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by Richard Mavis | 06 Dec 2006, 0:00
"Yeah. Well... hmm. Ok. Well... I'm not sure how we want to do this, really." Posi looking down at the open Altoids tin, her opinion still a-wavering between rejection and enthrallment. "And what's with the St Christopher?"
"Well," ... "you know, blessings on the trip, so to say."
Miles pacing her apartment while she changes into softer clothes in the red boots he rarely wears. Just suspected today might be an occasion, is all.
"What'd you do last night, babe?" From the bedroom to wherever.
"Missed you. A lot." From the kitchen to the couch. "I got no work done." See me reflected in the black TV. Black square. "What'd you do?"
Linen pants? "Nothing much." Warm morning. February first. "Watched a movie."
"Oh yeah, I got a few new albums last night." Downloaded. Burned. God bless campus connections. And abashed, "and stopped by the house, of course."
The house is the fraternity to which he shouldn't belong but does. Especially—exclusively?—for occasions like today.
"Oh?"
Black square, black square. Your signal percolated through the air. "Ja." And askance, "Dennis was there." Dennis the ex. Dennis the destructive, the dependent, the depressed. The coward and the menace. The reason Miles had to drive two hours to Posi's apartment this warm morning, February first.
"Hm."
"Yeah."
Warm enough for sandals?
"So are you almost ready?"
"Do you think it's warm enough for sandals?"
She'd wear sandals to her wedding if she could. "Maybe?"
"Do you want some lunch, babe? Did you eat breakfast?"
"No. I was too excited about seeing you to eat."
"Aww, babe."
Black square, black square. First of February. Morning glare.
"Well," sitting on her walk-in closet's floor, "what do you want to do?"
"Let's go for a walk."
"Where to?"
"Outside."
"To the park?"
"Sounds fantastic."
Definitely sandals.
In the sun, a tad aslant. The sidewalk feeling very grey and very hard and the river very blue, very wet—the water really very wet and the air convecting imminently very wet. And certain silly phrases just keep looping—in particular, one wavey word from a certain Beatles song.
So she hummed it. "We got a good reason for this, eh babe?"
But he's been quiet so at the intersection she turns to look him over, to sum the mood and finds him somber, just watching where his feet are.
She sets her hand above his heart and he musters it enough to look her in the eyes—with her eyes somewhere firm between question and concern.
"Did you know that possibly the first white man to take part in the native ceremony surrounding what we just ate was a VP at JP Morgan?"
Her brother is working for them now. "The banking firm?"
Nodding, "yup. He, JP Senior, especially, understood that if you could control the nation's energy and transport systems, you would control the nation's economy."
"Wait, so JP Morgan ate—"
"No, that's our main wango Mr Wasson. RG. He invented the term entheogenic—a maker of God inside. I think. Yeah. No, JP was just a jolly good fellow. And an Episcopalian."
His smile and nod says simulateously "I'm proud of you, dear," and "that particular bit of information gets filed in the whatevs bin."
A convertible taps its horn one-two-three curving left through the intersection, through a red light just barely turned. And "hey hon-ay!" is heard.
She stands on toes to kiss his cheek before they cross, saying "You're a fox, babe."
Just a step ahead of him through the parking lot, where the guys whose trunks and girlfriends are full of beer are idling. And when they're in the green she drops her hands and her bag and kicks her sandals off, helicoptering around with her head back, going yeeeeeeee!
And he sings it this time: "the lunatic is on the grass..."
Which she acknowledges by stopping, dropping, and rolling down the hill. He retrieves her things and meets her at the bottom. He does not meet the derision of the dudes.
"Babe?"
"Yes."
"The frisbees are working but the kites are not."
Which is true. Kids throw frisbees and they float around slow like listless UFOs. Kids run with kites on strings and they shudder and tumble along the grass. The sky looks like a cold concussion.
"Woot."
"What's with you today?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, babe," she rotates so they're facing and their knees touch, nodding once, "my reliable diagnosis is that you're a little dour."
Non response.
"What's on your mind?"
"On my mind? Nothing."
"Then what's looming over your mind?"
"Nothing. Sky."
"Then lighten up," she grins. "Put that wind back in your hair." Which she swings her fingers through, upward, and it falls back fanlike.
Unswept, affecting his best noir drawl, "but the wind is in the willows, sweet heart, and the one thing everybody knows about willows is that they weep."
She rolls her eyes, rotates again, two moves for 180 degrees, and lies back, facing up, setting her head in the fold his legs make. "The train of your thought is a rickety one some times, babe."
From the bridge above the river, two boys dump a pot of tapioca on an innertuber passing underneath.
Posi retrieves a water bottle from her bag, singing "shu-gar wah-tur," and sips it slowly, finishes refreshed with a kissy aahhh—"che cibo matto, no?"
Whatevs.
Pointing up—"look, babe!"—and he does, and he sees cerulean and is bored by it—and her finger pointing becomes counter one: "tropo." And two: "strato." Three: "meso." Then: "thermo. Exo." Thumb's up. "Five layers of our atmosphere. Five fingers."
More horns from the intersection reground their attentions which are then drawn to the parking lot where the dudes were and still are only now they're angry. Four boys have made a rocket and want to launch it. The dudes and now their girlfriends very vocally don't want them to.
"You ignorant shithead monkey fucks!"
"Where's your head, space ace?"
"What's wrong with you?"
"Where's your heart?"
"Are you guys just totally out of touch?"
"Grow some feelings. Grow some balls."
"Try putting your head in the real world some time. Dicks."
"Just get the fuck out of here."
And the four boys sensibly retreat.
And Posi says "Well," with a thoughtful finger to her chin, "such extravagant display of the human spirit gives me the curious compulsion to draw." She sits up and retrieves a sketchbook and a box of pastels from her bag. "I mean exasperated."
"How queerly precipitous. Because I'm suddenly in the mood to go wandering." And Miles lies back against the grass, closing his eyes. "I mean serendipitous."
"Have fun, babe. Don't neglect to wear your helmet."
As the common noise faded and succumbed to the signal which will come when it will he found himself focusing on water bears. Water bears on ice. On icy rocks. In space. Adrift on random-pull trajectories throughout the universe.
And then on panspermia. The ingredients of life can survive a ride through space—as can the water bear. They're everywhere. Simply combine and cook them right and you'll get us. Because that's what the universe needs more of.
And then on the ingredients. What composes life. The helixes we share. Four base components. GATTACA. Communal biological bits. They're everywhere.
And then the scene disintegrated into snow—white 1s and 0s in strings curving through the dark plane by cause of four fundamental forces.
Then this: on patterns: recognize the bits that you can work with and react accordingly.
And then?
End.
Posi chuckling stirs him. He sits up and rubs her rigid shoulders.
"You tired of lyin' in lichen, babe?"
"Eh. I'm likin' it pretty well."
She's drawn a space between two green hills, wild with little flowers.
"I'm likin' your handiwork even better, though."
"I'm having trouble with this one, babe," she can't help her laughing, "and I don't know why it's so funny but it... just... damn."
"This orange one?"
"Hee. He—yeah."
"Let me try?"
"Yeah!"
She hands the book and orange pastel to him. Upon receipt he's suddenly flummoxed.
But I don't know how to draw an orange flower. I don't even know any orange flower names. Well, the pimp-er-nel, may be? Help.
...butterfly weed, firewheel, Mexican hat, lantana...
Well! Here's something. Yeees? Yeeeeeeeeeees—
My aunt turned orange because she ate only carrots for a while when she was younger. What would happen if a mulatto woman ate only cauliflower?
Wow.
"Babe."
Heee—
"Babe." She takes the book and orange pastel from him without resistance. "You can't play if you're just going to scribble."
So she resumed her coloring.
And he, face aflush to the notion of men doing the unmentionable with Gay feathers, stared grinning at the grass.
And when the grass began staring back and the flowers began to draw themselves, they sensibly retreated to her apartment.
"Babe!"
"Yeah!"
"Let's have some wine!"
"Ok!"
"Babe!"
"Yeah!"
"I have to pee!"
"Stupendous!"
"Ok!"
And away she scuttled into the bathroom.
Meanwhile, he fumbled with the corkscrew.
Wow, the mirror. My pupils. Like... black.... holes.......
True blue, the corkscrew! Like a happy little man pirouetting. Or a Y. Why not?
90 degrees later as the minute marker curves.
Posi comes twirling out to the living room to find Miles lying on the floor, pointing up, skywriting constellations of the textured ceiling.
"Babe, my eyes—"
"Yeah—yeah." He pats the carpet beside him. "Word. Come look at this pegasus parade—"
"Did you open any wine?"
He points. "Counter."
Riesling. Cold. It hits the head like nevernever. Or whatever.
"And preceding the pegasi are banana-eating dwarf cadets—"
"Babe."
He props himself.
"Let's go somewhere."
"We should probably stay inside, though..."
"Babe. We could draw pictures of the ceiling any day."
We could. But why would—
"We should do something fun while we're together."
She's right. "Ok." Word. "Ok!" Yeah. Sure. "Like what?"
She finishes her glass. She pours another. "Let's get out!"
"Ok!"
"Let's go... to San Antonio!"
"Ok!" Wait. "San Antonio?"
"Oui!"
"What's—"
"The Landing!"
"Ok!"
"Hey. Babe. That sign says a hotel room is zero dollars, 99 cents."
"That's one of those while the man's away the clerks will play, tonight's the night type specials. It must be. I've read about these things. Solid sources."
Um. "It's probably a mistake."
"We should exploit it."
"We should let them know about it."
"Aww."
"Turn in here!"
Too late. No reversing on the feeder. "Too late. No reversing on the feeder."
Jackass. "Turn in here!"
They leave their wine cups in the car to run cluck-clucking across a field, back to the hotel. And in the lobby Posi notifies the desk clerk while Miles is staring at the TV—incidentally, the news is on—trying keep down some uncontrollable, hideous laughter. None of this clicks together.
"Excuse me, sir. Your sign says your hotel rooms are 99 cents. Zero dollars."
"What sign?"
"The sign outside. The one with numbers in red bulbs." Whoa.
"Oh. That's not our sign. We don't have a sign like that. That's the hotel next door's sign."
"Oh. Damn it."
"Heh, you should exploit it though. Go demand a room."
But they weren't concerned about the other hotel by the time they got outside. Instead, Miles peed on the fence between the hotel and the KFC where they left his car idling in the lot before getting back to the drive down south. She kept watch and reminded him to zip.
The sky looked like a warm bruise.
Like, God is like the universe. God is the universe. We can manipulate matter but we cannot manipulate time. Time is like the father. Time is the Father. And our actualized selves are the Son. The Light from our own Sun illuminating our own dumb dimness. ... Oh you. ... Yes. Then our language, our medium, whatever works—that's the Spirit. We communicate with our best of all possible selves via the Spirit. The Holy Word in Flames. Communion with our highest selves in context of— I should be writing this down.
"Babe, do you have your notebook with you?"
"Sure."
"Ok, but you can't read this, ok?" She nods. Nod with me. "Ok?" She pokes his shoulder.
"Aaah."
"Ok?"
"Ok?"
"Ok." She takes the pad and tiny space pen from his pocket.
"Hey, look—it's the ocean over there. And see the sea king's castle. It's so dark everywhere. And all the lights are on in all the towers. It's so dark and we're moving so fast past it via this current cuts through it express. Currents abounding in convecting ways. We are currently navigating these convecting currents with conviction at an average and agreeable speed of 65 knots per hour—"
"Babe?"
"Yes."
"That's a quarry. And you're mumbling again."
"Mmmmmustard is uncomfortable."
"Do you need me to drive?"
"No. Listen. I'm taking you on a tour of the ocean floor. If we keep our eyes out maybe we'll see Sedna."
"Maybe I'll become Sedna."
Mood suddenly abysmal. He looks at her and she's staring ahead. She's going to leave me. "Then where will I be? Then what does that make me?"
"Oh babe. Don't get like that. No no. You're my virgo."
"Oh don't talk to me like that. I'm your virgo. You're a lunatic."
Pause pause pause.
"Ok, I'm sorry. Do. Do talk. I'm sorry. What do you mean, I'm your virgo?"
"Yes," she nods. "Virgo, as in the virgin. You give me your daisy so I can fight the hydra."
"What are you talking about?"
"You don't remember?"
I don't. "I don't." She's going to leave me. "You're—"
"Shhh, babe. Peaceful. Hey. Do you have any Miles with you?"
Do I have any Miles with me?
76 to San Antone.
That's a lot to ask.
At The Landing somehow. They find the stairs and find they lead them to the balcony. Dark carpet over creaky wood. Posi grabs his hand and navigates them to the table. Miles follows, keeping his eyes out of others' so they won't notice his condition.
Sat and settled, she orders a martini and chips and salsa, he a coffee and lemonade.
The Landing does a weekly broadcast called Riverwalk, Live from the Landing. They generally do that kind of golden age revival jazz that too often gets used in cheeky ways in films, so too often gets dismissed as ambiance or silly in real, but really gets attentions rapt if done with verve. And especially if done with drinking. Jim Cullum and his cornet have a lot of verve. He even kicks the air when he needs to.
Between sets the band members talk to friends sitting by the stage, drink a glass of wine, a glass of bourbon, smoke part of a cigar outside.
"Hey," Miles leans in to whisper, "what was the vocal from that last song?"
"The song they closed with? Closed the set with?" Posi is halfway into her second dry martini.
"Yes."
"'I'm with you sweet mama, as long as you got those bucks.' And he repeats that un deux trois times. Then, 'but when those bucks run out, you're shit out of luck.' That's verbatim or the gist. SOL Blues, I think."
"What?"
"I think it's called the SOL Blues, the song."
"Oh, I get it."
"Ja. Mi ami gxi. Mi ami this one maybe more."
Her breath across his neck like pillow wind.
"Hey babe, look!"
"Yes?"
"Yes!"
"Where?"
"Down there. By the door. That old man with note cards all over the table and the glass of brandy."
"How can you possibly be sure that's brandy?"
"Because, babe, a girl won't get anywhere in a jazz club if she doesn't at very least know her brandies from her bourbons. By sight."
"Absolutely."
"Who do you think that is?"
"I don't know. Should I know?"
"That's JD Salinger."
"JD Salinger?"
"Yes," she nods. "That's his newest novel on those note cards."
"What's he doing here?"
"Babe," she looks at him like he needs grinning consolation, "aren't you the one with the better eyes? He's connecting the dots of his newest novel. Clearly."
"Oh," he looks at her like she needs chicer conduct, "how ridiculous I didn't recognize him quicker."
She slaps his face.
The table behind them laughs.
She kisses his red cheek where she slapped it. He rushes to the restroom. She follows.
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