A Moleskine, the small black classic one, eventually took the place of the bigger, spiral bound sketch book Lisa carried everywhere with her in high school. The sketch books, really there was a series of sketchbooks, were green or brown, with sailing ships printed on the cover. She covered each heavy, rough textured page with drawings and quotes and collaged scraps of paper. When she came to the end, she started another right away. They were lined up on a shelf in the bedroom she shared with her sister Katy, each thick, important bundle of paper dated. Whenever she had nothing else to do, she took them down to examine.
The rule was that each page had to be covered. She kept a tin box of markers and colored pencils in her bag, too. At rehearsals, when she was waiting backstage for a light cue or to change the set, she would color, furiously, with the side of one of the pencils, shading light to dark or making circles like boulders piled one on top of the other. Around and under and between the colors and the glued in souvenirs, she wrote down the things people around her said. People liked to look through them to see themselves quoted, their bits of dialog captured.
Senior year, a girl who was going out with Sam, a girl who was in fact older than Lisa but not as much older as she acted, told her the notebooks were a way of hiding from the world. The girl wore red lipstick and had wide brown eyes ringed in black.
"This is art," Lisa insisted. She knew the girl was uneasy about Lisa and Sam, about their friendship. The books were full of him, sketches, quotes, song lyrics that he loved. In an early one, there was even the wrapper of a candy bar he had thrown away but no one knew that. It just looked like something she admired, the letters or the picture of chocolate melting into a pool. She wanted the pages to be art, to be animated and beautiful. She wanted the notebooks to be admired by strangers.
The girl stood with her hands on her hips, looking down on Lisa who was sitting in a folding chair with one of the notebooks open in her lap. "It's like you're taking notes on life," the girl said. "It's not the same as being alive."
Friday, November 6, 2009
I Couldn't Take My Eyes Off It - Kiran Giand
She sat down at a table at the other end of the restaurant. Normally I wouldn’t have noticed her. The large sapphire droplets around her neck caught light and seared back at me in the most intense shade of blue I’d seen since snorkeling off Bocas del Toro.
Throughout our working lunch, I kept glancing at her neck. She probably thought I was hitting on her. The truth is, I’d never seen a piece of jewelry that so totally captivated me.
As she removed our menus, the waitress mentioned the woman was an heiress of the Brown family fortune.
“Who are you talking about?”
“The woman you’ve been staring at since you arrived.”
“Oh, did you see her necklace?”
“Rumor has it that was a gift from the Prince of Monaco.”
I raised my left eyebrow as if this meant something to me, though in reality, I didn’t even know who either of them were.
As she was leaving, I lifted my wine glass in her direction, like I was one of the many fans following her every move while she was in San Francisco. The gesture was simply applauding her taste in jewelry.
Throughout our working lunch, I kept glancing at her neck. She probably thought I was hitting on her. The truth is, I’d never seen a piece of jewelry that so totally captivated me.
As she removed our menus, the waitress mentioned the woman was an heiress of the Brown family fortune.
“Who are you talking about?”
“The woman you’ve been staring at since you arrived.”
“Oh, did you see her necklace?”
“Rumor has it that was a gift from the Prince of Monaco.”
I raised my left eyebrow as if this meant something to me, though in reality, I didn’t even know who either of them were.
As she was leaving, I lifted my wine glass in her direction, like I was one of the many fans following her every move while she was in San Francisco. The gesture was simply applauding her taste in jewelry.
I Couldn't Take My Eyes Off It - Bonnie Smetts
I can’t take my eyes off the gun. I see guns every single day except Saturday and Sunday. But those are tucked into the holsters of the deputies, the bailiffs, people who wear pressed uniforms and hopefully I can trust. I don’t trust Roy, not any more.
“Roy, what the hell are you doing with a gun?” I’m nervous.
“You never know, I never know now,” he says.
“Roy, I don’t think they’d be too happy to know you got a gun on your table, with you already being accused of killing a dog.” I’m saying the obvious, but doing that is like talking to Roy with the sound off.
“Since when do you know so much? This court recording business has gone to your head,” he says. Sometimes I hate this man. Sometimes I can’t imagine that ever felt anything for him.
“Have it your way, Roy, but you’re just playing with fire. The gun, the trouble you’re in now.” Again, I’m saying the obvious. “I’m gonna go. I got stuff to do today.”
“Baby, don’t go,” he says. Calling me baby is worse than using handcuffs.
“That’s not gonna work today, Roy. I got stuff to do. I told Randy I’d help her set up her shop. Her husband’s finished building with the second room,” I say.
“And Randy’s more important than me?” Hostage.
“Roy, I said I’d come visit. I’m here, we visited. And now I gotta go. OK?” I’m not really asking if it’s OK. But Roy’s got a way of looking so sad, so pitiful when he wants to. I can’t look.
“See you next week,” not really thinking about whether that’s true or not. It just leaves him with a bit of hope so he lets me go.
I don’t look back, I just let the door close as softly as I can. I can’t look at that face, pleading me to stay. Only because he wants someone warm sitting next to him. I feel sick all the way back to town.
“Roy, what the hell are you doing with a gun?” I’m nervous.
“You never know, I never know now,” he says.
“Roy, I don’t think they’d be too happy to know you got a gun on your table, with you already being accused of killing a dog.” I’m saying the obvious, but doing that is like talking to Roy with the sound off.
“Since when do you know so much? This court recording business has gone to your head,” he says. Sometimes I hate this man. Sometimes I can’t imagine that ever felt anything for him.
“Have it your way, Roy, but you’re just playing with fire. The gun, the trouble you’re in now.” Again, I’m saying the obvious. “I’m gonna go. I got stuff to do today.”
“Baby, don’t go,” he says. Calling me baby is worse than using handcuffs.
“That’s not gonna work today, Roy. I got stuff to do. I told Randy I’d help her set up her shop. Her husband’s finished building with the second room,” I say.
“And Randy’s more important than me?” Hostage.
“Roy, I said I’d come visit. I’m here, we visited. And now I gotta go. OK?” I’m not really asking if it’s OK. But Roy’s got a way of looking so sad, so pitiful when he wants to. I can’t look.
“See you next week,” not really thinking about whether that’s true or not. It just leaves him with a bit of hope so he lets me go.
I don’t look back, I just let the door close as softly as I can. I can’t look at that face, pleading me to stay. Only because he wants someone warm sitting next to him. I feel sick all the way back to town.
He Couldn't Take His Eyes Off It - John Fetto
He couldn’t take his eyes off the train rolling towards him. It swung out from behind the wire gates, orange nose straightening towards where he sat cross legged on the tracks. He watched, waiting for the conductor to see him, waiting for the brakes to squeal, the engine slowing to a stop, feet, perhaps inches from him, but stop it must because he wasn’t going to move. He had told them so before he sat on the tracks and a crowd had gathered out at the naval weapons station, waving signs. Even they thought the train would stop. Everyone did, until it rose up and loomed over him like a falling wall.
A Good Man - Jeff Thomas
As the train pulled out of the station, the rhythmic tempo of clicking wheels on tracks steadily increased. In one of the passenger cars, Frank Morgan sat comfortably in his seat, staring out of the window at the houses passing by. The train was still going slowly enough that he was allowed time to ponder briefly each house and its imaginary inhabitants, chiefly wondering how in god’s name they’d found themselves living so close to the railroad tracks. The thought depressed him immensely. He turned from the window to the book on his lap. He hadn’t felt like reading, but now he needed a distraction. He looked about at the passengers surrounding him; the car was almost full, but nearly silent. No one held his attention. When finally he was about to pick up the book, a woman, struggling, opened the door to the car. A clatterous whoosh filled the compartment but slowly faded when she released the door. She walked briskly down the aisle, carrying a small overnight bag in her hand. When she inevitably sat down next to him, he smiled and nodded. Frank was a reflexively polite man. He even theatrically adjusted his body to give the impression that he was making room for her. What a good guy he was to give up space, however imaginary, to a stranger to allow her to feel more comfortable. He felt elated by behaving with the utmost thoughtfulness in the situation. In fact he felt so proud of himself that he could hardly stand it. The woman didn’t appear to notice. He took a longer, sidelong glance to see if she appreciated his efforts. It was clear she did not. Frank fumed. Of all the nerve! And so, in a series of loud movements he quickly expanded himself to take as much room as possible. He opened his legs to a wide stance, broadened his shoulders, pulled down the armrest between them and took up the whole thing with his left arm. We’ll see how she likes that, he thought. He looked over. She didn’t seem to notice.
A Good Man - Melody Cryns
People knew who he was when he walked into the bar or club. Everyone would shout, “Hey Harold!” and shake his hand as he walked by. One guy would run up to him and shake his hand, another patted him on the back.
Harold was in seventh heaven when he walked into the bar or club. He was ready to roll, or as he said, ready to do business. He was a good old boy and he swept people off their feet, or so he thought.
Harold was an older guy, balding a little, but with a sort of charisma that made people stop and talk to him and even listen. He’d wing girls around the dance floor and make them smile and squeal and the husbands never got jealous when Harold would come by and swing their wives around because, as he said, it was good promotion for the band he was promoting.
Harold apparently promoted many bands. According to Harold, it wasn’t how well the band members played, but the mixture of sound, and of course he was responsible for making the sound so stellar.
At first, Harold dazzled everyone, but little did he know that after a while, some of his stories did not ring true – did he really have two black belts in martial arts, a J.D. in law, a Ph.D. in Physics, plus he wrote over 3,000 songs and published them, not to mention his stint with the government doing undercover work overseas and his engineering work. Had he really run a dog training business and trained Oprah’s dog and how can one forget that he was a bodyguard for people like Steve Miller and even George Harrison back in the day? When did he have time to be a bodyguard when he was going to school as a perpetual student for most of his life?
After a while, one has to wonder if he can really save failing businesses and get them back on their feet, and did he really once have a lot of money and was able to invest into all these businesses, and they now all owe him thousands of dollars?
Most people don’t care if it’s true or not at the bars – they probably don’t think it’s true. But the stories are so entertaining and Harold tells them in a very alluring deep voice…oh yeah, he also was a DJ for a radio station for many years as well.
So who is this guy who’s been everywhere and done everything? He’s sharp enough… Ken, who owns Woodham’s, even said that he thought Harold must have a lot of money, but that perhaps he’s just eccentric.
Sometimes the whiskey talks for Harold – and the more whiskey he drinks out of the bottle, the better his stories are and the more he’s done. He doesn’t have the money to buy shots at the bar, so he orders a coke and looks like he’s not even drinking. The bottle of whiskey resides in the trunk of his car and he sashays outside to take swigs frequently throughout the night, not to mention of course light up a cigarette every time he goes outside.
“But if he a good man? Be honest with me!” I shouted to Ken, who owns Woodham’s. He had just listened to Harold’s spiel about how he is going to do everything in his power to save Woodham’s, a place that’s struggling right now – where amazing live music happens.
“Well, he wants to do good things,” Ken shouted back. “It’s like that book, The Secret – you just keep talking about it and maybe then it will all just really happen!”
“Yeah,” I said. “But…”
I sigh, sitting at the bar at Woodham’s listening to live music…a guy is singing a Jimi Hendrix song and playing his heart out…
I see Harold sashay into the bar. A couple of guys yell, “Hey Harold!” and Harold smiles and walks up and shakes their hands. Then he grabs a girl and swings her around the dance floor for a moment and the husband or boyfriend just smiles – it’s just old Harold.
Our eyes meet and I can see that there’s true feeling in them underneath the rest of it…
I know that Harold is on social security disability and lives in a tiny apartment above a coffee shop in Willow Glen with a roommate who really once was a CPA Accountant, but hit his head and was in a coma for months and admits he’s been a full-blown alcoholic for 40 years. I know that part of it is real because I’ve visited the place, I’ve been there.
And I realize as he walks up to me and gives me a special hug and looks into my eyes and then slurs into my ear, “I set up a corporation while talking to those guys outside! We’re going to save all the businesses that are going down!” His breath smells strongly of whiskey and cigarettes.
And I realize that he’s a good man, and he really wants to save the world. But we can never be anything more than friends.
Harold was in seventh heaven when he walked into the bar or club. He was ready to roll, or as he said, ready to do business. He was a good old boy and he swept people off their feet, or so he thought.
Harold was an older guy, balding a little, but with a sort of charisma that made people stop and talk to him and even listen. He’d wing girls around the dance floor and make them smile and squeal and the husbands never got jealous when Harold would come by and swing their wives around because, as he said, it was good promotion for the band he was promoting.
Harold apparently promoted many bands. According to Harold, it wasn’t how well the band members played, but the mixture of sound, and of course he was responsible for making the sound so stellar.
At first, Harold dazzled everyone, but little did he know that after a while, some of his stories did not ring true – did he really have two black belts in martial arts, a J.D. in law, a Ph.D. in Physics, plus he wrote over 3,000 songs and published them, not to mention his stint with the government doing undercover work overseas and his engineering work. Had he really run a dog training business and trained Oprah’s dog and how can one forget that he was a bodyguard for people like Steve Miller and even George Harrison back in the day? When did he have time to be a bodyguard when he was going to school as a perpetual student for most of his life?
After a while, one has to wonder if he can really save failing businesses and get them back on their feet, and did he really once have a lot of money and was able to invest into all these businesses, and they now all owe him thousands of dollars?
Most people don’t care if it’s true or not at the bars – they probably don’t think it’s true. But the stories are so entertaining and Harold tells them in a very alluring deep voice…oh yeah, he also was a DJ for a radio station for many years as well.
So who is this guy who’s been everywhere and done everything? He’s sharp enough… Ken, who owns Woodham’s, even said that he thought Harold must have a lot of money, but that perhaps he’s just eccentric.
Sometimes the whiskey talks for Harold – and the more whiskey he drinks out of the bottle, the better his stories are and the more he’s done. He doesn’t have the money to buy shots at the bar, so he orders a coke and looks like he’s not even drinking. The bottle of whiskey resides in the trunk of his car and he sashays outside to take swigs frequently throughout the night, not to mention of course light up a cigarette every time he goes outside.
“But if he a good man? Be honest with me!” I shouted to Ken, who owns Woodham’s. He had just listened to Harold’s spiel about how he is going to do everything in his power to save Woodham’s, a place that’s struggling right now – where amazing live music happens.
“Well, he wants to do good things,” Ken shouted back. “It’s like that book, The Secret – you just keep talking about it and maybe then it will all just really happen!”
“Yeah,” I said. “But…”
I sigh, sitting at the bar at Woodham’s listening to live music…a guy is singing a Jimi Hendrix song and playing his heart out…
I see Harold sashay into the bar. A couple of guys yell, “Hey Harold!” and Harold smiles and walks up and shakes their hands. Then he grabs a girl and swings her around the dance floor for a moment and the husband or boyfriend just smiles – it’s just old Harold.
Our eyes meet and I can see that there’s true feeling in them underneath the rest of it…
I know that Harold is on social security disability and lives in a tiny apartment above a coffee shop in Willow Glen with a roommate who really once was a CPA Accountant, but hit his head and was in a coma for months and admits he’s been a full-blown alcoholic for 40 years. I know that part of it is real because I’ve visited the place, I’ve been there.
And I realize as he walks up to me and gives me a special hug and looks into my eyes and then slurs into my ear, “I set up a corporation while talking to those guys outside! We’re going to save all the businesses that are going down!” His breath smells strongly of whiskey and cigarettes.
And I realize that he’s a good man, and he really wants to save the world. But we can never be anything more than friends.
Rain - Camilla Basham
After ten or so miles down the gravel road we arrive. It's raining as always, heat and rain, heat and rain. It never stops. The house is wooden, built years ago, raised on cinder blocks about four feet from the ground. It's good because it keeps the water out of the house during heavy rains or if the levy ever breaks. It also gives my dad crawl space to bang the pipes around with his wrench when the toilet or sink backs up. My brother says it gives him shelter from the rain and a place to pass out when he comes home drunk. It is stained, worn, reeking of neglect. Sometimes I feel like that house, but then I think, Ruthie, you're being selfish. Your mom is doing God's work.
As our old Chevy truck pulls into the lawn “Sea of Love” comes streaming through the radio. The corner of her lips curl.
“You love that song, don’t you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I sure do, Sha. I like to see a local do well. He’s from Lake Charles you know?” I do know. She tells me every time the song comes on the radio.
As I take off my shoes and roll up my pants to walk through the muddy front yard and hopefully squish my toes in a few crayfish holes along the way, I notice the town school bus parked in the alley. It's odd to ever have anyone come to our house for social reasons. It's usually only people who are looking for a little piece of salvation through mom. Who else would want to visit a house furnished with handrails, ramps, special toilets, sit down showers, beaten up hospital beds and wheelchairs.
There is no life in the house, just a stream of the dying making their way through. A sort of purgatory for grandparents, distant cousins, the local mail carrier's dying mother, the neighbor's aunt, you name it. I always sit next to them reading my homework out loud at night because mom says that hearing is the last thing to go and it's nice for them to hear the voice of a child if they still can. They are probably sick of sixth grade history by now, but no one ever complains.
When people ask my mom why she spends all of her time in hospitals and caring for the sick at our house she just says with conviction, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."
I want to say "Huh?" but I'm afraid of another hand in my face.
"Why is the school bus parked at our house?" I ask. We jump from the truck and slosh through the mud towards the front porch. Mom is silent and looking fearful. She has a death grip on my arm. I forget about the crayfish holes.
We stop at the top of the porch. Out of the darkness and raindrops the size of buckshot I see Mr. Pete, the school bus driver. I'm not allowed to ride the bus because mom says Mr. Pete is nice but you can't be too careful, him being a Negro and all. I know him from tales I've heard from other kids, the way you hear of tales about people who live over the tracks. I can never understand why a Negro on the radio makes her smile but one in real life makes her shiver. After all, she claims they’re all alike.
To the left of Mr. Pete is a boy about my age, but smaller, frail. Mr. Pete holds an umbrella over his bare scalp. The boy shivers and stares at the ground. He is so black that he almost disappears in the darkness. Mom and I are dry under the porch. Mr. Pete and the boy stand a few feet below us in the rain. He doesn't look as scary as all those stories make him out to be and no one ever said he has a son.
As our old Chevy truck pulls into the lawn “Sea of Love” comes streaming through the radio. The corner of her lips curl.
“You love that song, don’t you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I sure do, Sha. I like to see a local do well. He’s from Lake Charles you know?” I do know. She tells me every time the song comes on the radio.
As I take off my shoes and roll up my pants to walk through the muddy front yard and hopefully squish my toes in a few crayfish holes along the way, I notice the town school bus parked in the alley. It's odd to ever have anyone come to our house for social reasons. It's usually only people who are looking for a little piece of salvation through mom. Who else would want to visit a house furnished with handrails, ramps, special toilets, sit down showers, beaten up hospital beds and wheelchairs.
There is no life in the house, just a stream of the dying making their way through. A sort of purgatory for grandparents, distant cousins, the local mail carrier's dying mother, the neighbor's aunt, you name it. I always sit next to them reading my homework out loud at night because mom says that hearing is the last thing to go and it's nice for them to hear the voice of a child if they still can. They are probably sick of sixth grade history by now, but no one ever complains.
When people ask my mom why she spends all of her time in hospitals and caring for the sick at our house she just says with conviction, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."
I want to say "Huh?" but I'm afraid of another hand in my face.
"Why is the school bus parked at our house?" I ask. We jump from the truck and slosh through the mud towards the front porch. Mom is silent and looking fearful. She has a death grip on my arm. I forget about the crayfish holes.
We stop at the top of the porch. Out of the darkness and raindrops the size of buckshot I see Mr. Pete, the school bus driver. I'm not allowed to ride the bus because mom says Mr. Pete is nice but you can't be too careful, him being a Negro and all. I know him from tales I've heard from other kids, the way you hear of tales about people who live over the tracks. I can never understand why a Negro on the radio makes her smile but one in real life makes her shiver. After all, she claims they’re all alike.
To the left of Mr. Pete is a boy about my age, but smaller, frail. Mr. Pete holds an umbrella over his bare scalp. The boy shivers and stares at the ground. He is so black that he almost disappears in the darkness. Mom and I are dry under the porch. Mr. Pete and the boy stand a few feet below us in the rain. He doesn't look as scary as all those stories make him out to be and no one ever said he has a son.
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