Portrait of Topher
March 10, 2012 Leave a comment
The Steps of Chimundi Hill
March 4, 2012 Leave a comment
You need not have eyes to find spirituality in India. It is everywhere. You can hear it – in the vedic chants streaming eerily from the robed men and women walking along the streets at pre-dawn, or in the conch shells bellowing during a religious ceremony; you can smell it – in the incense, cow dung, and oils burning inside temples and shrines; you can feel it – in the hands of the pujari, or priest, as he takes your offering and marks your forehead with a vermilion tilaka; you can taste it – in the spicy richness of the dals and curries, the freshness of the papayas, pomegranates, and pineapples, all of which have (most likely) already been blessed by the farmer who grew and sold his crop, his livelihood. Even if you’re not a spiritual person you will feel it because it surrounds, engulfs you.
I had only been in India for a little over a week when after a 6 am intensive and very sweaty ashtanga yoga practice, myself and three other yogis decided to climb the 1,000 stairs of Chimundi Hill. I had read about Chimundi Hill in my India travel book and knew that it held some of the most beautiful views of Mysore, India, where I was living for six weeks while practicing yoga. So we grabbed an auto-rickshaw driver, picked up his eight-year-old son, and the six of us packed into the rickshaw and went through the city on a 20-minute ride to Chimundi Hill. What a beautiful morning for a hike!
I wasn’t sure what to expect, nor did I even try to guess what to expect, as my eyes have been bewildered and my mind has been blown several thousand times over in the ten days since I’ve been in Mysore. But I did assume that we were going on a hike, up a hill, and that should be nothing too out of the ordinary. But India is anything but ordinary.
When we arrived at the bottom of the 1,000 stairs up the hill, I had my jaw drop once more. Mystical is really the only word to describe it. There was still an early morning fog sweeping before a 60-foot ornamental and towering entryway to the stairs of the hill. Or, wait – was it fog or smoke swinging past the towering gate? Or a lot of incense? Or both? Or all three? I wasn’t sure if the tower was a gate or a temple at first. It was shaped sort of like a Hindu temple, with progressively smaller pavilions stacked on one another and ornate carvings of deities dancing and posing all the way to the top, which must have been 60 feet high. I noticed there were monkeys fluttering about the entryway and my attention turned to them.
It was then that I realized, “I am in a foreign land and this is going to be no hike like I’ve experienced before”. I think I heard chanting. My senses were consumed with other so many interesting sights and smells (like the monkeys!), but there was probably chanting. And birds I’ve never heard before cooing. And monkeys…making monkey noises!
As we walked up the ancient steps made of layers of big rocks (I suppose being built in 1664 makes them “ancient”), I noticed that some of the risers of the stairs, also made of stone, were painted in red and white stripes. The Indians must have tired of the boring gray stones after 352 years and decided to spruce them up a bit. Nothing in this country deserves to be without color, especially not sacred steps.
Just past the gate and before the beginning of the stairs there was a broken bowl-ish type of container that may have also been 352 years old. It was filled with bright red and yellow powder, with three yellow flowers lying on top. “What is this used for?” I asked my friend Kristina. “For praying, to put on your forehead,” she said. Of course. So bright, so pretty. I took a picture, without dabbing it on my forehead.
The skies were blue, white clouds gliding above the trees. We continued up the stairs in the still somewhat crisp morning air, quickly noticing that not every step was of the same length. Some steps were only four or five inches high, while others may have been 18 inches high. We wondered what we were thinking by embarking on a one-hour hike after two hours of yoga. We began to keep a slower pace, taking in the brilliant views from below as we did. And trying not to get out of breath.
There were shrines along the way. Shrines for Hanuman, Lakshmi, Ganesh, and Shiva, among various other Hindu Gods. Many were covered in graffiti, paint pealing and chipped.
There were several other people making this trek, mostly Indians but some foreigners. We past a beggar woman holding out her hand to us, a black dog asleep beside her. Her eyes were tired. Other people were sweeping debris off of the steps and asking for a few rupees in exchange for their labor. India is full of so many colors, so much beauty, on one hand. It is filled with layer upon layer of the many colors of flowers, fruits, lentils, spices, saris, bindis, Gods, deities, and aromas. While on the other hand, there is much filth and garbage, poverty and sadness, keeping things deep and real and extreme at all times.
We stopped along the way for some fresh pineapple pieces from a man selling them along the road. It was there that we noticed a group of people wearing all white jogging suits that read (in red) “postal training centre, mysore” on their backs. So that’s how the postal workers get in shape — they climb Chimundi Hill!
There are many cows in India, but I only saw one bull. His name is Nandi and he is 15 feet tall and 24 feet long. Once you climb 800 of the 1,000 stairs of Chimundi hill, you will not miss him. We were told that the monolithic bull had just had his semi-annual oilmassage, making it roughly the 700th massage
this giant stone carved creature has received. This black and shiny beast is draped with garlands of flowers and bells. Painted on his forehead are the three white stripes representing devotion to Lord Shiva, his master, who once upon a time used Nandi as his vehicle.
Only a couple hundred more steps to go and we are meeting the rickshaw driver at the top of the hill. But first, Kristina had mentioned a temple that she wanted to go to at the top of the hill, Chimundeshwari Temple. This is my first Hindu temple experience, so of course I want to go inside. And Kristina is much more versed at what one does inside a Hindu temple, so she leads the way as Matthew, Morgan, and Myself follow.
As the four of us walk towards the temple, the carvings on the yellow-colored gopuram, or pyramidal tower, become more visible. There are several devas and devis carved into the sides of the gopuram, which is seven stories and about 130 feet tall.
We stop first at a booth outside the temple to get an offering to bring inside. It is here where we also take off our shoes. The offering is a basket of coconuts, bananas, and flowers. A young boy asks me if I want colors and I tell him no, simply because I have no idea what he is talking about or what I am supposed to do with my basket of fruit and flowers, let alone some colors, but he drops the small packets on top of my basket anyway. I struggle to keep my overflowing and lopsided basket together, curious as to what I’m going to be doing with it anyway. It is filled to the brim with two coconuts, a bunch of bananas, and what looks to me like several yellow carnations, a big red rose, and a lotus flower.
As the four of us make our way to the temple we realize there is a long line of people waiting to get inside. There is lots of yelling, or what seems like yelling (in a foreign language) and people are very excited to get inside the temple. People are skipping the line. People are coming back out of the line. It is a bit like being in an amusement park line for a ride; there is a maze of rows to follow. There is much confusion. We are the only white people in the line.
Soon, a man who was working(?) at the temple said we had to go into the temple separate (from the Indians) and that he would show us the way. Why we had to go in separate, I don’t understand. He warned us to keep our purses and wallets closely guarded. The temple was packed full of people and there were pickpockets, or so he said. Of course, and as we knew at the time, he would want compensated for guiding us through the temple. But it felt like a small price to pay to deliver us from mass confusion, so we followed him.
The guide shuffled us through silver plated doors engraved with more deities and past the small statue of Lord Ganesha, the remover of all obstacles. We were packed in tight in front of the shrine, in a crowded room with people leaning over the gates of the inner sanctum to see the solid gold idol of Durga, or Chimundeshwari, the Goddess of power and strength. Though the temple is thought to be built in the 17th century, the shrine may have been built as early as the 11th century.
We performed puja here by handing over our offering and were given blessings by the pujari, or Hindu priest, who marked our foreheads with a red-orange powder (vermilion). We also placed some rupees in the offering dish when the pujari held it in front of us, making sure each of us knew that we were supposed to give them money at this point.
The guide allowed us to take some photographs in certain places, but photos are not allowed inside the temple. There were men wrapped in long white cloth, beads around their neck with markings on their foreheads, some with the same markings as the bull, Nandi. There was oil burning, flames surrounding the golden idol. We walked along and on another wall a niched window, or devkoshta, housed a another deity. Here a pujari stood blessing people with oil.
We walked outside the temple to get a look at the Vimanam, as it is known in South India, which is the rising tower of the inner sanctum of the temple. At the very top of the Dravidian-styled structure, which closely resembles the outer towering gate, or the 
gopuram, there are seven spires pointing to the sky acting as antennas, connecting mortals to the divine.
There was chanting and bells ringing and still people were being herded through the temple like cattle and I pondered how anyone could possibly have the focus (or space) to pray at this temple.
Just as I was wondering if people actually prayed here or only came by to get a blessing from the pujari, we were given back part of our offerings – the coconuts, which had been cut open, and the bananas and some of the flowers. We took our offerings and sat down on the floor outside the shrine, where we proceeded to eat the fruits and sit quietly to pray, if we wished.
After eating and praying we paid our guide, picked up our shoes went to find our rickshaw driver. The boy who had laid the colors in my offering basket spotted us and tried to make me pay for the colors I told him I didn’t want. Once we found our rickshaw driver, he drove us to Anokhi Garden, a popular restaurant that serves a yummy “Western breakfast”, complete with scrambled eggs and French toast, and French-pressed coffee. After a morning of intensive physical activity we were all starving and it was good to be somewhere that felt familiar again. Kristina tied the flowers from the offering in my hair and I spent the rest of the day with my forehead marked in red with yellow flowers in my hair. I didn’t particularly feel any type of spiritual movement while inside the temple or while climbing the stairs (well, none that I noticed with the commotion of everything else going on, anyway). But still…I couldn’t help but to feel blessed, which on this day – in the midst of a beautiful, sunny day with wonderful new friends and delicious food in my tummy and the utmost gratitude for being able to practice at the yoga shala – I most certainly was blessed.
Refurbished
December 19, 2011 Leave a comment
Even with her tied to the chair between the him and I, his expectations have not changed. Her contract has two weeks until it expires.
“You’re getting relationships and business fucked in your head, Yuri. This could and probably will cost you the promotion and maybe even your job – your whole fucking life. Do you at least understand that much?” Benton said, placing his hand on Greta’s left shoulder.
I thought of it as a non-issue. I wanted to talk about the fucking merger. Who was going to carry out the file transfers and conduct an audit on 53rd’s clerks and contractors?
Benton gripped Greta’s shoulder. “She was your assignment. Not your lover. You went on record and lied through the whole process quite convincingly. I have your fucking mess to deal with. Only a few ways to look at this situation and I’d rather not banter on about it for fear of sounding like a piss ass optimist.”
I tried to interrupt his thought process. “This is unreal. You’re not understanding the significance of having another building. No other chapter in our particular sector can claim that. If I fucked up so bad, don’t you think they’d take that away from us?”
Benton leaned on Greta’s shoulder, pressing her forward as far as the rope would allow. She groaned at the increased pressure on her sternum. He shook his head and chuckled. “You don’t know Harry.”
“I met him once or twice.” Benton knew that this was a lie. “Ben, you have to let me go down there.”
He relinquished pressure on Greta and crossed his arms. “You think I can forget about this? When I have to keep her locked up in my fucking office? While you go out to investigate a rather substantial increase in our market and contract base? I doubt that would go over well with the guys upstairs.”
He constantly referred to these guys upstairs. With his office is on the top floor of the building, the guys upstairs were his conscience.
“Besides, what the hell do you think you’re going to do at 53rd right now? Geraldo hasn’t even finished a reasonable agenda.”
A decent excuse to go to 53rd eluded me. “I want to get to know our future partners.”
Benton knew that this was bullshit. So he played along. “Harry will ask you to play cards. And Lucky will massage your scalp. That’s all you have to know about them.”
“Just two of ‘em?” I asked.
“Secretaries. A front desk lady. And that’s it.”
“No file clerk?”
“Never thought to ask. I guess they’d have one. Or allow their secretaries to deal with the files. As we should do instead of risking liability of another employee.”
Liabilities take up residence in a chair identical to that one, the one where Greta is bound. We never use a chair more than once. Every month we dispose of them. Even our desk chairs. The residue left behind by any transfer could disrupt the process of any future transfer. DNA kept pure enables efficiency. No other branch disposes of chairs. We caught onto this innovation years ago and never let out the secret.
We parked an eighteen wheeler out back to use once a year. We scoured the suburbs during the time of spring cleaning and brought back hundreds of chairs. If necessary, we purchased more. Every chair was individually sanitized in a vacuum by us, the contractors. It was my idea. Benton claimed credit for it in the file since I was a rookie back then. This was before I set records in the business for being the most productive contractor in our sector since Red Moyer.
Red and I had history in common. I tied his all time monthly record for transfers seven months in a row – the same amount of straight months that he succeeded in thirty-four transfers per each.
I would have made it eight, but Benton gave me the assignment of pacifying Greta and then a two week vacation after the assignment was complete and the file placed. I claimed that the transfer was conducted entirely by me in a period of time overnight so that I could take my break immediately. Geraldo signed off as a witness even though he was down in the file room the entire time. Benton assumed that Greta was now living her life as Pauline Stein in the Great Lakes region. We were never given the exact location of transfers. The reasons were obvious. We were never intended to be cold-blooded. We maintained the basic desires of everyone, even the people that we transferred.
I had no other urge than to share an experience with a person.
Her and I took the plane to London together in the morning. Benton saw no reason to check up on me. I wasn’t flawed before that night.
Now he stared at my face, not into my eyes as he would when he would be slightly miffed at me for not bringing him a cup of coffee or for leaving a file sit on my desk in the evening instead of locking it up. He was paranoid of being raided. This paranoia was ridiculous. No one knew that we existed. Branches that leaked any information to the public by accident are immediately imploded.
So Benton asked me what I told her that I did for all of this time that her and I were a couple.
“I told her that I was in exports.”
Benton eased off and laughed hard enough for his hand to find support once again on Greta’s shoulder. This is the first time that I saw her awake in three days. She moaned with a quiet rage.
“Your touch of irony in magnificent. But what did you tell her that you export in your business?”
I didn’t remember. He laughed with the same force as the first. I was beginning to think that every time that he laughed he had to fake it; he ever only learned to laugh so hard that he nearly fell over.
When he gathered himself, he kept this joke going.
“You didn’t tell her that you trafficked humans? That may have been too much for me to handle. Listen, buddy, I know that you and I became a little too close in this here branch… We’re partners and friends. But I’m your boss and don’t ever hide any two-toed cunt from me. Especially this one. She’s special. She’s Red’s. And for nearly eighteen months you succeeded in being a shitty employee.”
This moment was not the time to tell my angry boss all about my feelings. But I started into it anyway.
“She wanted to get married,” I said.
Benton crossed his arms again. I was getting damn tired of watching him lean over just to stand straight back up to cross his arms. But I knew this conversation had to happen before I could get on my life.
“You can marry her the next time,” he said. “This time she has to go.”
I wouldn’t love her then and we were now faced with the better chance that the situation would not be quiet the same.
Benton, quick on his careful words, added, “You should meet her sister. She’s in this building as we speak.”
“You must think I’m a real fucking idiot. I know that already.”
“I do. And you haven’t really met her yet. She’s working closely with Geraldo, learning the filing system.”
“Is Geraldo getting shipped out?”
No answer.
“Can I at the very least talk to Greta. Explain the situation.”
“She won’t remember. So you’ll have to wait for each other until the spiral comes to an end and repeats. Then you two can live prosperously and free in a cottage somewhere.”
I’ve been here far too many years to begin counting now. But I’ve never seen a spiral end. I didn’t feel like arguing about it so I only said, “Fuck off.”
His tone became sharper, “That’s love, right? Prosperity? A cottage? Coffee in the morning and tea at night?”
She never wanted the typical. If Benton would have read her file carefully, he would have already known that.
He glanced at his watch. “Look, we got to her early but soon she’ll start to deteriorate.”
I wanted to tell him that we could stop it somehow. It’s been done before when a mistake was made. I needed his clearance to do so and the whole ordeal would be done.
“Enough friendly talk, Yuri. I’m meeting Harry at the diner at three. You stay here. Don’t touch her. We don’t need an assault charge on top of this problem.”
Benton grabbed his grey sport-coat from the bamboo rack by the door and grinned.
“Why can’t I go along?” He knew that I was going to ask.
“Typically, I’d allow it. But since you’re no longer someone for everyone in our sector to look up to, you’re a fucking embarrassing rookie.”
Room 105
December 14, 2011 Leave a comment
I always feel a kinship with people who admit they were also after school detention detainees.
My friends with perfect records are no less my friends
(of course)
but they don’t understand the longing of release
that came with being kept in an adolescent prison after the daily sentence had been served.
Parole denied.
No time off for good behavior.
Please report to room 105 at 2:35 p.m. for sentencing.
The preferred method of punishment was boredom.
No talking.
No homework.
No whistling.
No tapping your fingers on the desk pleasethankyouverymuch.
This brought out the OCD in all of us
and afterward we would compare the numbers.
“I counted 42 notebooks stacked on the shelf.”
“There are 152 dots on the first ceiling tile on the left hand side.”
“Sixty-six prayer cards stapled to the prayer wall.”
Occasionally, the school needed our manual labor services.
We welcomed chair stacking and paper sorting.
It unfolded us from our desks
and allowed us to converse in hisses and whispers.
However,
the option of reading the Bible was always open to us,
the administration well aware that there was nothing we wanted to do less.
For my first high school detention, it was me and two male students. Boys.
The detention moderator was a tiny religion teacher
with a white beard and jovial personality.
Kids called him David the Gnome behind his back.
He greeted us,
“Good afternoon, gentlemen- and lady,” bowing toward me.
To the boys:
“There’s some cleaning up that needs done on the soccer field.”
To me:
“You can stay here and do some reading.”
He winked as he placed the Bible on my desk.
For an hour, I kept my head down, eyes on the pages.
I wanted to get up.
I wanted to leave.
I wanted to do anything but read these passages over and over, making patterns in my mind with the letters, playing word games, feeling guilty for not taking the book seriously.
I wanted to not be afraid of the consequences,
but I was 14 and terrified of getting in trouble.
Paranoid and certain that he must have someone watching me somewhere.
Why would he leave me here alone?
What teacher does this?
I’m in trouble.
I was late for class three times.
Doesn’t he have to babysit me while I think about what I’ve done?
It wasn’t until they came back
that I realized he knew I would never leave.
I wasn’t that kid
even though I thought about being that kid.
I don’t regret many things but I really should have made a break for it while I could.
The warden only leaves the cell door unlocked once.
George’s Curiosity Shoppe, Part II
December 12, 2011 1 Comment
“Hm.”
Jake looked up from pouring a glass of orange juice and exchanged a smirk with his mom. His father’s face was currently obscured by the front of the Monroy Daily.
“Hm,” the man repeated. This was the sound they heard every Sunday morning, and his dad’s indication that he’d read something he’d love to share. They both knew you asked at your own risk.
Jake’s mom had suddenly become very interested getting the cream and sugar ratio in her coffee just right.
Brad’s mom, an enthusiastic early riser named Shirley, thankfully took the bait.
“What are you reading, Dan?” she asked.
“What’s that?” he asked, peeking around the paper.
“You must be reading something interesting.”
“Oh! Yes! It looks like there’s a disease running through the town and outlying areas.”
Shirley wrinkled her nose. “Disease?”
“Sheep, cows, dogs, cats – it’s killing them. Sounds pretty nasty.”
Shirley, who was a vegetarian except for bacon, made a sympathetic face. “Oh, the poor things. Is it treatable?”
“No, I don’t think so. They can’t identify what it is. They just find the animals the next day,” he craned his head forward, hunting for a quote. “ ‘…the bodies are generally swollen to twice their size, with blood and foam running from the eyes and mouth.”
Everyone looked suspiciously at the bacon and scrambled eggs on the table, both of which were local.
“Well, thank god I didn’t bring Obi, then,” Shirley declared. Obiwan was the family’s dog, a small white poofball with a bad temper and a love affair with Jake’s left leg. The creature had indeed joined them in previous trips, and Jake was delighted that he’d been left behind this year.
“What are we doing today?” Jake wondered.
Shirley set some toast on the table. “I think your mom was hoping to go antiquing today.”
“That sounds… fun,” he managed to say.
“…and I think Dan and Mark were thinking about heading out to the golf course.”
“There’s a golf course?”
“It might be an hour away, I’m not sure.”
“It’s in Fairfield,” his dad said distractedly, his nose once again in the paper.
“When do you think we’ll do that?” Jake wondered.
“Not before 11 am, I expect. The boys were up until 2am playing poker last night. I bet neither one of them will be up for an hour yet.”
However, even as she spoke, they could hear movement in the room above their heads.
Jake thought for a moment, then stood and pulled on his hoodie. “I think I’ll take a walk.”
“There won’t be much open,” his mother told him. “Not on a Sunday morning.”
“I can yell up and see if that’s Brad moving around,” Shirley offered.
Jake laughed. “No, he needs his beauty sleep. You tell him that, too. I’m just going out for some air.” He took a handful of bacon. “I’ll be back.”
Once outside, Jake took a deep breath, stuffed his hands in his pockets against the chill, and headed away from the water.
He’d thought about the bizarre shop from the day before long into the early morning hours last night, and had decided before he dropped off to sleep that he had to go back.
It wasn’t the girl. He could hear Brad’s voice in his head brushing her off as a weird townie. Jake had thought she was normal enough; but everything else about the shop didn’t sit right for some reason.
He glanced up at the corner, and turned right down Maple Street.
Does every town in the U.S. have a ‘Maple Street’? he wondered
He hadn’t seen a name on the shop, at least not one that was visible from the outside. The “OPEN” sign was located over the counter inside the store. And if the background the girl told them about the merchandise was even half true… what the heck kind of store was it?
He stopped, nearly to Vinemont Street.
It could be a front for something, he realized. Like the mafia or a drug cartel. Maybe a black market? That happened sometimes, right?
Jake shook his head and continued on. He couldn’t imagine the girl being wrapped up in anything like that. And besides, he believed her about the shrunken heads.
This was the street they’d stumbled upon yesterday, and he began to look at the storefronts. All were dark, dusty, worn. It wasn’t a long street, and he found it branch off into an alley a few blocks later.
He must have missed it.
Jake turned around, walking slowly and deliberately, surveying each storefront carefully. They did all seem to blend into one another, but he was able to pick it out yesterday. It shouldn’t be too hard.
But again, he found himself at the opposite end of the street and he still hadn’t seen it.
It was on Vinemont, he was sure of it.
Just as he turned to walk down the street for the third time, one of the symbols from yesterday caught his eye. It had been on the bricks in the street and on the shop’s front door. Now it was on a brick at the corner of the adjacent street.
He looked up at the street sign. Jake could admit he wasn’t much good with maps, but he knew they hadn’t been on Merchant Avenue the day before. He frowned.
“We have our bricks,” the girl had said when Brad suggested a website. And “…that’s how our customers find us.”
But bricks would lead you to the same place every time, right? And they’d led him here yesterday.
So why can’t I find the damn place?
He must be turned around. With a sigh, he decided to let the bricks guide him again. They seemed to know what was going on better than he did.
* * * * *
Brad was irritated that Jake had gone out without him.
They were kind of friends, right?
Jake was a nice kid. Boring, maybe a little naïve. He hardly watched any TV, his music taste was horrible and he didn’t own any polos. But even so, they were all each other had on these trips.
Well, there was Timmy, but… just no. Tim was more annoying than their parents were, and little brothers were really only good for making life harder. Jake couldn’t just bail on Brad – they were partners in this podunk little town, and he wasn’t getting left behind.
The morning’s rain had dwindled to a drizzle, and Brad wished he hadn’t accepted his dad’s golf umbrella. Even closed, it was an unwieldy monster of wire and lime green. He had really only wanted it for his hair, anyway. What a waste.
Up ahead, Brad finally saw Jake crossing the street.
“Hey! Jake!” he called, but the other boy didn’t respond. His head was bent forward, looking at the ground. He disappeared around the corner again seconds later.
Brad shook his head and jogged up to the street corner.
Jake was already a block away, standing hunched over as he surveyed the sidewalk.
Brad frowned. Jake got weirder every year. What the heck was so interesting on the ground?
Brad had opened his mouth to yell “They’re bricks, stupid” at him across the street when Jake’s head lifted and he seemed to start, surprised.
Brad followed his gaze, and understanding dawned.
It was that weirdo shop.
“No way,” Brad whispered. He had dibs! He’d been the first one to talk to that girl. Sure, she hadn’t seem very charmed at first, but he felt confident he could wear her resistance down eventually.
And now Jake had stranded Brad with his family so he could sneak out and see her? This was in direct violation of Bro Code.
Jake stood at the door, seeming to think for a long moment – his guilty conscious getting the better of him, Brad assumed – then pushed the door open and disappeared inside. Brad bounded across the street, catching the door before it latched again and quietly slid in after him.
* * * * *
The girl was up on a ladder behind the counter, arranging some worn-looking books on a top shelf. An oversize army jacket fell over a long flowing skirt, and her curly hair was extra poofy from the rain. She didn’t seem to hear the door’s chime as he entered.
“I don’t care what you think,” she declared.
Jake didn’t see anyone else in the shop. Was she talking to him? He opened his mouth to assure her he wasn’t thinking anything, but she spoke again.
“Look,” she announced, “there’s no historical evidence that supports Lincoln – or any of the other presidents, for that matter – was a vampire hunter. I mean, I loved the guy, but it’s kind of a specialized field, you know?”
Jake blinked. What?
A long second passed and then she bit off, “What?” and glanced over her shoulder to see Jake; several books flew in the air and she nearly fell off of the ladder.
“Hello, again!” she cried, catching herself. Her voice was friendly enough, but he got the impression she was looking irritably at the air around him.
“Hi,” he responded weakly.
“Er. Do you have a better idea of what you’re looking for today?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I think I’m just… looking?”
“Oh,” she frowned. “We really don’t get a lot of window shoppers.”
“Was this shop… I don’t even know how to ask this. Was it somewhere… else yesterday?”
Her face was blank. “Somewhere else?”
Jake closed his eyes, feeling stupid. “Nevermind. What’s this place called, anyway?”
“George’s Curiosity Shoppe. Although, to be honest I’ve never met a George since I’ve been here. I think it just… fits.”
He stared at the front end of an ancient model car that was leaning against a giant stone block wrapped in Christmas lights. “It’s certainly… curious,” he admitted.
“I’m Shannon, by the way.”
“Jake.”
“Nice to meet you, Jake.” She frowned suddenly, then sighed at his raised eyebrows. “I am beginning to feel like I might have lost something.”
“In here?” They both looked at the piles of junk around them. “Good luck finding it.”
“There’s actually a very sophisticated filing system at work here, thank you very much.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you hunt.”
She looked doubtful, then nodded. “His name’s Percy. He’s kind of like… a cat.”
“How is something ‘like’ a cat?”
The blank look returned. “Whoops. He’s a cat. Percy is a cat.”
He blinked.
“He’s 100% cat,” she insisted.
“Alright… What color is he?”
“Oh,” she said, “black, usually.”
He sighed, surveying the dim room around them. “Of course he is.”
* * * * *
Percy the cat was indeed black, and was currently hunkered behind a giant hour glass watching a strange boy try to peer through some open shelving. Shannon and the boy – he’d called himself Jake – were chatting just beyond it.
Percy the cat padded silently over to this other boy, who had currently climbed onto Madame Cora’s favorite chair to get a better look.
“Seriously,” the boy whispered to himself, “he’s got no game at all.”
Percy the cat sat down in front of the chair and meowed quietly.
The boy did not react. Percy meowed again more loudly.
Now the boy turned around, and waved his hand trying to shoo Percy away. Instead, Percy the cat rolled his eyes, and rubbed his body against the boy’s shin. Humans loved that move.
It worked, and the boy turned, plopping his bottom into the seat where Madame Cora’s had sat so many years ago. He started to say something to the cat – or to himself again, who knows – but Percy the cat simply meowed his thanks, and promptly jumped onto the surprised boy’s lap.
* * * * *
CRACK.
Jake froze, unsure of what had just happened. The meager lights dimmed and brightened, struggling for a moment against the store’s dark interior before finally giving up. Jake stood among piles and piles of stuff, afraid to move on the chance he might hurt himself – he’d just passed a sword, after all.
“Shit.”
Shannon’s irritated voice came from several feet away, from the other side of what might be a giant wardrobe.
“A breaker, maybe?” Jake wondered.
“It had better be…” she muttered. “Don’t move for a sec.”
There were bumps and curses and crashes as she navigated from one side of the dark store to the back counter. After a long minute, he heard the squeak of a little metal door and the sound of switches.
The lights came back on and movement caught his eye – a white cat dashed from one aisle to the next.
“Hey! Here’s a cat!” Jake bounded after him, trying his best not to knock anything over as he ran. The cat was fast, but he eventually got it cornered under a large empty birdcage with a massive bird skeleton swinging inside. He could hear the animal meowing desperately from beneath it.
“Oh, the poor guy,” Jake sounded. Shannon came up behind him.
“Where is the little bugger?”
“Under here. I thought you said he was black, though.”
She frowned. “I did.”
Shannon got down on her belly and carefully crawled under the cage. There were some soft cooing sounds, and moments later, she inched her way out, grasping the white cat by the scruff of its neck. The animal was terrified – two wide grey eyes dashed around the room, his hackles were up, and he wouldn’t stop meowing.
“Aw, man,” Jake said, “he is really scared.”
Shannon had brought the shaking creature close and was looking carefully at his face.
“What’s got him so worked up?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she looked squarely at the cat and boomed “Percy Francis Merriweather, I command you to stop this noise.”
The cat meowed even more frantically.
Jake glanced between her and the cat. “Does that usually work?”
Still holding the cat, she walked over to a pile of thick, dirty drapes and kicked it. Nothing happened.
She then took off down another aisle. Jake had little choice but to follow. They stopped in front of a large pair of men’s trousers hanging neatly from a hanger. She checked the pockets and pulled out a gold pocketwatch. She opened it, shook her head, and put it back.
She sighed, then stomped around a large suit of armor, the poor cat still dangling from her iron grasp. Jake stumbled after her.
“Didn’t you have a friend with you yesterday?” she asked.
“Brad?”
“Did he come with you this morning?”
“No, I left before he was up.”
She stopped near the front of the shop, where they had stood talking yesterday. “Are you sure about that?”
Jake couldn’t say anything. Sitting before them, looking very pleased with himself, was Brad. The cat hissed loudly and furiously worked his limbs.
Shannon glared at Brad for a long moment; he grinned back.
Then, without warning, she launched the animal at Brad. The cat screamed, mid-air, and Brad leapt from the chair and into the floor, laughing. It was a strange laugh, one that Jake had never heard before.
The surprised cat landed delicately on the chair, breathing hard. He dashed to Jake, who quickly picked him up so Shannon wouldn’t throw him again. From his place on the floor, Brad grinned madly at Shannon.
“You little jerk,” she spat out. “What did I tell you?”
“You told him not to sit in the chair,” Brad answered gleefully. “And he should have listened to you.”
Jake frowned – it was Brad’s voice, but the way he spoke wasn’t quite right. The words had a twang that was unfamiliar to him.
“Percy, you get back in that cat right this minute,” Shannon demanded.
Brad laughed again. “Oh no, I am never going back in there again. You’ve kept me trapped in there for long enough.”
“Trapped? You’re the one that wanted a body!” she argued. She pointed at the cat. “I got you a body!”
Jake and the cat looked at one another. The cat gave a worried little meow.
Brad harrumphed. “I’d like to eat something other than mice and kibble, thank you very much.”
“You’re dead!” she cried. “You’re lucky you’re eating anything!”
“Um?” Jake interrupted.
Shannon started, turning around and looking surprised. “Oh crap, I kind of forgot you were here.”
“Oh, yes!” Brad cried, standing up. “It is my good friend, Jake. My good, kind friend Jake. Let us leave this poor girl to her madness, and we’ll go get ourselves an ice cream.”
“Not in a million years,” Shannon warned, blocking the door.
“And you’re… lactose intolerant,” Jake stuttered.
“What?” Brad cried, his smile gone. “What does that mean? Is it curable?”
“It is a horrible disease,” Shannon interjected. “Miserable and terminal; so you may as well get back in the cat.”
“It means you can’t have any dairy,” Jake told him quietly. “What the heck is going on? Did he hit his head or something?”
“Yes, I hit my head,” Brad exclaimed, as if it was a good idea. “But I’m feeling much better! Let’s go home!”
Shannon seemed to struggle with herself for a moment. Finally, her shoulders hunched forward, defeated. She closed her eyes.
“Percy was a cat that was possessed by a cranky old ghost,” she began.
“Hmph,” said Brad. “I’m not cranky.”
“ – a horrible, cranky old ghost named Percy,” Shannon continued irritably. “When your buddy Brad sat in Cora’s séance chair, it opened a gateway that allowed that ghost to change hosts. Which he did, at the first chance he got, because he’s a toad of a man.”
“Ribbit.”
Jake studied the boy across from him. “So… you’re not Brad?”
“No, my boy. I’m afraid not.”
“So then… where’s Brad?”
The cat meowed sadly, and when Jake looked down at the cat cradled in his arms, he recognized the eyes of the boy he’d been spending summers with his entire life.
Jake couldn’t help it, he yelped and dropped the cat.
“Sorry, sorry!” he exclaimed, but the cat had already darted back into the store. Shannon and Jake both dashed after him, but he was too fast. He had already disappeared from view.
“He’ll come out eventually,” she told Jake. “He’s just scared.”
“Him and me both,” Jake muttered. “What the heck kind of a place is this?”
Before she could answer, however, a soft ding filled the air. They exchanged a look before sprinting back to the front of the store . The door latched with a loud click.
Brad – or Percy, whoever he was – was gone.
City-Line Part 3
December 9, 2011 Leave a comment
A few hours later and I’m perched on one of those big ashtrays (flowerpots) outside Mahoney’s bar. Somewhere near Second Avenue regretting the crab rogue from the dive Chinese restaurant up the street. But the waitress had bowed when I walked through the door and there was free shrimp toast with every five dollar purchase so what the hell, right?
So I’m chain-smoking, watching the lunch crowd gather in one of those overpriced slop-shacks that boast over their cob salads like they invented blue cheese. All these folks in their business attire, all these suited queens setting there plump asses on those wire chairs pecking at there Ahi tuna with those tiny silver forks all the while barking pleasantries at one and other; tickling their own egos like little league coaches walk around bragging over the things they did thirty years ago. On the corner there a hunched fellow in coveralls his body all but gnarled from his labor. He slides a trial caked with mortar across the top row bricks and then feeds clean bricks over the fresh mortar simultaneously switching tools to finish that smother rounded edge of mortar between each row. He has a red igloo cooler next to the bucket of mortar. A master with his bologna sandwich working through lunch.
I must have been sitting here my whole life and I still haven’t the slightest which side of the street to stand on.
Back in bar I suck at a dangerously empty glass thinking about the Brick pointer. The bartender’s name is Christine I look up to her fingers rapping against the finish. She asks… “How many times are you going to put that glass to your face before you realize there’s only ice?”
I take out my phone and call Sidouski; he answers on the third ring: “Hey it’s me, who did I leave the bar with last night she still has my keys.”
Ode to My House
December 5, 2011 Leave a comment
thick it sticks the mortar to bricks enclosing every inch stacked slabs surround piled and bound on top of soil rich all four walls straight stand tall a roof as a coverlet look in, look out windows to tout comfort and content within its doors lie hardwood floors a warm fire lit room by room activities ensue each one different doors separate sleep from wake eating from entertainment mornings shine through nights turn to blue while the house does stand still sturdy and proud this home is bound to last; happily filled.
Tara Way
November 28, 2011 1 Comment
I hope they don’t think:
“Will she come when I die…”
He wanted to call it separation
anxiety or some other clinical
reduction for my distinct behavior—
Eleven years of all the same
on the plush burgundy couch—
I could never penetrate
the steady pace of our session.
“He got a raise.” I tell the man
with the hat – he’s uncertain,
caught, patiently anticipates
his own caste commentary –
perhaps divorce is necessary.
Billy talked about Penny,
desire, and disruption
based on our vows –
“Tell me, doctor,
what do I say to him?”
A tilted crevice in his cheek
squanders the banks of code—
Tell him of the brick-
lined sandbox –
an instrumental childhood
kiss – revisit the age
of six and the moss
along the walk –
from his grandfather’s porch
the street – identical bricks—
“You need to find your foundation.”
Says the man in the hat –
But in this?
My typical/situational diversion
of wedded rows and now I ask:
“Tell me doctor:
How often do you hear this?
How am I really doing?”
A motion to continue,
pen at ease on a crisp yellow page—
Do I cause shudders
in my mother’s shoulders?
I hope so.
Yes, I want to be a bother.
In the way of a surprise spring
snowstorm back east and melt swift –
“Am I being melodramatic?”
…
Billy plays his business
well – trips overseas –
with his secretary, Penny
And swears solitude
in sultry Parisian corridors—
Melodramatic, yes. I know. I’m aware, yes.
Jealously rests unwell—
And anyway – I read more
when he’s gone –
catching up on Capote, Keats and Camus—
what I never gave myself a chance for.
That decade that I spent slipping,
into –
And –
No –
I didn’t have the time then
And cheating wasn’t a crime in that age.
Yes –
That’s what we told ourselves then – and now
Oh god knows now – I haven’t –
Worry wallops me –
And doctor? I lied.
I wasn’t six encased by bricks—
I was five, he was four –
It’s not memory or reality—
Why base it on what happened then?
Not foundation, it’s quite irrelevant.
And tell me, man with the hat…
“Why do you invest
in something so permanent?”
American Bricks
November 25, 2011 1 Comment
A Wil kins burg gnome home-- shrouded in shadow on a steamy day in the midriff of July. Cool & kept hidden from the shock & awe of Unsheltered youth, an untethered wail of BLAT baw, baw! -- or the bricolage-- of jetsam cans, old caddy boats, and thinned black man, in high-heeled pumps-- on a shore of urban caries in this hot-humored hub of mid-July. & on the porch the man-- the temperer with dog on hand. The pit bull prowess guarding & guarded by gates and gates and gate. A sort-of shield from a hot-corned fate. & on the stoop, that dog don't whine, or whelp with head on step, paw beneath its bones, whetted-- unswept. But the man sit back, long hair-- all grease and depth-- watching whitened from a cave of unease the world worn thin, darkened by Vitamin-D. Inside, no man knows, each floor a filter jammed, with butts and clothes-- fur, filth, and fumes-- but, no, man, no! Unwelcome is written as its ROE: Carved out of brick, catalyst for the droves & me. Inside cool, tide composed. Head full of foam & god knows who knows. What waves ebbed, what dreams flow-- And what moon swells into un-emptied holes. A stone-cold stud at the edge of unknown.
George’s Curiosity Shoppe, Part I
November 23, 2011 1 Comment
Jake liked the bricks in this part of town. Not the ones on the buildings, although those were probably fine, too. No, he liked the ancient-looking bricks that made up the sidewalk.
He imagined at one time they probably looked nice and neat, arranged in a sort of pattern – you could detect a semblance of order every now and then – but it had been a long time since most of these pavers had been snuggled neatly up against one other. Time had taken a beautiful toll.
At first, he had simply liked the way the sidewalk seemed affected by its surroundings. It would bulge over persistent tree roots, or depress beneath a dangling gutter; but occasionally he would spy something stamped into a brick.
This in itself wasn’t uncommon. He knew people could get their names on bricks when they donated to something; or he’d seen city names to show where a certain brick was made. A simple symbol, however… that was new to him.
Some appeared well-worn and barely visible; others were as clear as if they’d been painted, their lines darkened by years of dirt and grime. Whether worn or clear, all showed a round tear drop with a dot in the fattest part of it, and four wavy lines coming out of the top. He’d seen it several times and now he decided he was hunting it.
“Where are you taking us, exactly?”
Jake tried not to sigh and slowed down to wait for his companion.
“I mean, the chicks are probably that way.”
Both of their families had been vacationing here since before they were born, and Brad still didn’t realize that Monroy didn’t have chicks. Monroy was a quiet, isolated coastal town in Maine; when they showed up for their annual two-week holiday, the two of them probably brought the average age of the entire town down by twenty years.
They weren’t exactly friends. Years ago, their parents had randomly met each other while on vacation here – they got along so well and liked the town so much, they met there every year.
The parents continued to be great friends, but their sons couldn’t have grown up to be more different. Jake was tall, lanky, with brown hair that fell in his eyes and freckles. Brad was technically brunette, too, but highlighted his hair so fiercely that Jake thought it might glow in the dark. Currently, Jake wore chucks, jeans and a T-shirt – Brad wore a pink, popped, polo.
“Dammit!” Brad exclaimed as he stumbled over the uneven walkway. “What the hell is up with this sidewalk?”
Jake shrugged. “Did you notice anything on the bricks? There’s some kind of weird symbol on them.” He spotted one and pointed. “See?”
Brad wasn’t paying attention; he was looking at the buildings around them. “You think this is a bad part of town?” This was the first time they’d been permitted to go out and roam around Monroy as they pleased, and they’d never been to this part of the town.
Jake snorted. “I don’t think a place with a population of 300 has a ‘bad part of town.’”
However, as he stood and surveyed something other than the sidewalk, he could see why Brad might ask. There weren’t any people around. There was usually someone out on the sidewalk, sweeping their stoop, walking a dog or running an errand. There weren’t any flowers, and any paint on the buildings seemed faded. The only movement on the street was the breeze that fluttered through the tree leaves. Jake could feel the dark windows in the buildings around them staring down.
“It’s kind of creepy,” Brad decided. Then, seconds later: “Oh, a flyer!”
One of the doors closest to them had a yellow paper folded into the door handle.
“What are you doing?” Jake asked. “That’s probably for them.”
Brad snatched it out of the handle and unfolded it. “I’ll be damned,” he said, looking elated. “This place has a pizza shop.”
“We’ve eaten there before.”
“If you say so. Hey, you wanna go check it out?”
Jake glanced again at the door handle. He could see something in the faded paint of the shop door. He tried to wipe off what he guessed was probably years of grime, but it didn’t make any difference. He traced a curving line with his finger.
“Is this place open?” he asked.
Brad peered into the large window beside the door. “I don’t know. I see… a creepy carousel horse and some broken chairs in the window, I think; I can’t really see anything.”
This close the door, Jake could see through the tiny window at its top. Somewhere, deep inside, was a small neon sign that read “OPEN”.
He tried the handle and pushed – the door slid easily away from him.
There was a soft “ding” as he stepped inside. It took a long moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light – the filthy window didn’t help much, and the bulbs that hung from the ceiling were so weak he wasn’t even sure they were on.
“Woah, my mom would love this place,” Brad said. “Look at all this junk.”
There was stuff everywhere – furniture, artwork, pieces of cars and various parts of buildings. From where he stood there were at least two dummies wearing what looked like very old clothing, and a pile of doors leaning against the wall. There were gas lamps, vials and jars with mysterious contents, rolled up paper that might be maps or posters, books. Jake thought the place might have one of everything. And most of it looked a hundred years old.
There was noise in one far corner of the shop, and it sounded like something might have fallen.
“Oh, shoot!” came a girl’s voice.
Jake and Brad looked at each other.
“Hello?” Jake asked.
The store immediately fell silent again. They waited, but there was nothing.
“Hello?” he called again.
The noise returned – it sounded like a pile of something that had fallen over and was being put upright again – then footsteps quickly swept across the floor.
In the bookcase in front of him, Jake saw a pair of round bright green eyes watching them from the shadows within. They lingered on him, unblinking, then gave a soft ‘meow’ and disappeared.
A teenage girl emerged from a forest of quilts and ladders. She stopped, startled.
“Hi?” she asked.
Okay, Jake admitted he was wrong – Monroy had one chick.
She was around their age, with wild black hair that was trying desperately to free itself from what might have originally been a braid. She had a pouty mouth set in a round, pale face, and her big hazel eyes were currently looking confused and annoyed, and trained squarely on the two of them.
“Oh, hi,” Brad asked, and Jake stared. The boy was speaking much deeper than his normal speaking voice. “We, uh, just saw your store from outside. It looked, uh, interesting.”
“You’re… customers?” she wondered, unconvinced. “We didn’t have any appointments for today.”
“Oh,” Jake realized suddenly. “You’re closed? I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” – she scratched her head – “we’re open… technically. You just don’t look like our normal… buyers.”
Brad laughed a much lower laugh than Jake had ever heard. What was he doing? “Collectors and old couples antiquing, probably, amiright?”
She was not amused, and when Jake spoke again, he didn’t like that her sour expression slid over and settled on him.
“I noticed some bricks outside… they matched the symbol on your door. Do you know what it means?”
Her face softened a little. “Sure. That’s so our customers can find us.”
Brad smiled widely. “Do you guys have a website? My dad’s company designs websites if you think that’s something the owners might want to invest in. I could get you guys a good price if you wanted.” He trailed off, wilting a little under the weight of her gaze. “I mean, if you want people to find you, it’s a good thing to have.”
She smiled coldly. “We have our bricks, thanks.” Jake was delighted when her look thawed again upon looking at him. “Well, have a look around, I guess. Let me know if you have any questions.”
“Sure, thanks.”
She gave them both a little nod, and turned away to return to her portion of the shop.
Before she got too far, however, Brad, who couldn’t let the only female within fifty miles walk away without a fight, quickly called her back. When she turned back, he searched desperately for something he could ask her about.
“Where did these come from?” He pointed to a shelf lined with a dozen shrunken heads.
“Those are tsantsas, shrunken heads acquired from an old Peruvian… friend.”
“They’re not real heads, though?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Er, what about this vase? My mom would like something like this.”
“That’s a canopic jar. It has the liver of a minor Egyptian pharaoh inside it and has been blessed by a current priest of Aten. It costs more than your future college education. You can put it down now.”
Brad swallowed, nearly defeated, and gestured toward a chair to their left.
“And this… fine piece of carpentry?” It was an ancient pink monstrosity – faded and worn, with a high curved back and a seat that drooped sadly half-way to the floor.
“That,” she explained very slowly, “is the chair that the famed 19th century medium Cora Scott Hatch used to conduct all of her séances. She took it everywhere with her.”
Brad’s voice had returned back to normal now. “It must have been comfortable, then.”
Her expression was blank, but her voice was white-hot danger. “Do not, under any circumstances, sit on that chair.”
Jake heard the cat meow again, unseen but close by.
She waited a long moment, but Brad had nothing left. He could delay her no longer. The girl gave Jake a polite nod and disappeared among the random detritus that surrounded them.
Jake turned to Brad, thinking he would need to console him after that exchange. Brad was biting his lip, staring at the chair.
“That was pretty brutal,” Jake told him, grimacing. Nothing he didn’t deserve, Jake thought to himself, but…
Brad glanced sideways at him. “Dude. What will you give me if I sit in that chair?”
“What?” he asked. “She just said – “
“I know what she said. But it’s just a chair.”
“What if you break it?” Jake rushed to ask. “What if it costs a million dollars?”
He kneeled down and inspected the joints, like he had any idea what he was doing. “No chair cost a million dollars. And it looks sturdy enough, I don’t see what the big deal is, I mean – “
“DO NOT SIT IN THAT CHAIR!” came a booming voice from the other side of the store.
They looked at each other with wide eyes.
“Pizza?” Brad asked, already up and sprinting for the door.
“Pizza sounds great,” Jake agreed, right behind him.
When he turned to pull the door shut behind him, however, the girl stood with an armful of books, watching them go. He paused and she gave him a small smile. He smiled back, totally confused, and went after Brad.
the garage league
Jami Broom
brandon siple
Joseph
Chad Christopher
rasager
Andrea
