musings

New Story

2005-04-26T20:14:00.000-07:00

Freedom is Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose

"Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train, and I's feeling nearly as faded as my jeans. Bobby thumbed a diesel down just before it rained. It rode us all the way to New Orleans…" He turned it up just a little louder. With the window down and the music loud it nearly covered the sound she was making as she tried to stay with the music while singing at the top of her lungs.
"Lucy, please roll down your window." He asked in a very calm manner.
"But I can't hear the music if it's down." She whined in a teasing manner, she loved to hear him use her first name. He did this with colleagues to assert his position, but he was no match for Lucy.
"It's 100 degrees out there." He paused for effect and then continued "With the window up it is 110 degrees in here." David never took his eyes off the road. Through his dark black sunglasses he starred straight ahead onto the road that was so straight it seemed to dive right into the sky.
"No, it's not. Please - just until the song is over?" She pressed the track back button to pick up where she left off. "…all the way to New Orleans. I pulled my harpoon out of my dirty red bandanna…." It was true, it was hot. Her legs were sweating and the leather seats let the moisture run down the backs of her knees, evaporating somewhere down her calves. She rolled down the window and stuck both her bare feet out, resting them on the side view mirror. He rolled his eyes behind the sunglasses and then started laughing. She didn't even ask why he was laughing; she could probably guess it was because last year on a road trip she had gotten stung by a bee while doing this same very thing. He laughed then too.
He had of course noticed her toes in the window, she was quite the creature. She rarely brushed her mane of wavy brown hair, yet so meticulous in the care of her feet. She painted her nails red in the parking lot of the Wal-Mart in Moab while he checked under the hood of the Volvo in sheer wonder at why the air conditioner had stopped working. He hadn’t a clue about it, but he looked, no water and no oil anywhere and no Volvo dealer for another 1000 miles unless they detoured to Denver. Sure, there were the little mom and pop places along the way but the car was still under warrantee, he’d be able to get it fixed at no cost in Dallas. No air conditioning for another 1000 miles and Lucy sat quietly painting her nails. He had to admit her toes looked so cute up there in the window and the paint actually accented her thick calves and petite toes quite nicely. He could feel himself rise just a little beneath his Dockers.
"You know feeling good was good enough for me, good enough for me and Bobby McGee…" Two voices joined Janis Joplin and floated out the opened windows and over the Colorado desert. Lucy had a way. David could never really be angry in her presence; at times she was aggravating, it was true, but even in those moments the anger passed nearly as quickly as it came about. Twenty hours in a car together and the last eight without air-conditioning, though somehow it didn’t seem so bad.
“From the Kentucky coal mines to the California sun….” Lucy’s toes danced to the rhythm in the dry wind. Not one ounce of moisture remained in the air yet it all seemed to be collecting against her back and running its little river to the top of her waistband where it eased its way past, soaking the back of her panties. She glanced to her left to see David pressing at his trousers. A smiled formed in the span of her hips and at the corners of her eyes yet she tried to conceal the wide smile that was common on her lips. It had only been two hours since their last stop and the memory of it still fresh. His damp mouth had been so greedy and his hands even more so. They’d stop again before they crossed the line into New Mexico.
“Is Bobby a girl or a boy?” David said as he turned the volume of the stereo down so that Lucy could hear him.
“David.” Lucy said firmly.
“Well, it seems like it could be a girl or a guy.”
“Does it matter?” The music was still playing, the volume completely down.
“It’s a guy, now can we finish listening to it?” Lucy asked. He turned the volume back up. “Good enough for me and …” Lucy pressed the track back to just before she where she left off. For a man of the 60’s he sure didn’t pick up on a lot. How he passed through his teen years without listening to Janis and the Dead she didn’t know. Being twenty years his junior she knew more about 60’s rock and maybe even more about the 60’s than he did. Until last summer he’d never been high. A joint was being passed around at the Bluegrass Festival; Lucy took it and passed it on. David was next to her. She was surprised he took a hit. He looked sillier than a teenage girl learning to smoke. But later, he revealed he just wanted to experience it with her, to know what else he might have missed in his youth. She had come to learn that he was willing to try everything at least once, maybe for her or maybe for himself. But they did have a lot of fun together.

“But I’d trade all of my tomorrows for one single yesterday to be holding Bobby’s body next to mine…” Lucy and David were back to singing along. Mostly David was trying to keep up. He had a better voice but was still new to the lyrics. At times he couldn’t understand Janis and he’d look to Lucy, watching her lips trying to make out the verse. She had corrected his interpretations a few times but was mostly just glad that he was trying to follow along. Before she came around he’d never used the cd player in the car - insisting instead on listening to NPR or nothing. Lucy was not about to drive 1500 miles in any direction with only one choice. So, along came Clapton, The Dead, Guy Clark and Janis.
“Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose. Nothing, that’s all that Bobby left me, yeah. But feeling good was easy, lord…..” With her legs up over the rearview mirror like that David could see the edge of her panties. He pressed at his trousers again before reaching over to touch Lucy. It had been a few hours but he wanted her, more now that ever. He breasts were firm under the white tank top. The little cotton bra did little to hide her nipples. He pressed again. Lucy saw this and grinned. A grin that spread from her lips to her belly and through her hips. The widest grin, stretching the width of her expanding hips. This was her inviting grin. He was looking at her now, her mouth and then her breasts and out to her toes, the red toes that were turning pink in the heat.
“Lord, I’m calling my lover, calling my man, I said I’m calling my lover the best I can…” David started to apply the breaks and look for a place to pull over. Lucy already hands on the outside of his Dockers. There it was about 50 feet ahead. David glanced in the rearview mirror. There was only one vehicle behind him and nothing in front. He slowed just in time for the pullout. The semi behind them moved into the next lane to pass at a safe distance, giving them a long honk as he pulled past.
David turned the key in the ignition to the off position and reached for Lucy. Meeting her lips with his and reaching down to feel the fullness of her belly. This would be their last summer of “freedom”.

2005-03-14T11:05:00.000-08:00

The Square

The heat nearly suffocates me as I push the coffee shop door open. My lungs ache for a breath of air that doesn’t sink straight through. I squint as the afternoon sunlight pierces my eyes. I have been inside the shop since before the sun came up and now I make my escape.

The girls I work with are all fired up because we got a new manager and she’s hot, also married, but new. New means working twice as hard to prove to everyone you will hold your own when the line is out the door and everyone wants their order five minutes ago. Hot means more competition for tips. I had to earn my spot just as those that come after will have to do. The other women who work here feel like they own it. If owning it means that running a coffee shop is the sum total of your ambition, they’re welcome to it. I am not sure how many more days I can take of their backstabbing or their mangled southern drawl. Who “axes” a question anyway? How hard is it to “ask”?

“Where y’at?” A thick Cajun accent intrudes my ears.

“Pardon?” I said. Squinting through the sun to see where the voice cam from.

“You off work?” It was John. He was sitting at the far table, near the end of the building. He’s a regular customer that just got a Grande Nonfat Latte with two Splenda, heated extra hot, no foam. He’d let you know if he got foam. It would be a remake. He gets them everyday, sometimes twice. He motioned to a chair next to him.

“Please, sit". I sit because the bus doesn’t come around for another ten minutes and from here I can see the bus stop.

"What are you up to? Just getting off?” He asks again.
“Yes, time to get lunch. What are you doing with your day?”

“Waiting. Waiting until someone has a heart attack.” He says with a laugh and jiggle of his belly. This explains why he hangs around here in his medical scrubs half the day.

“That’s a lovely thought. You wait for someone else’s misfortune?”

“Kind of like that.” We sit without saying anything for a minute and then he asks about the new manager.

“So, you got a new girl? She’s pretty. Is she from Mississippi?”

“Vicksburg, I think.” I say, annoyed. About fouteen men have asked about her today. I am off the clock and with my tip money in my pocket I am headed for the French Quarter. I am sure to see fat, drunk fellow Americans in their neon visors and tennis shoes wearing Mardi Gras beads. In July. I don’t think they realize that Mardi Gras is a holiday that happens once a year in February. Not my problem. I don’t participate in Catholic holidays.

“What do you have planned for lunch?” He says after slurping his latte.

“Oh, I am going to the Quarter for a sandwich.”

“The Quarter’s not where you want to be getting a sandwich. Try Liuzza’s for the oyster po’boy.”

“I’ll have to do that sometime.” Everyone here has a suggestion for places to eat. Ask someone where the gym is and you’re sure to get the response, “The gym, now why do you want a gym?” Ah, precisely why latte boy here has a job.

“Can you believe that? I’d give it a two.”There is a man trying to parallel park on Esplanade. He’s taken a few tries at it. Finally settles for parking a foot and half away from the curb.

“Shit. Watch that, some car is going to come by and clip his side mirror.”

“A two. You rate the parking?” I say in disbelief.

“Something to do while I wait. The way people approach it is all wrong. It’s easy, but people have to go make it hard.”

I can see the bus coming my way. Sure, it’s six blocks up the way.
“Ah, that looks like my ride.”
“If they want to tell you where you got them shoes, tell them you’re a local. They'll leave you be.”
I say goodbye and walk to the corner. The shoes trick is an old one. Everyone gets had once. Some are luckier than others. It cost me $4 my first trip here, but I’ve heard of people shelling out as much as $20.

The ride to the Quarter is short. I step off at Royal and walk the two blocks over to the Verdi Mart. A bag of goodies in my right hand and I am off to Jackson Square, which I take to be named for Colonel Jackson. There is statue of him atop a horse with all its manhood intact. Hell, maybe it was joke. Two studs in the park. God knows it wasn’t that last time.

“How’s it going Miss Abby?” Ah, the sweet voices of The Square. This one comes from the black man with white hair. I stop.

“It’s going well. How’s the Taro business? Lots of tourists?”

“It’s the heat, they all up in the Casino, but they be out when the sun goes down. You know, Miss Abby, a pretty girl like yourself ought not to be down here without a man.”

“Bones, don’t give me that. It is perfectly safe down here, besides I know you.” I say with a smile and wink for effect.

“Sure, Miss Abby.” He nods as if not sure what to make of my comment.

“Have you got yourself a boyfriend yet?”

“Bones, I got a date today. He’s over there.” I said pointing to the other side of the square.“Well Miss Abby, if it doesn’t work you know where to find me.”

“Of course I do, Bones.” I blew him a kiss and he pretended to catch it and place it on his lips.

“Miss Abby!” It’s Mac. He works to keep The Square clean. I never see him without that broom and his navy blue uniform.

“Hey Mac, no time to chat. I’ve got myself a date”

“Oh! Miss Abby got herself a date. Way to go.” He whistles.
I wave my left hand and keep moving. I make my way to the other side of The Square.

“Hey Handsome!” I say as I hand him a can of cold Busch. He’s sitting in a white plastic lawn chair. Easel in front of him with a half painted picture and a cigarette in his right hand.

“Have you had lunch yet?”

“Ain’t hardly past breakfast”

“It is well into lunch for me. I beat the parakeets this morning - coffee was made before they started squawking. So, what will be it be, toasted tuna or ham and cheddar on white?”

“I don’t know why you toast a sandwich in the heat of summer.”

“I don’t know why you smoke those cancer sticks.” He gives a half-toothed grin and I smile back handing him the ham and cheddar.
I take the other chair. Usually he reserves it for customers but I am allowed to sit. We chew in silence, pausing between bites of our respective sandwiches to sip the beer. When he finishes the sandwich he folds the wax paper and puts it in his pocket. I crumple mine and toss it in the brown bag that still holds the last beer.

“Well, Miss Abby, thank you for breakfast” he says holding up the beer.

“And thank you for lunch” he pats his belly.

“An artist needs his nourishment. What are you painting?”

“The balcony over at St. Ann and Charter’s. It’s the prettiest and the tourists like all the colors.”

They are great pictures but it is a shame that he paints on cardboard. I’m not sure which he enjoys more, the painting or the talking - perhaps the smoking. I listen to people all day but he’s different. He’s grateful for the sandwich but I am grateful for the company. The clock on the Cathedral chimes the hour.

"It’s two” he says between drags on the cigarette.”

"I should let you get back to work.”

"Suppose I should. Can’t sell it if I don’t have it.”

"Here, this is for you. Helps to keep the heat way.” I say handing him the last Busch.

"Miss Abby, you are too good me.”

"No, fine sir, it is you that is too good to me.” I give him a kiss on his cheek. The smell of Bourbon Street resonates in my nose. Sweat, cigarettes and alcohol. I can’t see it but he looks to be blushing under his bronzed skin.
“Wait, Miss Abby, turn around.”
“What?”
“Come here and turn around. You have something….there” , he says pointing to my back.
“I reach back to feel for it. Where?”
“Come here.” I move close and turn around. He picks something off my shoulder blade.
“You need to make a wish.” He says, handing me a ladybug
“Okay, what should I wish for?”
“Wish for something good for yourself.” I closed my eyes and make a wish. I already feel so lucky, ladybug or not.

This has an ending but it could use some more work. I would make it fall, and talk about the monarchs and then show them in the quarter and maybe the it could a monarch on Abby's back, Better yet is the idea of putting all different stories together around the migration of the monarchs, now that is an idea.

2005-03-14T10:01:00.000-08:00

What if everything is quarters......instead of 20 past the hour it is 15

2005-03-14T08:38:00.000-08:00

The heat nearly suffocates me as I push the coffee shop door open. My lungs ache for a breath of air that doesn’t sink straight through. The glare of the afternoon sunlight pierces my eyes, causing me to squint. I have been inside the shop since before the sun came up and now I make my escape.
The girls I work with are all fired up because we got a new manager and she’s hot, also married, but new. New means working twice as hard to prove to everyone you will hold your own when the line is out the door and everyone wants their order five minutes ago. Hot means more competition for tips. I had to earn my spot just as those that come after will have to do. The other women who work here feel like they own it. If owning it means that running a coffee shop is the sum total of your ambition, they're welcome to it. I am not sure how many more days I can take of their backstabbing or their mangled southern drawl. Who “axes” a question anyway? How hard is it to “ask”?

“Where y’at?”
A thick Cajun accent pierces my ears.
“Pardon?” I said.
“You off work now?” It was John, a customer that just got a grande nonfat latte with two Splenda and heated extra hot. He gets them everyday, sometimes twice. He motioned to a chair next to him.
“Please, sit.”
I sit because the bus doesn’t come around for another 20 minutes.
“Yes, time to get lunch. What are you doing with your day?”
“Waiting. Waiting until someone has a heart attack.” Well, this explains why he hangs around here in his medical scrubs half the day.
“Well, that’s a lovely thought. You wait for someone else’s misfortune?”
“Kind of like that.”
We sit without saying anything for a minute and then he asks about the new manager.
“So, you got a new girl? She’s pretty. Is she from Mississippi?”
“Vicksburg, I think.” I say, annoyed that about fourteen men have asked about her today.
I am off the clock and with my tip money in my pocket I am headed for the French Quarter. I am sure to see fat, drunk fellow Americans in their neon visors and tennis shoes wearing Mardi Gras beads. In July. I don’t think they realize that Mardi Gras is a holiday that happens once a year. Not my problem. I don’t participate in Catholic holidays.
“What do you have planned for lunch?”
“Oh, I am going to the Quarter for a sandwich.”
“The Quarter’s not where you want to be getting a sandwich. Try Liuzza’s for the oyster po’boy.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Can you believe that? I’d give a two.”
There is a man trying to parallel park on Esplande. He’s taken a few tries at it. Finally settles for parking a foot and half away from the curb.
“Shit. Watch that, some car is going to come by and clip his side mirror.”
“A two. You rate the parallel parking?”
“Something to do while I wait. See the way people approach it is all wrong. It’s easy, but people have to go make it hard.”
I can see the bus coming my way. Sure, it’s six blocks up but I tell John goodbye and walk to the corner.

The ride to the Quarter is short. I step off at Royal and walk the two blocks over to the Verdi Mart. A bag of goodies in my right hand I am off to the square.

“How’s it going Miss Abby?”
“It’s going well. How’s the Taro business? Lots of tourists?”
“It’s the heat, they all up in the Casino, but they be out when the sun goes down. You know, Miss Abby, a pretty girl like yourself ought not to be down here without a man.”
“Bones, don’t give me that. It is perfectly safe down here, besides I know you.” I say with a smile.
“Sure, Miss Abby. But have you got yourself a boyfriend yet?”
“Bones, I got a date today. He’s over there.” I said pointing to the other side of the square.
“Well Miss Abby, if it doesn’t work you know where to find me.”
“Of course I do, Bones.” I blew him kiss and he pretended to catch it and place it on his lips.

“Miss Abby!”
“Hey Mac, no time to chat. I’ve got myself a date”
“Oh! Miss Abby got herself a date. Way to go.”

“Hey Handsome!” I say as I hand him a can of Busch.
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“Ain’t hardly past breakfast”
“It is well into lunch for me. I beat the parakeets this morning - coffee was made before they started squawking. So, what will be it be, toasted tuna or ham and cheddar on white?”
“I don’t know why you toast a sandwich in the heat of summer.”
“I don’t know why you smoke those cancer sticks.” He gives a half-toothed grin and I smile back handing him the ham and cheddar.

We chew in silence pausing between bites of our respective sandwiches to sip the beer. When he finishes the sandwich he folds the wax paper and puts it in his pocket. I crumple mine and toss it in the brown bag that still holds the last beer. It will be my departing gift, something to make the afternoon not so hot, while he paints.

“Well, Miss Abby, thank you for breakfast” he says holding up the beer.
“And thank you for lunch” he pats his belly.

“An artist needs his nourishment. Say, what are you painting today”

“The balcony over at St. Ann and Charter’s. It’s the prettiest and the tourists like all the colors.”

They are great pictures but it is a shame that he paints on cardboard. I’m not sure which he enjoys more, the painting or the talking. I listen to people all day but he’s different. He doesn’t want anything from me. Sure, he is grateful for the sandwich but I am grateful for the company and the sandwich as well. Better to enjoy a meal with someone than eat alone.

This is what I have up to this point. Any advice is much appreciated. I am not sure what to do with the thinking bits, I was thinking maybe a stylistic choice of making them all italics.
I need a coffee and then I will be back at this. Please leave comments below.
Thanks. Lisa

2005-03-13T20:47:00.000-08:00

The heat slaps me in the face as I push the coffee shop door open. The glare of the afternoon pierces my eyes causing me to squint. I have been inside the shop since 5:30AM and now I make my escape. The girls I work with are all fired up because we got a new manager and she is blonde and straight, apparently taboo to have two of us there. I had to earn my spot just as those that come after will have to do the same. I am not sure how many more days I can take of their bitching or their backward southern spat. Who “axes” a question anyway? How hard is it to “ask”? But for now, I am off the clock and with my tip money in my pocket I am headed for the French Quarter where I am sure to see fat, drunk fellow Americans in their neon visors and tennis shoes wearing Mardi Gras beads in July. I don’t think they realize that Mardi Gras is a holiday that happens once a year and not all year long on Bourbon Street.

Will go to the quarter via bus or bicycle. Then to the Verdi Mart to get a tuna sandwich for myself, a hand with cheese for my friend the Basque that paints on cardboard and two cans of Busch for him and water for myself or maybe I should have a beer too? Hoof it to Jackson Square and settle into the extra plastic white lawn chair he has for visitors. He paints with flip flops on and uses a technique that is smears of paint, layer by layer, creating scenes from the Quarter that tourists will buy, hopefully. He is a nice man, telling me of this art technique and of being Basque. I watch his mouth and his missing teeth and wonder what it must be like…he lights up another cigarette. I hate the smell and thank god my coffee shop does not allow smoking or drinking for that matter. Most places welcome smokers and encourage the indulgence in alcohol by offering shots of whatever in your drink. Instead of a $2 coffee they have just sold a $6 drink plus tax and if tipping appropriately they just made$ 1.20 on one drink. But still as an employee of a coffee shop I can say that I go home smelling like I have been dunked in week old coffee and hung out to dry, I don’t want to smell like an ashtray. If I didn’t mind the smoke I’d get a job in a strip club and pray for better tips.

“How’s it going Miss Abby?”
“It’s going well. How’s the Taro business? Lots of tourists?”
“It’s the heat, they all up in the Casino, but they be out when the sun goes down. A pretty girl like yourself ought not to be down here without a man.”
“Bones, don’t give me that. It is perfectly safe down here, besides I know you.” I say with a smile.
“Sure, Miss Abby. But have you got yourself a boyfriend yet?”
“Bones, I got date today. He’s over there.” I said pointing to the other side of the square.
“Well Miss Abby, if it doesn’t work you know where to find me.”
“Of course I do, Bones.” I blew him kiss and he pretended to catch it and place it on his lips.

“Miss Abby!”
“Hey Mac, no time to chat. I’ve got myself a date”
“Oh! Miss Abby got herself a date. Way to go.”

“Hey Handsome!” I say as I hand him a can of Busch.
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“Ain’t hardly past breakfast”
“It is well into lunch for me. I beat the parakeets this morning - coffee was made before they started squawking. So, what will be it be, toasted tuna or ham and cheddar on white?”
“I don’t know why you toast a sandwich in the heat of summer.”
“I don’t know why you smoke those cancer sticks.” He gives a half-toothed grin and I smile back handing him the ham and cheddar.

We chew in silence pausing between bites of our respective sandwiches to sip the beer. When he finishes the sandwich he folds the wax paper and puts in his pocket. I crumple mine and toss it in the brown bag that still holds the last beer. It will be my departing gift. Something to make the afternoon not so hot.

“Well, Miss Abby, thank you for breakfast” he says holding up the beer.
“And thank you for lunch” he pats his belly.

“An artist needs his nourishment. Say, what are you painting today”

“The balcony over at St. Ann and Charter’s. It’s the prettiest and the tourists like all the colors.”

They are great pictures but it is a shame that he paints on cardboard. I’m not sure which he enjoys more, the painting or the talking. I listen to people all day but he’s different. He doesn’t want anything from me. Sure, he is grateful for the sandwich but I am grateful for the company and the sandwich as well. Better to enjoy a meal with someone than eat alone.

From here we talk and he tells me about painting, about the river, the tourists and who buys his work. Drinking beer and smoking cigarettes until a dragonfly lands on my arm. He points at the insect and tells me “today is your lucky day, get yourself a lottery ticket” What he doesn’t know is that I feel like I have won the lottery already. I don’t need a paper ticket. I got mine on cardboard the first day I met him in the quarter. The clock on the cathedral strikes 15 times…Time for me to go. In 20 minutes I can catch the bus back home.

Hope that has fixed some of the confussion. The parts like this are thoughts about where the story will go ........the rest is what I call my stick figure. Please keep sharing.

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2005-03-03T19:37:00.000-08:00

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