They were sitting across the table from each other in her kitchen. Soon they would eat, it was cooking, but right now they were sipping white wine. It was probably as light and sweet as her thighs. That’s what he figured.
“You know,” he continued, “I’m always ready to play a few rounds of ‘get to know you’, I am! But I’m always prepared to wait for my desert. I’m one of those fellows who can push back his desert and save it for later.”
He smiled a mischievous smile.
She crossed her fabulous legs and in doing so allowed her tight dress to ride up just a taste. It was the one she’d swore she’d never wear in public. Too tight and revealing she called it.
“That’s good.” she answered. “I’m ready for that.”
It was only to obvious she was ready for anything, the little Spygirl.
“Here,” she asked leaning forward, “would you like some more wine?”
Her cleavage was enchanting. The passing years and gravity itself had shown absolutely no ill effects on her small perfect breasts and she knew it.
He took note of this fact. She was always handing him facts to take note of. Intimate yummy facts. Always ready to hand over information, the little Spygirl.
He cleared his throat.
“Of course you realize, I’m keeping my distance on purpose. For your sake.”
He said this one while trying to remain aloof, detached, uninterested, non-engaged.
She was having none of it.
“And why is that?” she countered, taking a sip. Here’s when he’d take note of her perfectly sculptured throat. She was ready to show him what was what.
He needed a phrase that would reinforce his manhood. Show her who was in charge. Something strong and confident.
“Because once we touch, it’s all over.”
She looked calmly at him. Face to face, eye to eye. She knew she had him.
“My shoulder’s been bothering me today. My physical therapist was too hard on me," she pouted like a lady in distress. She put down her glass and started rubbing her shoulder.
“I wish I could reach it better. It’s so awkward doing it yourself.”
It was perfectly true. She was tired of doing it to herself. She wanted a man to do it to her, which was clear even to him. So, ever the gentleman he offered,
“Would you like a massage, Miss Charlotte May Applebee?”
He noticed her name as it spilled from his lips tasted like ambrosia. Just saying Charlotte excited him. He knew he was in trouble, wonderful trouble.
“Well, that might be just the thing. Let’s go sit on my red couch where there’s more room. We’ll be more comfortable there.”
“Yes, let’s,” he answered, trying to sound like he maintained some sort of authority, “I’m sure we will.”
He looked over into the living room and saw, what was it? A divan, a sofa, a couch?
“Damn,” he thought, with a weak kind of masculine resignation, “It looks like some kind of love-seat to me.”
Hand in hand the lady and gentleman walked into the living room and got extremely comfortable.
Desert before dinner may not be proper but stimulates the appetite and so much more. I recommend it without hesitation. Whoever thought seduction was only a man’s game didn’t know the rules. It was never a gender-specific sport. Anyone can play.
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Friday, July 15, 2011
It's fun to be a boy
Mwen renmen ke yo te yon ti gason
Sung to the tune of ‘Oh Susanna’
It ‘s always fun to be a boy and here’s some reasons why.
We don’t need to wear dresses or kiss our friends goodbye.
No need for painted fingernails or fancy underwear.
Or spend an hour every day fussing with our hair.
Chorus:
Though we can annoy, and sometimes we destroy,
all the things that we enjoy, but it’s fun to be a boy
And when we’re playing football, or wrestling in the mud.
We use our sleeves to wipe our nose and soak up any blood.
We wear our sneakers every day that’s why they always stink.
We never have to wear a bra or anything in pink.
Chorus:
Though we can annoy, and sometimes we destroy,
all the things that we enjoy, but it’s fun to be a boy
So why not join our secret gang, for things that boys must do
We don’t have any special rules, well maybe one or two.
If your caught wearing make-up, or trying out hairspray,
Then when we have a sleep-over you won’t be asked to stay.
Chorus
Though we can annoy, and sometimes we destroy,
all the things that we enjoy, but it’s fun to be a boy
It’s always fun to be a boy, and we love to misbehave.
Not ready to be grown up or old enough to shave.
But if we smarten up a bit and try to make less noise.
Please dump that health and safety stuff and just let boys be boys,
Chorus:
Though we can annoy, and sometimes we destroy,
all the things that we enjoy, but it’s fun to be a boy.
Mudswimmer
Sung to the tune of ‘Oh Susanna’
It ‘s always fun to be a boy and here’s some reasons why.
We don’t need to wear dresses or kiss our friends goodbye.
No need for painted fingernails or fancy underwear.
Or spend an hour every day fussing with our hair.
Chorus:
Though we can annoy, and sometimes we destroy,
all the things that we enjoy, but it’s fun to be a boy
And when we’re playing football, or wrestling in the mud.
We use our sleeves to wipe our nose and soak up any blood.
We wear our sneakers every day that’s why they always stink.
We never have to wear a bra or anything in pink.
Chorus:
Though we can annoy, and sometimes we destroy,
all the things that we enjoy, but it’s fun to be a boy
So why not join our secret gang, for things that boys must do
We don’t have any special rules, well maybe one or two.
If your caught wearing make-up, or trying out hairspray,
Then when we have a sleep-over you won’t be asked to stay.
Chorus
Though we can annoy, and sometimes we destroy,
all the things that we enjoy, but it’s fun to be a boy
It’s always fun to be a boy, and we love to misbehave.
Not ready to be grown up or old enough to shave.
But if we smarten up a bit and try to make less noise.
Please dump that health and safety stuff and just let boys be boys,
Chorus:
Though we can annoy, and sometimes we destroy,
all the things that we enjoy, but it’s fun to be a boy.
Mudswimmer
Bad Boy For You
“Show me a husband that does not eat pussy and I will show you a wife I can steal”
Take notice men, I am the ultimate wife stealer.
Wives and women in general, be on alert, I might be coming for you next!
Husbands and boyfriends, need your women trained?
I am the one to help you.
Wives and girlfriends, need your man schooled in the art of sex, lovemaking and relationships?
Again, I am your man.
Am I cocky and arrogant? You tell me!
Cocky and arrogant to me signifies a person who claims one thing, but usually fails to deliver the goods. I do more then deliver,
I not only deliver, I tend to spoil and ruin them for the rest of their lives. Setting a bar and standard that most men have no clue on how to achieve.
Impossible you say? Fine, disbelieve me, I do not blame you, hell I was once one of you.
Whether you choose to believe, whether you choose to learn, it is your right to do whatever. But to those that want to desire to expand their horizons,
to experience the ultimate sexual freedom, take a chance and dare yourself to see what new world awaits you, what do you have to lose except your boring old routine and sex life?
Tell me your fantasies, the one you have never told anyone else, see if we can bring them to life!
Every one starts out Vanilla, but we all want to taste the different flavors, we just do not want our families, friends ands spouses to know.
How stupid is that, we do not know how to ask for what we need, what we so desperately desire. I tell you, give me a chance to help you, you will not regret it.
So who am I you ask? I am whom ever you want me to be. I am your pleaser.
You see, that is what sets me apart, I have studied people, I have watched and learned
I know you say anyone can watch and learn. Me, I put it into practice, I made it an art form!
Now before you all get excited and think I use women or people in general, I do not. Hell I respect them more then 99% of anyone out there,
and I do know what they and you want, I know enough to respect individuals ands their boundaries.
You say you will never be fucked in the ass! Right, how many times I have heard that only to have them beg me to take that forbidden cherry.
Never swallow? We will see. Your man won’t lick your sopping cunt, or does not do it right? Well here I am.
Do not tell me you have never fantasized about being dominated, or being dominant. We all have.
The desire to be tied up, spanked, gagged, and yes, even raped.
What about same sex exploration? Surely you jest you claim, but I here to tell you even the most so called prudish have at least thought it, and I know they say no fucking way, but think about this, they thought it. That does not mean they will act on it, but trust me they have thought it at one time or another in their lives.
You say you know all this and you want to know what makes me different then al the other asshole males out there?
Easy, I actually do what I say I can.
Even at an older middle age, I can eat pussy non stop for 1 hour, I can fuck for hrs with out going soft and I do not think it is all that
important that I cum. Too many men think that as long as they have a dick, that any woman should and will be pleased by that.
I learned years ago, please the woman, excite her with variety, be daring and introduce her to the unknown, even if she seems reluctant.
More words are spoken by the yes, then by the mouth. Reactions speak volumes.
Please her properly, and you will never have to worry about your pleasures ever again. That is a guarantee!
The most skilled of Masters and trainers know I am right. The most skilled lovers will keep these secrets close to the vest.
Why? Easy, why lose out to other uneducated competition.
So why am I telling you. Again, it is easy. If you laugh and think this is bullshit, it allows me one foot in the door to steal what you think is yours and yours only.
Is this fiction, or is it an ad?
I guess time will tell.
Come wives, girlfriends, women that crave excitement, your Bad Boy is here!
Men, listen up, learn, because you to could be me with the right knowledge.
Good Luck.
Take notice men, I am the ultimate wife stealer.
Wives and women in general, be on alert, I might be coming for you next!
Husbands and boyfriends, need your women trained?
I am the one to help you.
Wives and girlfriends, need your man schooled in the art of sex, lovemaking and relationships?
Again, I am your man.
Am I cocky and arrogant? You tell me!
Cocky and arrogant to me signifies a person who claims one thing, but usually fails to deliver the goods. I do more then deliver,
I not only deliver, I tend to spoil and ruin them for the rest of their lives. Setting a bar and standard that most men have no clue on how to achieve.
Impossible you say? Fine, disbelieve me, I do not blame you, hell I was once one of you.
Whether you choose to believe, whether you choose to learn, it is your right to do whatever. But to those that want to desire to expand their horizons,
to experience the ultimate sexual freedom, take a chance and dare yourself to see what new world awaits you, what do you have to lose except your boring old routine and sex life?
Tell me your fantasies, the one you have never told anyone else, see if we can bring them to life!
Every one starts out Vanilla, but we all want to taste the different flavors, we just do not want our families, friends ands spouses to know.
How stupid is that, we do not know how to ask for what we need, what we so desperately desire. I tell you, give me a chance to help you, you will not regret it.
So who am I you ask? I am whom ever you want me to be. I am your pleaser.
You see, that is what sets me apart, I have studied people, I have watched and learned
I know you say anyone can watch and learn. Me, I put it into practice, I made it an art form!
Now before you all get excited and think I use women or people in general, I do not. Hell I respect them more then 99% of anyone out there,
and I do know what they and you want, I know enough to respect individuals ands their boundaries.
You say you will never be fucked in the ass! Right, how many times I have heard that only to have them beg me to take that forbidden cherry.
Never swallow? We will see. Your man won’t lick your sopping cunt, or does not do it right? Well here I am.
Do not tell me you have never fantasized about being dominated, or being dominant. We all have.
The desire to be tied up, spanked, gagged, and yes, even raped.
What about same sex exploration? Surely you jest you claim, but I here to tell you even the most so called prudish have at least thought it, and I know they say no fucking way, but think about this, they thought it. That does not mean they will act on it, but trust me they have thought it at one time or another in their lives.
You say you know all this and you want to know what makes me different then al the other asshole males out there?
Easy, I actually do what I say I can.
Even at an older middle age, I can eat pussy non stop for 1 hour, I can fuck for hrs with out going soft and I do not think it is all that
important that I cum. Too many men think that as long as they have a dick, that any woman should and will be pleased by that.
I learned years ago, please the woman, excite her with variety, be daring and introduce her to the unknown, even if she seems reluctant.
More words are spoken by the yes, then by the mouth. Reactions speak volumes.
Please her properly, and you will never have to worry about your pleasures ever again. That is a guarantee!
The most skilled of Masters and trainers know I am right. The most skilled lovers will keep these secrets close to the vest.
Why? Easy, why lose out to other uneducated competition.
So why am I telling you. Again, it is easy. If you laugh and think this is bullshit, it allows me one foot in the door to steal what you think is yours and yours only.
Is this fiction, or is it an ad?
I guess time will tell.
Come wives, girlfriends, women that crave excitement, your Bad Boy is here!
Men, listen up, learn, because you to could be me with the right knowledge.
Good Luck.
The End of the Pyramid
In that evening I got home half an hour earlier than usual. The first nuisance met me at the door of the elevator. I collided with the neighbor from down stairs, Ivanka. She looked at me coldly as always and haughtily turned her head in the opposite direction as if trying to tell me that in the animal hierarchy I take the place of a plain, chubby, nasty, greasy, kitchen cockroach.
In her presence, mostly the look of her thin, uncombed white hair made me think of the beyond as usually represented in the horror movies. I tried to meet her eyes and then kindly let her take the place in the dark cabin of the elevator. I chose the stairs for myself and without a murmur climbed them.
A few minutes later, with huge efforts I reached the fifth floor. I was panting for breath and wrestling with the thought that it would not be a bad idea to finally get fit. The pictures of the sacrifices I would have to make came to my mind but fortunately I remembered the TV show I watched on Saturday afternoon about the anorexia. Between two invigorating breaths I tried to find my keys for the apartment which were, of course, put I the last possible pocket. “An ordinary Monday night”, I thought.
Just then, for the first time I felt in the air something different, something so unknown that I couldn’t explained it with words.
I shooed away the sudden premonition and put the key in the latch then rotated it and after entering the hall I started humming as if wanting to proof my win over any trouble: “The wind brings news from the world- fearsome, worrisome sad every new day”. Twenty minutes remained to the beginning of the news emission in seven thirty so I turned the TV on and started preparing dinner. “The hearts of people are melting in awe, hearts are sick with darkness, man is lonely.”
The turkey sandwiches and the glass of red wine played their role and made me relax and wait for the news emission to start. There was some TV show with two silicon blondes trying to link/connect/a few words into more or less meaningful sentences. They talked about fashion, freely stood for their thin idea of morality and seemed to subconsciously instill the viewers that the artificial beauty can actually replace the lack of soul. “’More and more I want it all for myself!’ People are shouting and run in their own ways.” The song kept on running in my head.
Seven thirty came at last. The news emission was an inseparable part of my evening routine that’s why I turned all my attention to the news announced by the two newscasters with professional tone:
“New actions have been taken by the MPs for the dept collection. The authorities suggested solutions for the perforce of eventual actions in forcing the obligors to pay to the exchequer. Some of the possible measures against them are seizure of properties and attachment of accounts. According to a previous prognosis this could get a strong support with votes of – 73%-for, 20%- abstainers and only 8%- against if the voting was conducted today.”
After that followed some cadres of the parliament and an interview with a MP I had never seen before. I knew very well what exactly that information meant so I swallowed with pain. That strange feeling came to me again but I resumed following the news. “Lift up your eyes – get ready. Lift up your eyes – get ready.”
“Once again the gay parade received an official support from the three top parliamentary presented politic parties. Their national leaderships sent official letters to the organizers of the event. The common in all letters is the declaring that the contemporary democratic realities and the new values require respect to the difference and differentiation of any form of discrimination, manifestation of hatred or violence.”
“Lift up your eyes – get ready. Lift up your eyes – get ready.”
“The news from the world. 200 people in India died from unknown virus by now, announced the Indian Informative Agency IIA. The virus is called SRAG and except the fever, it also causes infraction of the work of the internal organs. In all patients, they all are about 2000, can be noticed symptoms of high temperature and decreasing of the thrombocytes and leucocytes in the blood.”
The screen of the TV turned black. I put down the remote control and took the book which had acted as my sleeping pill for the past few weeks. It was early, but I felt tired besides I had a desperate need to get away from everything for a while. I started reading lifelessly and without turning off the lamp I dozed off while the familiar rhythm, word and melody kept on running invitingly in my head:
“Lift up your eyes – get ready. Lift up your eyes – get ready.”
I woke up in two fifteen that night opened my eyes and for a moment felt as if I hadn’t slept at all. I had had that hardly unexplainable experience before so I thought it was due to the lamp which was ruthlessly burning my eyes. I rose from the bed when I stretched me hand to take the book again it started happening. It probably lasted for one or two minutes but it was shaking so scarily and strongly that it seemed to me as if hours passed before it stopped.
I saw the lamp dancing crazily on the table followed by the bed beneath me then the wardrobe, the TV as well as everything else. At first I thought it would be best to run outside but then suddenly I remembered (who knows when, I had been acquired by that information which was really useful in that situation) that it is the stairs which are the most vulnerable part of the apartment buildings so I rushed towards the kitchen where my reserve goal was- the massive oak table. While trying to go under it I covered about five meters- from my bedroom, into the hall where the lively angry walls hit me about six or seven times and then into the kitchen.
Later on when I recalled the memories from that experience in those few scary minutes I realized the whole time I had been hearing the sound of glasses, plates and other objects breaking. I also realized another interesting and a little unusual fact- in the whole horror, when it wasn’t clear how all that catastrophe would end I didn’t fear.
Just the song sounded in my whole soul:
“The wind brings news from the world-
fearsome, worrisome sad every new day.
The hearts of people are melting in awe,
hearts are sick with darkness, man is lonely.
More and more I want it all for myself!’
People are shouting and run in their own ways.
But when truth comes- the enemy bows.
And that’s why I trust in Jesus.“
And then the chorus followed:
“Lift up your eyes- get ready. Lift up your eyes- get ready.”
After that the tremors stopped followed by the electricity. Just then I stared to realize that the occurrence wasn’t just an unobjectionable nightmare but a disaster from which I could’ve escaped only on seven o’clock and fifteen minutes with the sound of the alarm. I felt a twitch in my leg. Nothing serious, I thought, probably just one of the many scattered kitchen utensils had hit me.
Without paying attention to this detail I got out of the shelter, however this time I gropingly headed towards the staircase with the intention to beat in the storeroom. The door widely gaped so without pausing I grabbed the flashlight, which surprisingly hadn’t moved from the place I last left it, and pressed the button. A beam of light unmercifully revealed all the damages caused by the tremor. In all this disorder I only managed to lean on the wall for a second and then went outside.
There ruled the fuss, the conniption and the fear with such power that my first reaction was to hide somewhere far from it. It seems to me that the power of these elements excelled the one of the earthquake a while ago. Children’s weeping mixed with screams of mothers and fathers interflowed in one and sounded like a background to the excelling it in decibels buzz, coming from the hooters and engines of the cars, in a rush for somewhere.
In all this riling mass of scared people running in all directions I saw my neighbor Ivanka from the lower floor. Frozen in a pose, similar to a statue before dismantling with arm pointing in some direction, she talked to someone who wasn’t there. I went to her and patted her shoulder but she didn’t seem to feel anything. I left her.
I headed towards the center of the town, towards the palace in which my friend from work lived- Vihren Brezov. Two days before I was invited for dinner in his and his wife- Lilyana’s place on the occasion of their moving in the new house. We stayed to three thirty in the morning. That night I had reached a conclusion that our relationship with Vihren can grow in some form of friendship.
The more I was approaching the central part of the town the more the clamor amplified. When I reached the street on which the Brezov’s family lived The noise was unbearable. Apart from not being able to hear my own thoughts from the screams, the visibility was also impaired. I zipped walking, overt mark that I was starting to become susceptible to the panic everywhere around me.
Dust and little spray of water from a near-by leaky plumbing created a thick fog which was increasingly embracing me the more I was approaching the goal. I was running into people who were walking in the opposite direction of mine, rambling and looked as if they were traumatized. A moment after I realized what was the reason for all this.
The house of the Brezov’s family and its neighboring ones had disappeared. In fact they had turned into ruins.
***
Lilyana served the dessert and sat at the table with us. The dinner was nearly over but I didn’t want to leave yet. I put a huge piece of cake in my mouth and after enjoying the taste in my mouth I continued:
“I suppose I have to leave you but as I can see you’re too kind to throw me out.”
“Oh, come on”, Lilyana blandly smiled, “I really enjoyed it tonight. Didn’t you?”
“So did I but it’s already too late”, kindly resumed Vihren and looked at his watch,”I’ll have to get enough sleep tomorrow as lots of work awaits me on Monday.”
“Don’t you ask youselves why are we doing all this?”, I filled for last my mouth which effected the quality of my speech, however, I continued. “ Why are we working so hard all day, why are we trying so hard to grow in our careers, why are we living like there is no tomorrow and the life seems to slip out of our us. We are building pyramids, monuments of vanity which is not sure when will collapse. I have the feeling that most of the people are missing the most important thing.”
“I am an optimist”, my colleague’s wife answered with a smile on her face, “I like it that way. I can’t know all answers so I’m trying to live the best while I still can.”
I felt really sorry for this kind family. I wanted to tell them that I knew the answer of the most important question but I could I tell them when they didn’t even have the intention to ask it.A few minutes later I left.
***
I was looking in the direction in which there was once a beautiful house and my heart sank. As I was looking at the ruins the memories of that night with the Brezov’s family and the optimism of Lilyana hit me so strongly that my legs felt weak. For the fisrt time I clearly realized- Man is blind who by denying he can not see what is going to happen. And he’s never ready. But I knew- this was just the beginning…
On that moment these word naturally came out of my mouth:
Lifts up your eyes- get ready. Lift up your eyes- get ready.
In her presence, mostly the look of her thin, uncombed white hair made me think of the beyond as usually represented in the horror movies. I tried to meet her eyes and then kindly let her take the place in the dark cabin of the elevator. I chose the stairs for myself and without a murmur climbed them.
A few minutes later, with huge efforts I reached the fifth floor. I was panting for breath and wrestling with the thought that it would not be a bad idea to finally get fit. The pictures of the sacrifices I would have to make came to my mind but fortunately I remembered the TV show I watched on Saturday afternoon about the anorexia. Between two invigorating breaths I tried to find my keys for the apartment which were, of course, put I the last possible pocket. “An ordinary Monday night”, I thought.
Just then, for the first time I felt in the air something different, something so unknown that I couldn’t explained it with words.
I shooed away the sudden premonition and put the key in the latch then rotated it and after entering the hall I started humming as if wanting to proof my win over any trouble: “The wind brings news from the world- fearsome, worrisome sad every new day”. Twenty minutes remained to the beginning of the news emission in seven thirty so I turned the TV on and started preparing dinner. “The hearts of people are melting in awe, hearts are sick with darkness, man is lonely.”
The turkey sandwiches and the glass of red wine played their role and made me relax and wait for the news emission to start. There was some TV show with two silicon blondes trying to link/connect/a few words into more or less meaningful sentences. They talked about fashion, freely stood for their thin idea of morality and seemed to subconsciously instill the viewers that the artificial beauty can actually replace the lack of soul. “’More and more I want it all for myself!’ People are shouting and run in their own ways.” The song kept on running in my head.
Seven thirty came at last. The news emission was an inseparable part of my evening routine that’s why I turned all my attention to the news announced by the two newscasters with professional tone:
“New actions have been taken by the MPs for the dept collection. The authorities suggested solutions for the perforce of eventual actions in forcing the obligors to pay to the exchequer. Some of the possible measures against them are seizure of properties and attachment of accounts. According to a previous prognosis this could get a strong support with votes of – 73%-for, 20%- abstainers and only 8%- against if the voting was conducted today.”
After that followed some cadres of the parliament and an interview with a MP I had never seen before. I knew very well what exactly that information meant so I swallowed with pain. That strange feeling came to me again but I resumed following the news. “Lift up your eyes – get ready. Lift up your eyes – get ready.”
“Once again the gay parade received an official support from the three top parliamentary presented politic parties. Their national leaderships sent official letters to the organizers of the event. The common in all letters is the declaring that the contemporary democratic realities and the new values require respect to the difference and differentiation of any form of discrimination, manifestation of hatred or violence.”
“Lift up your eyes – get ready. Lift up your eyes – get ready.”
“The news from the world. 200 people in India died from unknown virus by now, announced the Indian Informative Agency IIA. The virus is called SRAG and except the fever, it also causes infraction of the work of the internal organs. In all patients, they all are about 2000, can be noticed symptoms of high temperature and decreasing of the thrombocytes and leucocytes in the blood.”
The screen of the TV turned black. I put down the remote control and took the book which had acted as my sleeping pill for the past few weeks. It was early, but I felt tired besides I had a desperate need to get away from everything for a while. I started reading lifelessly and without turning off the lamp I dozed off while the familiar rhythm, word and melody kept on running invitingly in my head:
“Lift up your eyes – get ready. Lift up your eyes – get ready.”
I woke up in two fifteen that night opened my eyes and for a moment felt as if I hadn’t slept at all. I had had that hardly unexplainable experience before so I thought it was due to the lamp which was ruthlessly burning my eyes. I rose from the bed when I stretched me hand to take the book again it started happening. It probably lasted for one or two minutes but it was shaking so scarily and strongly that it seemed to me as if hours passed before it stopped.
I saw the lamp dancing crazily on the table followed by the bed beneath me then the wardrobe, the TV as well as everything else. At first I thought it would be best to run outside but then suddenly I remembered (who knows when, I had been acquired by that information which was really useful in that situation) that it is the stairs which are the most vulnerable part of the apartment buildings so I rushed towards the kitchen where my reserve goal was- the massive oak table. While trying to go under it I covered about five meters- from my bedroom, into the hall where the lively angry walls hit me about six or seven times and then into the kitchen.
Later on when I recalled the memories from that experience in those few scary minutes I realized the whole time I had been hearing the sound of glasses, plates and other objects breaking. I also realized another interesting and a little unusual fact- in the whole horror, when it wasn’t clear how all that catastrophe would end I didn’t fear.
Just the song sounded in my whole soul:
“The wind brings news from the world-
fearsome, worrisome sad every new day.
The hearts of people are melting in awe,
hearts are sick with darkness, man is lonely.
More and more I want it all for myself!’
People are shouting and run in their own ways.
But when truth comes- the enemy bows.
And that’s why I trust in Jesus.“
And then the chorus followed:
“Lift up your eyes- get ready. Lift up your eyes- get ready.”
After that the tremors stopped followed by the electricity. Just then I stared to realize that the occurrence wasn’t just an unobjectionable nightmare but a disaster from which I could’ve escaped only on seven o’clock and fifteen minutes with the sound of the alarm. I felt a twitch in my leg. Nothing serious, I thought, probably just one of the many scattered kitchen utensils had hit me.
Without paying attention to this detail I got out of the shelter, however this time I gropingly headed towards the staircase with the intention to beat in the storeroom. The door widely gaped so without pausing I grabbed the flashlight, which surprisingly hadn’t moved from the place I last left it, and pressed the button. A beam of light unmercifully revealed all the damages caused by the tremor. In all this disorder I only managed to lean on the wall for a second and then went outside.
There ruled the fuss, the conniption and the fear with such power that my first reaction was to hide somewhere far from it. It seems to me that the power of these elements excelled the one of the earthquake a while ago. Children’s weeping mixed with screams of mothers and fathers interflowed in one and sounded like a background to the excelling it in decibels buzz, coming from the hooters and engines of the cars, in a rush for somewhere.
In all this riling mass of scared people running in all directions I saw my neighbor Ivanka from the lower floor. Frozen in a pose, similar to a statue before dismantling with arm pointing in some direction, she talked to someone who wasn’t there. I went to her and patted her shoulder but she didn’t seem to feel anything. I left her.
I headed towards the center of the town, towards the palace in which my friend from work lived- Vihren Brezov. Two days before I was invited for dinner in his and his wife- Lilyana’s place on the occasion of their moving in the new house. We stayed to three thirty in the morning. That night I had reached a conclusion that our relationship with Vihren can grow in some form of friendship.
The more I was approaching the central part of the town the more the clamor amplified. When I reached the street on which the Brezov’s family lived The noise was unbearable. Apart from not being able to hear my own thoughts from the screams, the visibility was also impaired. I zipped walking, overt mark that I was starting to become susceptible to the panic everywhere around me.
Dust and little spray of water from a near-by leaky plumbing created a thick fog which was increasingly embracing me the more I was approaching the goal. I was running into people who were walking in the opposite direction of mine, rambling and looked as if they were traumatized. A moment after I realized what was the reason for all this.
The house of the Brezov’s family and its neighboring ones had disappeared. In fact they had turned into ruins.
***
Lilyana served the dessert and sat at the table with us. The dinner was nearly over but I didn’t want to leave yet. I put a huge piece of cake in my mouth and after enjoying the taste in my mouth I continued:
“I suppose I have to leave you but as I can see you’re too kind to throw me out.”
“Oh, come on”, Lilyana blandly smiled, “I really enjoyed it tonight. Didn’t you?”
“So did I but it’s already too late”, kindly resumed Vihren and looked at his watch,”I’ll have to get enough sleep tomorrow as lots of work awaits me on Monday.”
“Don’t you ask youselves why are we doing all this?”, I filled for last my mouth which effected the quality of my speech, however, I continued. “ Why are we working so hard all day, why are we trying so hard to grow in our careers, why are we living like there is no tomorrow and the life seems to slip out of our us. We are building pyramids, monuments of vanity which is not sure when will collapse. I have the feeling that most of the people are missing the most important thing.”
“I am an optimist”, my colleague’s wife answered with a smile on her face, “I like it that way. I can’t know all answers so I’m trying to live the best while I still can.”
I felt really sorry for this kind family. I wanted to tell them that I knew the answer of the most important question but I could I tell them when they didn’t even have the intention to ask it.A few minutes later I left.
***
I was looking in the direction in which there was once a beautiful house and my heart sank. As I was looking at the ruins the memories of that night with the Brezov’s family and the optimism of Lilyana hit me so strongly that my legs felt weak. For the fisrt time I clearly realized- Man is blind who by denying he can not see what is going to happen. And he’s never ready. But I knew- this was just the beginning…
On that moment these word naturally came out of my mouth:
Lifts up your eyes- get ready. Lift up your eyes- get ready.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Cucumbertini
Cars lined both sides of the dark Monroe County road.
He didn’t attempt to enter the gate and drive up to the house; merely motored to the last car parked at roadside and took the next spot. Careful not to get too close to the ditch. It wouldn’t do to back into it later. No matter though. An identical Holman Moody Fairlane won several national dirt track championships. His car could probably drive out of an even deeper ditch. He made slightly stoned “vroom, vroom” noises in his throat. Slightly stoned.
He parked in front of a Porsche 911S. Like to see him try to get that puppy out of the ditch, he thought walking by, Nice car though. Wonder where people get the money to buy cars like that? He knew the answer and it made him uneasy.
A few hits off a leftover spliff on the way over relaxed him. When Alexis handed him her invitation she said, “There will be a lot of writers and musicians there. Maybe even some film people. You’ll have a good time. It’ll be interesting.” The weed made him ready to be interested.
Cars parked up both sides of the driveway, blocked light from ubiquitous decorative solar border lanterns. He looked between the front and rear bumpers of a Cadillac and Lincoln and realized these lights were not the plastic, solar chip variety but rather wrought iron, custom, real bulb variety. Maximum bucks at this address.
Alexis told him the host’s name. He promptly forgot. Four or five valet guys waited near the front door. He kept the invitation in his sport coat pocket and walked into the house.
“My, my, my, how are you this evening? We’re so pleased you could join us.” An elegant woman in a silver dress stood in front of him. She was wearing a diamond necklace and holding a martini glass. “I’m Gloria,” she said. “And you are?”
“Wenz,” he said. “Wenz Smith.” His real name was William but he called himself Wenz, an old family name. Wenz was memorable, useful in his work. He had looked in the phone book and there were ten William Smiths listed, in addition to forty other Smiths. William is a perennial top ten boy-baby name. Bill Smith. Talk about ubiquitous.
“What do you do, Wenz?”
“Uh. I write. I’m a writer.” He began to wish he had only taken two hits of dope instead of three.
“Really? How exciting. What do you write? Novels? Perhaps poetry?”
“Uh. No. I write content.”
“Really? Content? What’s content?”
“Um. Blog inserts. Brochure copy. Speeches. Stuff other people use as part of their projects or work.”
“Oh. Content.” She sounded a bit less sprightly. “Well there are a number of writers here somewhere. I am sure you will enjoy yourself.” She raised her glass to him as if in a toast, turned and fluttered away, the hostess whose name I forgot.
He stood looking after her; feeling like Robert Zimmerman before he became Bob Dylan.
A bar was visible on the far side of the crowd in the next room. Making his way he noticed everyone was dressed a notch above him. Men wore suits or expensive sport jackets with ties. Women, either long cocktail dresses or shorter dresses he supposed fell into the ‘little black’ category.
Comparatively, his wool/silk sport jacket, turtleneck shirt and dark khaki slacks were casually professor/author. He wasn’t dressed as well as the valets and waiters.
“Who might you be?” The denizen of a little black dress startled him. She had come up on his right; holding an elegant Martini glass; smiling. A thin silver chain suspended a single black jewel resting at the top of her cleavage.
“Wenz. Wenz Smith,” he said. “I’m a writer.” Taking his lead from Gloria.
“Really? And you write…?” asked her breasts in the black dress, making excellent eye contact. He smiled at them.
“Oh, novels, poetry. That kind of stuff.”
“How interesting. Would I have read any of your work?”
How the fuck would I know, he thought, but caught himself. “Perhaps. I am included in the Poets of Angst and Unrequited Love anthology,” naming a pulp magazine where any idiot could publish anything and did frequently. No one read much poetry beyond eighth grade and these breasts turned out to be no exception.
“How exciting. Let’s get you a drink and maybe you could recite for me.” She took his arm steering him toward the bar. He noticed the crowd parted respectfully for her breasts.
He was close to the end of his sonnet, ‘Blowing on the Creative Spark’ when she finished. “Whoa!” he yelled, gripping the bathroom sink counter, his hips jerking. She pulled away smiling, dabbing her lips with a tissue. She stood and he grabbed for the hem of her little black dress. She slapped his hand gently. “None of that, silly boy. What do you take me for?” She adjusted herself, made sure the dark jewel was correctly nestled in her cleavage. “Let’s get back to the festivities.” Before he could say anything further she opened the door. “I enjoyed your poem,” she said over her shoulder, melting into the suits and frocks.
He requested Chopin vodka for his next Martini. Chopin with a couple mulled slices of cucumber, a few drops of lemon juice and a smidge of simple syrup, shaken. “It will be a moment sir,” said the sartorially superior bartender. “We’ll have to rustle up a cucumber from the kitchen.”
“Sounds like an interesting Martini,” said the man next to him at the bar.
“It is. Very crisp. But I recall reading recently ‘if it doesn’t have gin and vermouth in it, don’t call it a Martini.”
His new acquaintance laughed. “You’ve a point. I’m Michael Hunt. Pleased to meet you,” offering his hand.
“Wenz Smith,” said Wenz Smith, shaking hands. He knew he had a good handshake. Firm. Decisive. No psychological games, too-strong grip or subtle turn of the other guy’s hand toward a submissive position. Plus Wenz smiled when he shook hands, like he gave a shit about you.
“…of Hunt Publishing,” Michael continued. “Technical Books and Manuals.”
‘Pleased to meet you,” said Wenz. He put on his ‘I care about you’ smile, and flashed on his sadistic Grandfather who loved to shake hands with his grandchildren and grind their little knucklebones to dust while harrumphing, “How’s your corporosity young man?” The old prick. “What kind of technical books?” He managed to refocus. Fucking weed.
“Engineering. Mechanics. Medicine. Pretty much any technical subject you can name. What about you?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Really? I always envied writers. Creative. Independent. Sometimes rich if they hit on a bestseller.”
“I only write content.”
“Excuse me?”
“Content. Like maybe a chapter for one of your books here and there. I don’t write stories; fiction. I don’t write complete books.”
“Content, huh? Why don’t you send something over to me and I’ll take a look.”
Wenz could tell, a.) Michael wouldn’t take a look, b.) didn’t give a shit and c.) hadn’t really grasped the concept of Content. “Nice to have chatted,” he said, wondering if he was slurring his words yet. Michael was already turning to talk with someone else.
One elbow resting on the portable bar he sipped his Cucumbertini. “Excellent,” he said to the bartender and slipped a five into the tip glass.
“Thank you sir. Kind of you to say so.” Wenz wondered if the bartender meant it or if he should have slipped the guy a twenty. These suits and dresses looked like twenty dollar tippers. He wondered if he should have tipped the tits in the little black dress a twenty. Nah. They might have taken it the wrong way. He sniggered. Swallowed the rest of his Cucumbertini. “One more, please; a double,” he said to the bartender. “Have the young man bring it over, thanks,” pushed off from the bar heading for the closest conversation circle.”
Two women and three men were discussing a celebrity adulterer on some metaphysical level. “Evening,” he said. “Wenz Smith, writer. May I join you?” They paused. Assessing his aggression perhaps. “I’ve heard he was a cheapskate,” he said. “Flew all his backdoor women around on Southwest Airlines. Didn’t even pay for them to be in the first boarding group. Put them up in a Motel Six before he brought them over to his hotel to do them.” A waiter deftly held a small tray in front of him and he picked up his very full Cucumbertini. “Thank you my good man.”
Behind the waiter stood two very large persons in black suits with black bowties. One who sounded as if a small animal was stuck in his throat said, “Mr. Smith? A brief word if I may?”
“Certainly,” said Wenz, swallowing a mouthful of Cucumbertini, taking a step away from the dumfounded conversation circle.
“The brief word,” said the large man, “is Mrs. Sauermash, Gloria, who you met at the entry, suspects you are possibly at an incorrect address. May I see your invitation please?”
“By all meansh, my good man ,” said Wenz, presenting Alex’s invitation with a flourish; realizing he was slurring his words.
The large man opened the envelope and scanned the insert. “Yes, the establishment for this address is about one mile down the road on your left. You are the third person this evening stopping here in error. We are sorry we did not realize and let you know sooner. We will be happy to escort you to your car so you can be on your way to the correct function.”
“Oops,” said Wenz. “I should have known when the bartender made me the Cumbertini. Most parties I go to they throw you down the fucking front steps if you ask for a drink like a Cumbertini.” Suddenly he could no longer pronounce Cucumbertini.
“Language please, sir,” cautioned the large man, taking Wenz by the elbow. The other large man without speaking, assisted Wenz’ other elbow. “We’ll get you on your way directly,” they propelled him toward the front door.
“Have a pleasant remainder of your evening,” the large man said. The front door shut behind Wenz. The valets ignored him and he walked down the driveway and up the road to his car.
In the Fairlane he turned the key and the Holman Moody engine rumbled to life. Those fucking Cumbertinis were great. He lit the spliff. Probably a couple hits left. He wrenched the steering wheel right and shoved the stick into reverse. The Fairlane backed down into the ditch, looking deadly, squatting momentarily at the bottom, its abdomen thrumming like a resting wasp. He shifted into second for traction, spun the engine up and popped the clutch. Screaming indignantly the car rocketed down the drainage trench splashing water, strewing discarded beer cans and fast food wrappers back onto the hood of the Porsche, splattering mud. He shifted to third, twisting the steering wheel left. The car exploded up the embankment in a shower of debris and squealed away down the road.
I should have asked if I could take the rest of the cucumber along, he thought. They seemed nice. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been a problem.
#
Within four 12 second quarter-miles, approximately 48 seconds, he arrived at the ‘correct address.’ He kept meaning to get over to the local drag strip and race the Fairlane but on weekends he usually had a hangover. More convenient to settle for speed on the country roads, what most of the NASCAR wannabes settled for.
A few squatty Mercury coupes, some open-engine hot rods, two pick-ups with chrome tractor trailer exhaust stacks and an assortment of sporty cars were parked on the lawn at the correct address. A light on the front porch looked to be one of those motion-sensitive barnyard floods. It was being kept lit by a drunk sitting on a step rocking back and forth moaning. Wenz climbed to the porch without speaking. The guy didn’t look interested in small talk.
He knocked and a hippy-dippy girl in a flowered Empire dress, hem reaching the floor, opened the door. “Hi stranger.” Accurate because Wenz had no idea who she was. “Who are you?”
“I’m Wenz. Wenz Smith. Alexis’ friend.”
“Come on in, friend of Alex’s, Y’er welcome here. I think she told us you were coming. I forget.” Wenz noticed her pupils were a bit big. “I’m Gloria. Call me Glo, everyone does.”
“Pleashed to meet you Gloria,” said Wenz. I just met another Gloria down the road. She seemed nice.”
This got an immediate rise out of Gloria number two. “That bitch. She’s the other side of nice. She calls the Sheriff and complains about our parties. Now you remind me, I should call the Sheriff and complain about her. If nothing else she’s made our guests turn left at the wrong driveway. She’s creating a fucking road hazard. I'll tell Stephanie you're here. ” Gloria two turned and wandered off into the party, presumably in search of a phone.
Out in the middle of the room Gloria nodded to an attractive taller woman with dark hair and normal size pupils’ not so hippy dippy, slender, like a runner. The woman turned to the young man standing at the door, nattily dressed like a tenured professor but rumpled as if he had gotten into some drugs rendering him more gregarious than an average PhD candidate. A faint blue green aura surrounded him. She couldn't see auras but imagined she could, making her judgments based on intuition relevant. In her judgment he appeared erudite, loosing creative phrases from the smile lines around his eyes. He needn't speak for her to know. His blue hair shimmered. Like air at her parties, fluidly incandescent
Wenz coughed, startled when she appeared before him at the door. “Hi. I’m Stephanie, or Steve, take your pick. I live here. Glo tells me you are subbing for Alex tonight? You’re a writer or something?”
“Yeah. Content. Some stories, poems, shit like that. I do work for Alex’s company once in a while. How about you?”
“I’m a recording engineer in a studio downtown. Gospel mostly, a little Christian Rock, the occasional demo CD.”
“Whoa. Sounds interesting.”
“It’s not. Too many stiff necks and shalt-nots. It’s a pain in the ass. I’m trying to get into a studio in Memphis.”
“That’ll be a big move.”
“Not really. I rent. I’m unattached. Don’t own anything. Did a little decorating, some plants. My stuff will all fit in a U-Haul trailer. Wenz looked past her at plants hung from ceiling hooks, flourishing in pots in corners. Colorful pictures, Navajo wall hangings and what looked to be a couple of antique schoolhouse clocks, the kind the teacher key-wound once a week.
“Nice’ Wenz said. “You’ve done a nice job. Looks real homey.”
“Thank you,” said Steve, paying him measurably closer attention than Gloria number one. “Can we get you a drink?”
“Sure. Be nice. Got any Vodka?”
“Nope, but we have the next best thing. A jar of white lightning from Seth my neighbor down the road.”
“Christ. Does broomstick-up-her-ass Gloria next door know there’s a Still on her block?
“Everyone knows. Seth’s been making moonshine for over thirty years. No one’s ever found the Still. Plus, the product’s good. No one except Gloria is interested in seeing anything happen to Seth, I expect Sheriff Bill included. Don’t go back and tell Gloria.” Wenz and Steve laughed. Newly introduced, already conspirators.
On the kitchen counter a ball mason jar filled with clear moonshine, rubber gasket rimmed lid, with a spring clip, lay next to a steel shot measure on a chain. Stephanie dropped the shot measure into the jar like a well bucket, pulled it out with the chain and poured the white liquor over chipped ice in a jelly jar. “Anything else?” She asked. “This stuff’s a little rough straight up.”
“Got a cucumber?” Wenz asked. “Maybe a lemon or a lime? Some sugar?”
“I’ve got cucumber and zucchinis coming out my butt this year,” laughed Steve. “No lemon but I’ve got some limes for the gin and tonic crowd.” She looked interested.
Wenz didn’t waste any time with bullshit, mashed up the cucumber slices, squeezed the lime wedge and added some sugar. Close enough. Took a sip. Not perfect but almost. Stephanie watched him. “Never seen this one before” she said. Tasted it. “Very good.” Tasted again.
Wenz mashed a few more cucumber slices, squeezed some limes. He noticed how well Steve’s jeans fit. How her breasts weren’t too big and squishy like most of the woman at the first party. How he didn’t seem able to say ‘Seth’ very clearly which was a pain in the ass as he tried to compliment Seth’s moonshine. Steve said, “Make me one of those.”
#
A slice of sunshine crawling up his leg into his eye woke Wenz in bed next to Steve. Wenz scrunched his eyes and tried to remember the previous night. No way. Steve was still asleep so he couldn’t ask. He peeked under the covers and thought, well, well.
Steve woke up yelling. After she got focused on what was happening to her she wasn’t mad, just happily yelling in general. Not to be impolite, Wenz joined in. Their breath may have been a bit spicy but neither noticed. Both were experiencing flashbacks from the night before.
“I’ve been thinking,” Wenz later said hopefully. “When you go up to Memphis I could look for work up there too. I can get a job writing content most anywhere.”
Stephanie didn’t answer. She had the covers pulled over her head and was giggling. It sounded to Wenz like a ‘maybe’ giggle.
Out on the grass the Fairlane sparkled in the sun.
#
A clear bright Tuesday noon sun painted on the sky cooked the road to Memphis. The heat also felt painted on, the painter not missing an inch of sweat sheened skin. The back of Steve's hand shone as she drummed her fingers on the Fairlane's armrest in time to some tune or sound board in her head, a high strung woman with strong eyes in a strong car rumbling toward a high strung world. No traffic marred the view or prompted Wenz to make an unneeded pass. Steve, in the shotgun seat, hummed. Wenz could see her lips moving and her throat pulsing, no melody audible above the wind noise. It was enough she was happy.
He sure was. He had gone directly from shiftless shit kicker straight to the up escalator, driving along in his funky car, his tires singing on the road accompanied by the catchy beats of random cracks and bumps passing under the taut chassis too fast to see.
Steve over there with her eyes half closed drew him, as if he were looking for a twinkle of something to dive for at the bottom of a crystal lake. Every two or three miles he fought back the urge to pull onto the shoulder and grab her; not even turn off the engine; let the Fairlane roll and drift as it would while he enfolded her.
She was oblivious to his Cro-Magnon dreams, humming and twirling her hair with her right index finger, elbow resting on the door. She had never been so satisfied with a man. Couldn’t say how or why it happened with this man. She had just fallen into him and stuck. He didn’t seem her type. The snarling car and hopelessly bizarre drink, that cucumbertini. But stuck she was.
She’d been down enough roads not to ask too many questions of life. Twirled her hair and felt the heavy breeze. Didn’t thank anyone, or anything either. They had just gotten lucky. It happened. Like Vegas. Everyone gets lucky. The trick is to hang on, not let the House have it back. A problem for another day. For now they were close enough to each be the other.
She smiled at the thought of Wenz with his eyes on the road as they had been on her, boring in, concentrating on her desire, her lubricity waiting for her lips to form an "oh" of surprised discovery as he pushed, finding her within the pinkish halo where she lived. He never thought of these things, being a man of castings, rubber, tricky fasteners and occasional aircraft fuel, but knew them instinctively as he watched her face for signs of power, listened to her breathing for performance, the piston striving in the sleeve.
The ride for him was a slow build of confidence. Each mile ticking over, stacking the bricks of a new beginning. He knew he was right about getting jobs writing content anywhere. What he saw out on the shimmering road was a skyline. Something bigger to be built, something to catch people’s eyes. Like the Holman Moody Fairlane. Something of power and awe.
He didn’t attempt to enter the gate and drive up to the house; merely motored to the last car parked at roadside and took the next spot. Careful not to get too close to the ditch. It wouldn’t do to back into it later. No matter though. An identical Holman Moody Fairlane won several national dirt track championships. His car could probably drive out of an even deeper ditch. He made slightly stoned “vroom, vroom” noises in his throat. Slightly stoned.
He parked in front of a Porsche 911S. Like to see him try to get that puppy out of the ditch, he thought walking by, Nice car though. Wonder where people get the money to buy cars like that? He knew the answer and it made him uneasy.
A few hits off a leftover spliff on the way over relaxed him. When Alexis handed him her invitation she said, “There will be a lot of writers and musicians there. Maybe even some film people. You’ll have a good time. It’ll be interesting.” The weed made him ready to be interested.
Cars parked up both sides of the driveway, blocked light from ubiquitous decorative solar border lanterns. He looked between the front and rear bumpers of a Cadillac and Lincoln and realized these lights were not the plastic, solar chip variety but rather wrought iron, custom, real bulb variety. Maximum bucks at this address.
Alexis told him the host’s name. He promptly forgot. Four or five valet guys waited near the front door. He kept the invitation in his sport coat pocket and walked into the house.
“My, my, my, how are you this evening? We’re so pleased you could join us.” An elegant woman in a silver dress stood in front of him. She was wearing a diamond necklace and holding a martini glass. “I’m Gloria,” she said. “And you are?”
“Wenz,” he said. “Wenz Smith.” His real name was William but he called himself Wenz, an old family name. Wenz was memorable, useful in his work. He had looked in the phone book and there were ten William Smiths listed, in addition to forty other Smiths. William is a perennial top ten boy-baby name. Bill Smith. Talk about ubiquitous.
“What do you do, Wenz?”
“Uh. I write. I’m a writer.” He began to wish he had only taken two hits of dope instead of three.
“Really? How exciting. What do you write? Novels? Perhaps poetry?”
“Uh. No. I write content.”
“Really? Content? What’s content?”
“Um. Blog inserts. Brochure copy. Speeches. Stuff other people use as part of their projects or work.”
“Oh. Content.” She sounded a bit less sprightly. “Well there are a number of writers here somewhere. I am sure you will enjoy yourself.” She raised her glass to him as if in a toast, turned and fluttered away, the hostess whose name I forgot.
He stood looking after her; feeling like Robert Zimmerman before he became Bob Dylan.
A bar was visible on the far side of the crowd in the next room. Making his way he noticed everyone was dressed a notch above him. Men wore suits or expensive sport jackets with ties. Women, either long cocktail dresses or shorter dresses he supposed fell into the ‘little black’ category.
Comparatively, his wool/silk sport jacket, turtleneck shirt and dark khaki slacks were casually professor/author. He wasn’t dressed as well as the valets and waiters.
“Who might you be?” The denizen of a little black dress startled him. She had come up on his right; holding an elegant Martini glass; smiling. A thin silver chain suspended a single black jewel resting at the top of her cleavage.
“Wenz. Wenz Smith,” he said. “I’m a writer.” Taking his lead from Gloria.
“Really? And you write…?” asked her breasts in the black dress, making excellent eye contact. He smiled at them.
“Oh, novels, poetry. That kind of stuff.”
“How interesting. Would I have read any of your work?”
How the fuck would I know, he thought, but caught himself. “Perhaps. I am included in the Poets of Angst and Unrequited Love anthology,” naming a pulp magazine where any idiot could publish anything and did frequently. No one read much poetry beyond eighth grade and these breasts turned out to be no exception.
“How exciting. Let’s get you a drink and maybe you could recite for me.” She took his arm steering him toward the bar. He noticed the crowd parted respectfully for her breasts.
He was close to the end of his sonnet, ‘Blowing on the Creative Spark’ when she finished. “Whoa!” he yelled, gripping the bathroom sink counter, his hips jerking. She pulled away smiling, dabbing her lips with a tissue. She stood and he grabbed for the hem of her little black dress. She slapped his hand gently. “None of that, silly boy. What do you take me for?” She adjusted herself, made sure the dark jewel was correctly nestled in her cleavage. “Let’s get back to the festivities.” Before he could say anything further she opened the door. “I enjoyed your poem,” she said over her shoulder, melting into the suits and frocks.
He requested Chopin vodka for his next Martini. Chopin with a couple mulled slices of cucumber, a few drops of lemon juice and a smidge of simple syrup, shaken. “It will be a moment sir,” said the sartorially superior bartender. “We’ll have to rustle up a cucumber from the kitchen.”
“Sounds like an interesting Martini,” said the man next to him at the bar.
“It is. Very crisp. But I recall reading recently ‘if it doesn’t have gin and vermouth in it, don’t call it a Martini.”
His new acquaintance laughed. “You’ve a point. I’m Michael Hunt. Pleased to meet you,” offering his hand.
“Wenz Smith,” said Wenz Smith, shaking hands. He knew he had a good handshake. Firm. Decisive. No psychological games, too-strong grip or subtle turn of the other guy’s hand toward a submissive position. Plus Wenz smiled when he shook hands, like he gave a shit about you.
“…of Hunt Publishing,” Michael continued. “Technical Books and Manuals.”
‘Pleased to meet you,” said Wenz. He put on his ‘I care about you’ smile, and flashed on his sadistic Grandfather who loved to shake hands with his grandchildren and grind their little knucklebones to dust while harrumphing, “How’s your corporosity young man?” The old prick. “What kind of technical books?” He managed to refocus. Fucking weed.
“Engineering. Mechanics. Medicine. Pretty much any technical subject you can name. What about you?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Really? I always envied writers. Creative. Independent. Sometimes rich if they hit on a bestseller.”
“I only write content.”
“Excuse me?”
“Content. Like maybe a chapter for one of your books here and there. I don’t write stories; fiction. I don’t write complete books.”
“Content, huh? Why don’t you send something over to me and I’ll take a look.”
Wenz could tell, a.) Michael wouldn’t take a look, b.) didn’t give a shit and c.) hadn’t really grasped the concept of Content. “Nice to have chatted,” he said, wondering if he was slurring his words yet. Michael was already turning to talk with someone else.
One elbow resting on the portable bar he sipped his Cucumbertini. “Excellent,” he said to the bartender and slipped a five into the tip glass.
“Thank you sir. Kind of you to say so.” Wenz wondered if the bartender meant it or if he should have slipped the guy a twenty. These suits and dresses looked like twenty dollar tippers. He wondered if he should have tipped the tits in the little black dress a twenty. Nah. They might have taken it the wrong way. He sniggered. Swallowed the rest of his Cucumbertini. “One more, please; a double,” he said to the bartender. “Have the young man bring it over, thanks,” pushed off from the bar heading for the closest conversation circle.”
Two women and three men were discussing a celebrity adulterer on some metaphysical level. “Evening,” he said. “Wenz Smith, writer. May I join you?” They paused. Assessing his aggression perhaps. “I’ve heard he was a cheapskate,” he said. “Flew all his backdoor women around on Southwest Airlines. Didn’t even pay for them to be in the first boarding group. Put them up in a Motel Six before he brought them over to his hotel to do them.” A waiter deftly held a small tray in front of him and he picked up his very full Cucumbertini. “Thank you my good man.”
Behind the waiter stood two very large persons in black suits with black bowties. One who sounded as if a small animal was stuck in his throat said, “Mr. Smith? A brief word if I may?”
“Certainly,” said Wenz, swallowing a mouthful of Cucumbertini, taking a step away from the dumfounded conversation circle.
“The brief word,” said the large man, “is Mrs. Sauermash, Gloria, who you met at the entry, suspects you are possibly at an incorrect address. May I see your invitation please?”
“By all meansh, my good man ,” said Wenz, presenting Alex’s invitation with a flourish; realizing he was slurring his words.
The large man opened the envelope and scanned the insert. “Yes, the establishment for this address is about one mile down the road on your left. You are the third person this evening stopping here in error. We are sorry we did not realize and let you know sooner. We will be happy to escort you to your car so you can be on your way to the correct function.”
“Oops,” said Wenz. “I should have known when the bartender made me the Cumbertini. Most parties I go to they throw you down the fucking front steps if you ask for a drink like a Cumbertini.” Suddenly he could no longer pronounce Cucumbertini.
“Language please, sir,” cautioned the large man, taking Wenz by the elbow. The other large man without speaking, assisted Wenz’ other elbow. “We’ll get you on your way directly,” they propelled him toward the front door.
“Have a pleasant remainder of your evening,” the large man said. The front door shut behind Wenz. The valets ignored him and he walked down the driveway and up the road to his car.
In the Fairlane he turned the key and the Holman Moody engine rumbled to life. Those fucking Cumbertinis were great. He lit the spliff. Probably a couple hits left. He wrenched the steering wheel right and shoved the stick into reverse. The Fairlane backed down into the ditch, looking deadly, squatting momentarily at the bottom, its abdomen thrumming like a resting wasp. He shifted into second for traction, spun the engine up and popped the clutch. Screaming indignantly the car rocketed down the drainage trench splashing water, strewing discarded beer cans and fast food wrappers back onto the hood of the Porsche, splattering mud. He shifted to third, twisting the steering wheel left. The car exploded up the embankment in a shower of debris and squealed away down the road.
I should have asked if I could take the rest of the cucumber along, he thought. They seemed nice. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been a problem.
#
Within four 12 second quarter-miles, approximately 48 seconds, he arrived at the ‘correct address.’ He kept meaning to get over to the local drag strip and race the Fairlane but on weekends he usually had a hangover. More convenient to settle for speed on the country roads, what most of the NASCAR wannabes settled for.
A few squatty Mercury coupes, some open-engine hot rods, two pick-ups with chrome tractor trailer exhaust stacks and an assortment of sporty cars were parked on the lawn at the correct address. A light on the front porch looked to be one of those motion-sensitive barnyard floods. It was being kept lit by a drunk sitting on a step rocking back and forth moaning. Wenz climbed to the porch without speaking. The guy didn’t look interested in small talk.
He knocked and a hippy-dippy girl in a flowered Empire dress, hem reaching the floor, opened the door. “Hi stranger.” Accurate because Wenz had no idea who she was. “Who are you?”
“I’m Wenz. Wenz Smith. Alexis’ friend.”
“Come on in, friend of Alex’s, Y’er welcome here. I think she told us you were coming. I forget.” Wenz noticed her pupils were a bit big. “I’m Gloria. Call me Glo, everyone does.”
“Pleashed to meet you Gloria,” said Wenz. I just met another Gloria down the road. She seemed nice.”
This got an immediate rise out of Gloria number two. “That bitch. She’s the other side of nice. She calls the Sheriff and complains about our parties. Now you remind me, I should call the Sheriff and complain about her. If nothing else she’s made our guests turn left at the wrong driveway. She’s creating a fucking road hazard. I'll tell Stephanie you're here. ” Gloria two turned and wandered off into the party, presumably in search of a phone.
Out in the middle of the room Gloria nodded to an attractive taller woman with dark hair and normal size pupils’ not so hippy dippy, slender, like a runner. The woman turned to the young man standing at the door, nattily dressed like a tenured professor but rumpled as if he had gotten into some drugs rendering him more gregarious than an average PhD candidate. A faint blue green aura surrounded him. She couldn't see auras but imagined she could, making her judgments based on intuition relevant. In her judgment he appeared erudite, loosing creative phrases from the smile lines around his eyes. He needn't speak for her to know. His blue hair shimmered. Like air at her parties, fluidly incandescent
Wenz coughed, startled when she appeared before him at the door. “Hi. I’m Stephanie, or Steve, take your pick. I live here. Glo tells me you are subbing for Alex tonight? You’re a writer or something?”
“Yeah. Content. Some stories, poems, shit like that. I do work for Alex’s company once in a while. How about you?”
“I’m a recording engineer in a studio downtown. Gospel mostly, a little Christian Rock, the occasional demo CD.”
“Whoa. Sounds interesting.”
“It’s not. Too many stiff necks and shalt-nots. It’s a pain in the ass. I’m trying to get into a studio in Memphis.”
“That’ll be a big move.”
“Not really. I rent. I’m unattached. Don’t own anything. Did a little decorating, some plants. My stuff will all fit in a U-Haul trailer. Wenz looked past her at plants hung from ceiling hooks, flourishing in pots in corners. Colorful pictures, Navajo wall hangings and what looked to be a couple of antique schoolhouse clocks, the kind the teacher key-wound once a week.
“Nice’ Wenz said. “You’ve done a nice job. Looks real homey.”
“Thank you,” said Steve, paying him measurably closer attention than Gloria number one. “Can we get you a drink?”
“Sure. Be nice. Got any Vodka?”
“Nope, but we have the next best thing. A jar of white lightning from Seth my neighbor down the road.”
“Christ. Does broomstick-up-her-ass Gloria next door know there’s a Still on her block?
“Everyone knows. Seth’s been making moonshine for over thirty years. No one’s ever found the Still. Plus, the product’s good. No one except Gloria is interested in seeing anything happen to Seth, I expect Sheriff Bill included. Don’t go back and tell Gloria.” Wenz and Steve laughed. Newly introduced, already conspirators.
On the kitchen counter a ball mason jar filled with clear moonshine, rubber gasket rimmed lid, with a spring clip, lay next to a steel shot measure on a chain. Stephanie dropped the shot measure into the jar like a well bucket, pulled it out with the chain and poured the white liquor over chipped ice in a jelly jar. “Anything else?” She asked. “This stuff’s a little rough straight up.”
“Got a cucumber?” Wenz asked. “Maybe a lemon or a lime? Some sugar?”
“I’ve got cucumber and zucchinis coming out my butt this year,” laughed Steve. “No lemon but I’ve got some limes for the gin and tonic crowd.” She looked interested.
Wenz didn’t waste any time with bullshit, mashed up the cucumber slices, squeezed the lime wedge and added some sugar. Close enough. Took a sip. Not perfect but almost. Stephanie watched him. “Never seen this one before” she said. Tasted it. “Very good.” Tasted again.
Wenz mashed a few more cucumber slices, squeezed some limes. He noticed how well Steve’s jeans fit. How her breasts weren’t too big and squishy like most of the woman at the first party. How he didn’t seem able to say ‘Seth’ very clearly which was a pain in the ass as he tried to compliment Seth’s moonshine. Steve said, “Make me one of those.”
#
A slice of sunshine crawling up his leg into his eye woke Wenz in bed next to Steve. Wenz scrunched his eyes and tried to remember the previous night. No way. Steve was still asleep so he couldn’t ask. He peeked under the covers and thought, well, well.
Steve woke up yelling. After she got focused on what was happening to her she wasn’t mad, just happily yelling in general. Not to be impolite, Wenz joined in. Their breath may have been a bit spicy but neither noticed. Both were experiencing flashbacks from the night before.
“I’ve been thinking,” Wenz later said hopefully. “When you go up to Memphis I could look for work up there too. I can get a job writing content most anywhere.”
Stephanie didn’t answer. She had the covers pulled over her head and was giggling. It sounded to Wenz like a ‘maybe’ giggle.
Out on the grass the Fairlane sparkled in the sun.
#
A clear bright Tuesday noon sun painted on the sky cooked the road to Memphis. The heat also felt painted on, the painter not missing an inch of sweat sheened skin. The back of Steve's hand shone as she drummed her fingers on the Fairlane's armrest in time to some tune or sound board in her head, a high strung woman with strong eyes in a strong car rumbling toward a high strung world. No traffic marred the view or prompted Wenz to make an unneeded pass. Steve, in the shotgun seat, hummed. Wenz could see her lips moving and her throat pulsing, no melody audible above the wind noise. It was enough she was happy.
He sure was. He had gone directly from shiftless shit kicker straight to the up escalator, driving along in his funky car, his tires singing on the road accompanied by the catchy beats of random cracks and bumps passing under the taut chassis too fast to see.
Steve over there with her eyes half closed drew him, as if he were looking for a twinkle of something to dive for at the bottom of a crystal lake. Every two or three miles he fought back the urge to pull onto the shoulder and grab her; not even turn off the engine; let the Fairlane roll and drift as it would while he enfolded her.
She was oblivious to his Cro-Magnon dreams, humming and twirling her hair with her right index finger, elbow resting on the door. She had never been so satisfied with a man. Couldn’t say how or why it happened with this man. She had just fallen into him and stuck. He didn’t seem her type. The snarling car and hopelessly bizarre drink, that cucumbertini. But stuck she was.
She’d been down enough roads not to ask too many questions of life. Twirled her hair and felt the heavy breeze. Didn’t thank anyone, or anything either. They had just gotten lucky. It happened. Like Vegas. Everyone gets lucky. The trick is to hang on, not let the House have it back. A problem for another day. For now they were close enough to each be the other.
She smiled at the thought of Wenz with his eyes on the road as they had been on her, boring in, concentrating on her desire, her lubricity waiting for her lips to form an "oh" of surprised discovery as he pushed, finding her within the pinkish halo where she lived. He never thought of these things, being a man of castings, rubber, tricky fasteners and occasional aircraft fuel, but knew them instinctively as he watched her face for signs of power, listened to her breathing for performance, the piston striving in the sleeve.
The ride for him was a slow build of confidence. Each mile ticking over, stacking the bricks of a new beginning. He knew he was right about getting jobs writing content anywhere. What he saw out on the shimmering road was a skyline. Something bigger to be built, something to catch people’s eyes. Like the Holman Moody Fairlane. Something of power and awe.
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