Escape

 

Eventually you figure out there’s no luck in birth or in the life that follows:  you don’t always get parents that have a clue or live in a town that offers many reasons to stay;  milk doesn’t always make you strong and hard studying won’t magically make you smarter; and no, the bully doesn’t always back down when you stand your ground and punch him in the mouth.

There comes a point when your pop tells you it’s time to grow up and you realize his face, his hunched back, his gray hair and wrinkles, the screaming matches and lamp throwing at your mother, you realize it’s a prophesy of the future—your future—and it’s out of control, storming at you like a smoky train with no brakes.

And then instincts set in and you clutch at thin air.  Fight or flight. Sink or swim.  Change or be changed.  That’s what being a kid is like, and sometimes you just decide you’ve had enough and it’s time to cut your losses.

My best friend Sammie Curtis did exactly that.  He walked, ran, flew away from childhood and he never came back.

Florence Bishop saw him while she bent over, varicose veins bulging, and watered her dying petunias.  Brad Chaser noticed him as he pulled out of the driveway for another twelve-hour work shift at minimum wage pay.  Many people observed Sammie’s getaway, his brown skin shiny with sweat, his stumpy legs flopping in his Levi jeans, his white t-shirt and dead Gramps’ baseball cap barely outlining his motion.  He ran and he ran and he ran until he reached the edge of the woods that bordered the town and like a deer that smells escape from the freeway, he made one final jump that made the air seem thick and time seem slow, disappearing into the mist.

Just more silliness from that Curtis boy, was the general consensus from those who were there that day.  No, Sammie wasn’t a stranger to trouble and recklessness.  He always gravitated towards rusty nails and never looked twice when crossing the street.  When a cherry bomb cracked the piping of the eighth-grade bathroom it didn’t take much deduction to figure out who had the disposition and sheer smarts to do it.

“I don’t know what the big deal is.  My Gramps used to do stuff like that when he was in school,” he said when confronted by the principal afterwards.

“Goddammit, Sammie, this town is halfway dead and broke.  Do you know how much this damage is going to cost?  It’s time to grow up and I suggest you do it willingly before someone makes you do it by force.”

But Sammie was stubborn and, damn, he was clever.  He didn’t see the same illusion most kids saw concerning adulthood.  Things weren’t easier.  Life wasn’t happier.  The problems of the world wouldn’t simply disappear if you sat upright and quoted Shakespeare or picked your nose with a Kleenex instead of a raw finger.

And so he used his cunning and found a way out.

“Do you have any idea where he went?  Do you have any idea why?” his mother asked me when I went to her house to pick up comics I’d left.  While my parents could’ve just asked her to send them to us, I know now they wanted me to look her in her wild eyes and be scared, to be shaken to my bones and not want to be what Sammie was.  They wanted me to feel my blood rage through my temples when I had to tell her that I didn’t know why her son left.  That he had seemed happy.  They wanted me to witness the terror that came with random tragedy and they patted me on the back as we left, walking past Sammie’s father on the front porch, his eyes fixated on the dark woods in the distance.

But I wasn’t scared.  No, if anything I became consumed by a dizzying curiosity.  I wanted to know.  I needed to.

It wasn’t hard to retrace Sammie’s last steps.  Everywhere the police had gone, I went, hoping for some unique perspective.  But there was nothing to find.  If Sammie had found some escape, some loophole to inevitable adulthood, he took it with him and left me behind.

“This is your comic, right?” the librarian asked me during the study period, a month after I’d accepted there was no answer to Sammie’s disappearance.  I nodded when she handed it to me.  She pointed to a thick book on a corner table.  “It was hiding in there.  Next time read the books you’re supposed to and leave this trash behind.”

The comic was one that Sammie had borrowed before he left.  I checked out the book it had been in—Local Choctaw Indian Mythology—and opened it to the folded page that served as a bookmark. It was the story of the Rainwater Fox Forest, the same woods that still surrounded the town.  When Choctaw boys came of age, the Rainwater Fox would appear to them and lead them into the forest.  There they would face a choice: leave the forest a man ready to be a leader in his tribe, or stay in the forest as part of the stream, forever young and cold, nurturing the growth of others but never growing older himself.

I didn’t need a fox to tell me I was ready.  Later that day I stood before the woods.  After making sure no one could see me, I walked through, my muscles straining against what felt like an invisible barrier.  I stepped on dried leaves and berries and over ants that gnawed at a dying worm.  I came to a trickling stream that felt cold when I ran my fingers through it.

I took a drink and made my decision.

Achievements

The decorated gymnasium buzzed with chattering laughter and bad music.  Barry surveyed his old classmates, most unkindly aged, and bathed in his smugness.  He took a gulp of spiked punch and swept Cheryl into a prolonged kiss, a show of affection made purposely public by his groping of her buttocks.

“You would not believe the sexual tension here tonight,” he whispered in her ear.  “Old crushes and dalliances really never die, it would seem.”

“I didn’t come here to be your blond trophy while you play the famous psychic matchmaker,” Cheryl said, jerking her hips to unruffle her dress.  Her crooked smirk betrayed her, though.  Attention and recognition were her guilty pleasures and Barry could sense her aura turn red and primal with lust.

As he and Cheryl made their way across the floor, he couldn’t help but to psychically read the people twisting and writhing in dance:

Scott Mitchell’s wife really wanted a wealthier man.  

Doris Dunbar’s husband was secretly a chubby chaser.

Tony Scott and Johan Santos would’ve made a perfect couple if not for their wives.

Principal Lubbock and English Lit’s Miss Halpern longed for oral pleasures uncommon for people in their sixties.

Life had given them frustration and inadequacy, smoldering desires that blackened their outlooks.  High school had been like that for Barry, a lonely freak in a world partitioned by groups of mundane.  But he’d risen above it, arrogantly clawing his way to notoriety, putting behind childhood defeats while his classmates were cemented in them.

“Hey!  It’s the famous Dr. B!  You haven’t forgotten about ol’ Buster, have you?”  A tall man with a pencil neck and a wide jaw extended his hand.  It was tech mogul Buster Brock, the only other success story Barry knew of his class.  They politely shook hands and introduced their women.

Afterwards, Barry tried to purge the sick jealousy that suddenly crippled him.  He fantasized about how easy it would be to trick Barry’s woman into bed with his mind.  So easy.  Cheryl’s weight on his arm seemed lighter once again.

The Stork

The Stork liked to be well fed before he delivered.  He sopped up the last of the biscuit and gravy, fingernails slightly scraping the bottom of the plate.

“Mmm, good stuff.”

The couple smiled back, the husband uneasily, the wife with as much depth as the kitchen wallpaper.  The Stork drank them in.  The pattern was always the same:  Man, wife;  him, anxious; her, impatient;  his macho resentment, her dead resignation; people rich enough to buy happiness but not wealthy enough to avoid the high price.  He wiped his mouth and nose on his dirty Ed Hardy:  these were The Stork’s kind of people

The husband rubbed the manila folder between his fingers and stiffly leaned forward.  “6’2”, crew champion, Rhodes finalist.  This is,” he eyes wandered to an imaginary place underneath the table in front of his guest, “ impressive stock.

“But how can we be sure you deliver this and not” the husband helplessly waved his hand at The Stork in an encompasing motion, “you?”

The Stork stood up, reaching over his bloated stomach to pat his crotch. The wife involuntarily clutched the top of her robe.  “You’ve got  my references.  I’m the best DNA surrogate in the state, that’s for damn sure.

“Listen, guys, you can try one of those fancy clinics with just as little guarantee and pay a fortune.  You can go and adopt some little psycho brat who’ll one day kill you in your sleep, or…”  he puffed his chest and paused for effect, “you can let me do what I do best: give you the little package you want.  Your call.”

Anxiety, impatience. Resentment, resignation.  It was always the same, then always the same result.  They agreed to the terms and showed him to his new room, spacious and functional.  A bed made for hard work.  Without looking back, the husband left his wife with The Stork, hoping for a speedy delivery.

Visit my portfolio at http://Writing.Com/authors/snoopylc .

Nightmare

Why won’t he tell me the word?    

My son Jose lies in bed, a ghost in stretched white skin, flanked by pills and equipment that don’t even provide the comfort of false hope.  Cancer is killing his body but the nightmare’s causing his death.  The nightmare, the same nightmare that kept my brother insane, that drove my father to murder, that’s been a blood curse since my ancestors spoke with a gypsy tongue.  He won’t sleep; he can’t sleep.  All he has to do is tell me the word and the burden will be mine, but my son shows more strength on his deathbed than I have my entire miserable life.

“Oh God, what do we do?”  Pamela seems to ask every hour.  My wife is not one to accuse but her dark eyes do the job anyway.

My brother Angel sits in the hallway, his face like a foggy morning hiding the world in plain sight.  He doesn’t remember the word; he can’t even remember the nightmare.  He makes a movement as if to apologize but I signal him away.

It was my idea, all mine.  The previous years had been a stream of tragedies:  my mother’s death, Angel’s deterioration, Jose’s cancer and coma.  My father sat in a jail cell unwilling to retake the burden that should’ve been his.  That’s when the idea came to me: my son was going to die anyway, but I could reverse the mistake I made years ago when Angel inherited the nightmare I had avoided out of cowardice.

I never expected Jose’s eyes to open when Angel whispered in his empty ears.  I never expected him to carry this weight when death should’ve been enough.

“Don’t worry Dad.  It ends with me,” Jose says during his final seconds.  And it did.

Tequila Djinn and the Mata Hari

Filtered through a bottle of Blanco Añejo, the words on the monitor were yellow and bloated–quite appropriate for the content, now edited and pockmarked, fictionalized and sanitized, wrapped in scared pleasantries and slapped with a byline of Jorge’s name. Local cartels, the wronged victims in a silent war against America, give aid to the families of missing reporters and murdered police.Flavored lies. Jorge tried to resist the inviting cliché of the drunk Mexican and flicked his finger at the floating worm at the bottle’s bottom. Thought you guys were a myth. He finally gave in and took a long swig.

Bleh. Worm hooch tasted about as well as expected, and he drooped his head again to the carcass’ level. He stared at the worm and it stared back. The liquor went down and back up, passed his lungs and throat, flushed his cheeks, and settled in his brain, softening it like embalmer, playing tricks with his vision and senses.

The worm wiggled, as if fitting into a dress, and introduced itself as a Mexican genie. One wish you get, mijo. Ignoring Jorge’s insulting laughter, the genie repeated its greeting, this time firmly enough to create a visible bubble that smelled of cat pee and grass when it popped.

Carina was right about me and liquor, Jorge thought. Educate a Mexican stomach too long and it becomes soft as tortilla. He pondered the situation and pursed his lips at the impatient genie, whose little body was now straight and stiff. Oh, what the hell? 

“I have little money, a dead wife, an infertile son, and I write stories of druglords with hearts of gold. Just bring me an interesting woman tonight.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

Jesus Christ. “Fine.” He thought for a few seconds and found a name that, considering the night’s absurdity, seemed fitting. “The Mata Hari.”

“Ooooh…excellent choice, my friend. You have six hours.”

For a moment, Jorge was awake and sleep, alive and dead, and then found himself in a parlor of silk, persia, where beads hanged and music told its stories with flutes and drums. He sat on a comfortable couch with a woman in her 30s who had dark features and clothing that, although exotically sheer, seemed secretive and sullen. Not a classical beauty, the woman was indeed beautiful and classic, like a ruffled swan in flight.

Mata Hari was just as confused as her new guest, but after a moment of consideration they both accepted the situation and drank tea.

“Please, call me Gertrude.” She said, surprising him with the fluidity of her Spanish.

“Um, sure. Jorge.” No, not her Spanish. His Dutch. Or some common language of magic meant to last the night.

“So what is it that you do?”

“I’m a writer…for the military. Reports. Minutes. Formalizing strategies in common form for generals across each service.” It was a competent enough lie for his purpose, but Mata Hari only nodded her head with feigned interest.

“Sounds like interesting work.” She paused, her eyes moving up and to the right, combing that side of her brain for suitable small talk.

“Oh it is.” Jorge was now sober as rain, but slurred his words to play the loose-lipped drunk. “You’d be surprised at the stuff I hear.”

Mata Hari nodded again in mid-sip. As she continued to smile at him, Jorge looked at her, lips wet from tea and wax, and wondered If the genie had tricked him . Mata Hari, the ultimate seductress of important men, with loins that trapped secrets and hips that swayed wars, sat unimpressed. As he reached to lay down his cup, a sheet of paper slipped out of his shirt pocket.

“What’s this?” she asked as she picked it up. Before he could figure it out himself, she opened it and read aloud, her voice carrying the words of poetry with songbird gaiety.

Carina’s poem. His first profession of love when he realized it was seeping from his fingers.

“This is beautiful.” Mata’s eyes were now lit. “I love art.”

The next few hours he recited his other poetry, long-forgotten expressions of himself when there was something worth expressing. She played her favorite music and danced, using her stomach and spine, lips and knees, rewriting Jorge’s words in the language of snakes and curves. They laughed and felt at ease, two storytellers who’d forgotten the enjoyment of the tale because of nations and warfare. They told each other of their sadness and their happiness, then kissed and made love, slowly but violently, littering the bed with sweat as their nostrils burned of spice.

They lay together in the hot wetness, and Jorge turned to her.

“How do you do it, Gertrude? The spying? The betrayals? How do you know it’s worth it?”

Before he even finished, she had a knife to his throat, cold, hard, and steady. Without blinking, she slowly lowered it, her black eyes reflecting the setting moon.

“What do you know of me? Nothing!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, it’s just,” Jorge sat up and turned her face to his. “My wife, my Carina, she was like you. She was police, undercover, and died at the hands of warlords. I just need to know…is it worth it?”

Mata Hari sat blankly, then bit her lip in acknowledgment. “Jorge, we’ve discussed art and its beauty. Do you want to know why it’s so beautiful? Because art is truth. Sometimes ugly, sometimes dangerous. This is what I do, with my body and my words. Art. And truth comes from it.

Did your Carina love art?”

Jorge nodded.

“So she believed in truth and was willing to die for it. I think you know the answer to your question.”

His genie in a bottle, granting men their darkest wishes, truths in exchange for truths. Jorge smiled and rubbed her belly. Before he could whisper his thanks, his six hours were up. The worm slowly twirled in the bottle before him, lifeless and inert.

Jorge moved the bottle and picked up his keyboard, ready to rediscover truth of his words.

The Short Side of Time Part Three (Graphic novel script)

Read part one here.

Read part two here

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PAGE THREE

PANEL ONE–Time stops.  A bird in flight, now stuck between seconds and in the path of Jason’s rampage, gets violently knocked aside.  Until time restarts, the panels should be toned accordingly.

PANEL TWO–Our first clear look of The Princess. In addition to the previous descriptions, she’s an exotic beauty with flowing, glowing, bluish-white hair, with matching eyes, and an overall softened metal quality.  she has a similar chronal bracelet as Jason.

Princess: You use that as well as your father.
Jason: Why are you here?

PANEL THREE–The perspective is from behind Princess.  Although the same height, Jason towers over her in anger.  Princess is half-nodding, half-kneeling in reverence for the moment.

Caption: Dad’s perfect little wife.
Princess: Paying my respect.
Jason: My mother doesn’t need it. I don’t want it.

PANEL FOUR–Shot of princess. She’s upright and looks the role of a widow–tired, hurt, a bit on edge.

Princess: It’s what your father would’ve wanted.
Caption: Even now, his perfect little widow.

PANEL FIVE–Jason, nostrils flared, jaws tightened.

Jason: I could care less what he would’ve wanted.

John Irving on the Writer’s Craft

“When I felt like being a director, I wrote a novel.” That’s my inspiring quote of the day.

If I may wear the beret of the insufferable artiste for just a moment: I like considering myself the director of a movie, a morphic, psychic entity that changes frame by frame in accordance to the reader, creating an objective framework for a subjective narrative. I may hold the camera, but the reader records  his own film.