian Church has accepted an invitation to be the venue for an untraditional, king-sized event. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s <i>The Queer Revival</i>, with a title that provides a fair amount of information about the gathering. But there is a lot more to unpack.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The impresario, i.V KiNG (Ivy Allison Schulte), has a background as a youth pastor, a musician and a gay woman who has had difficulty with church. She is the creator of <i>The Queer Revival, </i>which<i> </i>will premiere at 6:30 p.m., Friday, November 12, at the church. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">• Welcome and cocktail hour</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">• Concept show: speaker, life coach Madison Morrigan; performance by KiNG</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">• Concert with full band, i.V KiNG</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">• Drag show: Tania Carrington, Kris Kohl, Liz Anya</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">• After party at Hold Fast Brewing</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">KiNG stressed that any person of any faith, or none, would be welcome: “We’re not trying to convert anyone.” She has developed this event as a transformative experience.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">During KiNG’s early years in Springfield, she kept her orientation private. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I didn’t realize that other people of faith in the queer community existed. I felt so alone,” she said. “If I’d seen something like this [NACC] 10 years ago, it probably would have changed the trajectory of my life. I wouldn’t have had as much trauma, as much shame.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Several years ago, she went to Los Angeles to work on her music. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Now, my big thing is we can have God, if we want to have God. No one can take that from us,” she said. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir3gE_eADB4V3vCE7UmSrewzxEbZkJAZkHVTcjnig0CRZqCli6-W40bkBGkvweuNtiSDKDLRXqUMxvSdC1i2NXgU2JDSSvt_UYLLpbHcfu7ghDL2NulEAb-KryW40QtfsApCmLfW7WRQT1/s500/Pastor+Jenn+-+credit+Stephanie+Scott-Huffman.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="375" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir3gE_eADB4V3vCE7UmSrewzxEbZkJAZkHVTcjnig0CRZqCli6-W40bkBGkvweuNtiSDKDLRXqUMxvSdC1i2NXgU2JDSSvt_UYLLpbHcfu7ghDL2NulEAb-KryW40QtfsApCmLfW7WRQT1/s320/Pastor+Jenn+-+credit+Stephanie+Scott-Huffman.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pastor Jennifer Simmons at NACC <br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo credit: Stephanie Scott-Huffman<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">KiNG asked Pastor Jennifer Simmons at NACC to provide the church, specifically the sanctuary, for The Queer Revival. They spoke of reclaiming spaces of faith that were stolen from the LBGTQ+ community. </span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“The biggest thing I told her, I want the LBGTQ+ community to show up exactly as they are,” she said. “So, I’m very excited. And her response was magical.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In an interview with Pastor Jenn, she emphasized that the church had long been open and affirming, welcoming people of the LBGTQ+ community and providing space for groups such as the Ozarks Dharma Community and a Hindu group. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She called this approach “radically inclusive,” meaning the church welcomes all. “So when we say <i>all</i>, we really have to live and proclaim that message.” In the case of <i>The Queer Revival</i>, Pastor Jenn alongside the NACC board and leadership, accepted the invitation to provide space and helped with how the event would happen, she said.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Go, do what you need to do, take the space and run, provide a space for healing, make beautiful music, and we’ll be here,” Pastor Jenn said. “The beauty of this event is that it is KiNG’s dream and vision — wanting to come back to church and claim it, and work toward healing, and transforming the space from her own experience.”</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the note of healing in the context of entering a church after a long hiatus, Pastor Jenn suggested that this walk might be a difficult one. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I have walked alongside many folks for whom, just coming back to the church, that first day was a hard day because of what they have been taught, what they were told throughout their lifetimes by pastors, from pulpits, that has been so hurtful,” Pastor Jenn said. The intention is to seek potential healing.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In this way, the church does not expect anything from anyone.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As Pastor Jenn has said, “Just bring your full, beautiful, authentic self.”</span></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMlvO5AAWRov_NG5V2zjxF6-3TG750_JLQXBO1f1Dmc_g7uZDvkZitbczf-5D4YVyE9Sc1-2EI6GLd6skgGl-9ogppTldpeR2p9CzJ7dAWu0C8lLrRRPFtRXmRQOpSs6sCebTx8_nB9cV/s2048/Poster+i.V+KiNG%2527s+Queer+Revival.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1329" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMlvO5AAWRov_NG5V2zjxF6-3TG750_JLQXBO1f1Dmc_g7uZDvkZitbczf-5D4YVyE9Sc1-2EI6GLd6skgGl-9ogppTldpeR2p9CzJ7dAWu0C8lLrRRPFtRXmRQOpSs6sCebTx8_nB9cV/s320/Poster+i.V+KiNG%2527s+Queer+Revival.png" width="208" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><br />Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-20924231498624205592021-04-06T10:52:00.001-05:002022-05-03T14:40:56.796-05:00Out from the virus, Anthony Gomes hatches hit album<p><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Arial Black"; font-size: 15px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRDsEDDv6WhEaxJqs7n6agsj-1D5-YaRWh08AAnvBGLE8j5ozys4wl7UAffjZYk5-RT4RsJCH0t4Xyz2hQnR53-j2icFILF7SOIJ0UDaJTb1B75jzYXeXsYPLttS9weNIZXz8_hvG7Tur/s2048/neKyijiL.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1470" data-original-width="2048" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRDsEDDv6WhEaxJqs7n6agsj-1D5-YaRWh08AAnvBGLE8j5ozys4wl7UAffjZYk5-RT4RsJCH0t4Xyz2hQnR53-j2icFILF7SOIJ0UDaJTb1B75jzYXeXsYPLttS9weNIZXz8_hvG7Tur/w400-h288/neKyijiL.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b>Anthony Gomes</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"></span></b></div></div></div><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">In 2020, probably the worst year for live music since before songs were invented, musicians had to stop making noise in public, but they found other means to keep their creative drive burning.</p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Anthony Gomes — the blues guitarist, band leader and thoughtful songwriter — made the most of the lean year by forging a new album, <i>Containment Blues,</i> out of the sorrow of the virus, bringing some urgently needed healing. </p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He and his band will perform two shows at Shuffle. One is sold out. Tickets for the April 24 show can be bought at Eventbrite. Routine COVID-19 health measures will be enforced, said promoter Monte Lorts.</p>
<ul>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">No tickets can be purchased at the door</li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Tickets are for tables of four, or for individual stools</li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Mask required for entry</li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">No mask needed when seated and eating and drinking</li>
<li style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Mask required when moving around the venue</li></ul>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">This show presents an opportunity to hear live music, new music. </p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“Out of it we birthed this unforeseen baby, a much different album than we would have otherwise,” he said. “We were working on a different album and we just stopped that because it didn<span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">’</span>t seem appropriate.”</p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He realized the historic significance of this global predicament, he said. “Somehow, I needed to archive that, artistically. I’m really proud of the results.”</p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i></i></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt2-kT5I3x1Qjm7BXaWhpzBZjlGwgQPByVK47WaQtN57FXYjFYW77-sdEu22LpHMHjRL1oYcrFZnA2F-XhOupgG1pPyzMqMh5xsA-mHsXAtYp18hFny3aM_C33vWWW1smf3np3j6VQVco9/s2048/okpp6Y1g.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt2-kT5I3x1Qjm7BXaWhpzBZjlGwgQPByVK47WaQtN57FXYjFYW77-sdEu22LpHMHjRL1oYcrFZnA2F-XhOupgG1pPyzMqMh5xsA-mHsXAtYp18hFny3aM_C33vWWW1smf3np3j6VQVco9/w200-h200/okpp6Y1g.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"></blockquote><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Cover art for album,<br />Containment Blues</span></b><br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br />Containment Blues</i> became their best received, best selling album, hitting No. 1 on the Bluebird Blues Chart last year, and doubling the sales of their previous album, he said.<p></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“People need some humor. Blues has always been a healer. We really needed some healing in 2020,” he said. The title song presents a family situation involving scarce toilet paper. “Hell and Half of Georgia” is a drama in which one partner has multiple lovers.</p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">One of several songs with a more serious theme is “Praying for Rain,” an autobiographical song where he reminisces about lessons from his grandfather, such as: “… son, I’m counting on you to finish what we started to find a way … .”</p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Another serious piece has an unexpected title, “Stop Calling Women Hoes and Bitches.” This song, calling for respect for women, is a huge, powerful moment in the show, Anthony said. He found that listeners respond in one of three ways: 1) women are thankful, 2) men who have daughters appreciate the song, or 3) some other men don’t really understand.</p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Anthony has spoken about his work as an artistic journey, as well as a worldwide scope for the Blues. The trio is comprised of Anthony from Canada, bassist Jacob Mreen from the U.S., and drummer Chris Whited of Sweden. Additional musicians on <i>Containment Blues </i>are from Brazil, Venezuela and Russia. </p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">His foundation was able to confer modest grants to five musicians in need last year. Meanwhile, he’s “very cautiously optimistic” for 2021 and more upside for 2022, with another album in the works. </p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">“There’s an overwhelming feeling that we’re coming out of the darkness. … We’ve been working hard and struggling and getting by. Soon we’re going to be together again. That’s what living is all about.”</p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b>Anthony Gomes Band</b></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Shuffle</p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Doors open 7 p.m., show 8 p.m.</p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">2550 S. Campbell Ave.</p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">417-883-2166</p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Tickets from Eventbrite</p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Saturday, April 24, ticket link:</p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; background-color: white; color: blue; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="https://bit.ly/3uVHNr4?fbclid=IwAR0CETygoxd2zlRHxnibHsVBTdOy2ZVijBTIqqeUKSDHwJUZo39lWid7yhk">https://bit.ly/3uVHNr4</a></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br /></p>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-3964629557337766122021-03-11T10:59:00.007-06:002022-05-03T14:41:34.369-05:00Maria Schneider vs. Data Lords<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 15px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb-Z_FiApgvFijrhTjhtV-F3dPys5FCDIcP_Z9rCTUsEdB9mFRvbYONz0dPgaDtl4i55BNjHHJUx2NThiLekKO2RX3W1TKD7ll-88s65-NWde1BOhiRQ9fswPhXE4Iu16ZHkpuQmMerniG/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="938" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb-Z_FiApgvFijrhTjhtV-F3dPys5FCDIcP_Z9rCTUsEdB9mFRvbYONz0dPgaDtl4i55BNjHHJUx2NThiLekKO2RX3W1TKD7ll-88s65-NWde1BOhiRQ9fswPhXE4Iu16ZHkpuQmMerniG/w384-h340/Maria+Schneider+vs+Data+Lords.png" width="384" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Maria Schneider<br />Session photography by Briene Lermitte</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have been listening to the Maria Schneider Orchestra for about 25 years, and I had always characterized her work as ethereal, uplifting, yet vigorous. For most of her career, she has avoided big music companies so she can own her music and work for herself. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She has been working with ArtistShare, dedicated to supporting independent musicians with a platform for artists, focusing on crowdfunding for raising capital, and connecting artists with fans, as noted in the organization’s website. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Over the years, as the music business has become a streaming industry, Schneider has spoken out about the way artists have little revenue from this arrangement. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With this two-disc album, <i>Data Lords</i>, released in 2020, Schneider seems to have boiled over about industry trends. The music on this album is dedicated to calling out the “Data Lords” of social media, the music business and other grifters who exploit the natural world for financial gain. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">The Digital World</span></i></b></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The Data Lords are spanked on one disc with grating bombast on <i>The Digital World</i>. The other disc is titled <i>Our Natural World</i>, which brings us back to music that is ethereal, uplifting, yet vigorous. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“A World Lost" is the first song on <i>The Digital World</i>, with the mournful long tones of Ben Monder, sounding like a funeral dirge. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Next is “Don’t Be Evil,” using this title in mockery of Google’s motto. Trombones sound like chattering clowns, then they stir up a thick dust storm that settles into some twinkling of ivories as the buffoons come again at the end.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“CQCQ,” was a call from Schneider’s father, who was a ham radio operator. The call means “Is anybody there?” She worked this memory into an anthem for the Data Lords, using Morse code and radio waves expressed as music. Later, the electronics may feel like sitting in an electric chair for a long time — in a good musical way.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Data Lords,” the song, brings discordant blasts, slams of percussion, and Mike Rodriguez’s trumpet with electronics spewing fear. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have never heard such music from her, and it’s really exciting, like a horror movie.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Arial; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Our Natural World</span></i></b></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If you play both discs in this order, at this point, you can catch your breath and listen to more iconic, graceful Maria music, with quirks and surprises.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Sanzenin” is a Buddhist term, perfect for this stately, ethereal piece. Gary Versace, playing accordion, spins squiggly lines of joy.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Steve Wilson, playing soprano sax, creates a feeling of squirrels and birds chattering and chirping on “Stone Song.” </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With “Bluebird,” we are fully back in the groove of ethereal, uplifting, yet vigorous. Again, Wilson, this time on alto, takes one of those long building solos as the whole band lifts him chorus by chorus. Versace lands the plane gently.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On “The Sun Waited for Me,” Donny McCaslin on tenor and Marshall Gilkes on trombone are threading lines around each other until McCaslin takes over with a jumpy solo.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Arial Black"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One more thing</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Will Schneider continue with the character of <i>Data Lords</i>? Actually, I liked that disc better, although <i>Our Natural World</i> is also outstanding. But I would miss all of that bombast and electronics if she goes back to the same approach. It would be appropriate to use these newly found components by the composer and the band in future projects. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Look up <i>Data Lords</i>, the two-disc album, at ArtistShare.</span></p><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-26781983703178705302018-03-06T23:50:00.001-06:002018-03-06T23:50:37.474-06:00La Rumba Me Llamo Yo - Daymé Arocena - Cubafonía (Official video)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/EvyTWRB4l4w" width="480"></iframe>Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-24383402293273638872015-06-21T12:04:00.004-05:002022-05-03T14:39:10.344-05:00Vines face trench-digging backhoe<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2tcZWOR5iETSmCqhPOA4tUjXD-YvZW_W_fUBZqcHl3VlKg8e8-jubyUvSI3q0_zQdt-DuNlfbdk-seQQ5WJts4ZXv5vgeb_NLqIeD3LZb7OOCfGu8pj4yQ_AB7iMxsRiSZMsC-QfMDDi/s1600/1+dig+starts.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN2tcZWOR5iETSmCqhPOA4tUjXD-YvZW_W_fUBZqcHl3VlKg8e8-jubyUvSI3q0_zQdt-DuNlfbdk-seQQ5WJts4ZXv5vgeb_NLqIeD3LZb7OOCfGu8pj4yQ_AB7iMxsRiSZMsC-QfMDDi/s400/1+dig+starts.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Workers begin digging the trench. In the left photo, a<br /> section of the old pipe is visible at the right.<br /><br /></span></b></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIxw4xcuC-V_SKpadFtbjDMP-YTBG5RRc0DF7Qzdaf1p2EjxvxIVmgsmVmdIUvEOjjxS3EHVoTsydvSKizwvQ8cgCB8JVrAx53TB7Q_wm4dWBFLCEoIO1l5sO7D39y_kDsbOzc3wskNj0D/s1600/2+vines+yanked.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIxw4xcuC-V_SKpadFtbjDMP-YTBG5RRc0DF7Qzdaf1p2EjxvxIVmgsmVmdIUvEOjjxS3EHVoTsydvSKizwvQ8cgCB8JVrAx53TB7Q_wm4dWBFLCEoIO1l5sO7D39y_kDsbOzc3wskNj0D/s400/2+vines+yanked.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b>Two vines dug up at once.<br /><br /></b></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPOEUBLlmEUwt5ePXQKC0TY1q4ODBCU9VGAo6k0gk5B79ieico0OTmDp2XcEZwTa9z7O3MwlxJrgAON7vYI3UXRi7ndcH4zXomoVEe8sRmbyD24ID4FEbkingzraLSub0trUYWw1Y-qXUk/s1600/5+trench+finish.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPOEUBLlmEUwt5ePXQKC0TY1q4ODBCU9VGAo6k0gk5B79ieico0OTmDp2XcEZwTa9z7O3MwlxJrgAON7vYI3UXRi7ndcH4zXomoVEe8sRmbyD24ID4FEbkingzraLSub0trUYWw1Y-qXUk/s320/5+trench+finish.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b>The trench runs through the line of vines.</b></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRN6MWG_vyZQ5zrwjH4SUV4u2wp8vEW0ysTAl0AnAQfY5hVVVDiynvFSHW6Q8Y28TCFdZ6uwNqm8yxBvRuRcJTa7cU752zF5GBrYS5Qesk-PKcDuXNw_blkMEKPAhTk-GrwAnZQU0gkMEA/s1600/6+restored.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRN6MWG_vyZQ5zrwjH4SUV4u2wp8vEW0ysTAl0AnAQfY5hVVVDiynvFSHW6Q8Y28TCFdZ6uwNqm8yxBvRuRcJTa7cU752zF5GBrYS5Qesk-PKcDuXNw_blkMEKPAhTk-GrwAnZQU0gkMEA/s320/6+restored.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;">Apparently successful replanting.</span></b><br /><br /></td></tr>
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Last month, we called Roto Rooter to fix a plumbing problem that became a total replacement of the outside pipe leading to the main city line. The line ran diagonally across our back yard through our grape vines. <br /><br />The workers identified two vines in the path of the trench they’d have to dig. They came up with what I considered a pointless idea but worth a try. They dug up both plants in one backhoe bucketful and set them aside.<br /><br />I put the two uprooted plants in a big tub with soil and lots of water. They lived in that tub for a day and a half. When the workers were finished, I replanted the vines in 2-foot-deep holes filled with a mixture of peat, vermiculite and soil. Then I added lots root stimulator and unknown gallons of water. <br /><br />Immediately, both vines wilted. The effort seemed more like hospice, not recovery. I don’t have photos of the tub or the worst stage of the vines’ decline. I thought they were dead.<br /><br />After about two weeks of withering, the few remaining leaves stopped decaying. Within a month, the plants shot out new growth. Now they look to be entirely viable.<br /><br />The workers, who are master plumbers, not just earth movers, did a great job not just with the task at hand but also in their attempt to preserve landscaping.<br /><br />People who have schooled me in viticulture have said that transplanting of mature vines just isn’t done (cuttings are the way to propagate). So this case of apparently successful replanting is quite an unexpected happy outcome.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b>New growth</b></span></td></tr>
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<br />Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6602840668013735641.post-50105719839964080442014-08-24T17:52:00.000-05:002014-08-24T17:52:15.205-05:00Urban vineyard: Be thankful for small favors — and bird netting<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bird netting connected with clothespins encased the vines. For some reason, birds didn't try to penetrate it.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the canopy</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">An April frost, a huge limb falling on the vines in a storm, and a bit of black rot diminished the yield of the urban vineyard, but a record-high sugar measurement this year promised better quality wine.</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Two things happened this year for the first time: all eight plants contributed fruit, and the vines fulfilled their function as a tent for the grapes, providing shade and protection from pests. In earlier years, we had patches of leafy expanse and other spots where grapes were dangling more or less exposed.<br /><br />We tried bird netting for the first time in five years, and it worked. I abandoned bird netting in 2010 because the birds found ways to stick their beaks into the spaces and grab grapes one at a time. Worse, some birds using this technique got caught in the netting and died horrible deaths. Oddly, this year we had smarter birds that mostly left the netting alone. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3flhfMOs8HIfpHUcks7R2mbND72Tm82Cb6k2tHXSlxn8M2cOAChfHAXyWmH4TM9FiZ2GU1JBMKL11gRLKXZl4kra5G7a082B_6eTP-PzNsxI4xCsbFYaeYlR2GS9402EKryysS2Q_UlA/s1600/shroud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3flhfMOs8HIfpHUcks7R2mbND72Tm82Cb6k2tHXSlxn8M2cOAChfHAXyWmH4TM9FiZ2GU1JBMKL11gRLKXZl4kra5G7a082B_6eTP-PzNsxI4xCsbFYaeYlR2GS9402EKryysS2Q_UlA/s1600/shroud.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "shroud" was used to protect small areas of clusters.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">N</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">etting proved to be much easier to maintain than the row cover we had been using to cloak the row of vines in a “shroud.” We did use a bit of row cover for areas of isolated clusters. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Like row cover, bird netting encased the entire plant, secured along the ground with garden staples on either side. <br /><br />I suspect the long dry spell was responsible for this week's remarkable spike in the brix up to 20, which is the highest reading I've ever seen from these plants. The forecast calls for rain later this week, which would dilute the sugar content, so I decided to act now. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">We harvested about 20 pounds of St. Vincent today (right). I’m amazed that we got that much in the face of all the natural obstacles this year brought.</span><br />
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Ed Peacohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08846556068603534140noreply@blogger.com0