His Last Dance

I am posting this short story at this point because it is based on an actual occurrence that happened in the bar while I was working – and also because I have nothing further written in The Wailings to copy from. But bear with me as I will continue the story after the holidays.

*******************************************************

He wasn’t a bad man. At least he didn’t think so. He had always done his job, following orders meticulously, carefully. For twenty-five years he had shown his loyalty and his respect, and he had gone about it in a quiet and unobtrusive manner. He was the perfect soldier. It was his life’s work and he was proud of it.

He had started to notice the problem within the last year. It seemed to have snuck up on him, and that alone was cause for concern.

Nothing had got passed him in his youth. He had been razor-sharp with instant reflexes, performing like a well-oiled machine. When you got right down to it, he was locked and loaded. Now he creaked a bit when he moved and he had developed an annoying tick in his left cheek. His senses still whirred along at breakneck speed, but that pace had been lessened by 10%. Reminiscing didn’t help matters either, but he couldn’t help it. He had to admit it. He was getting too old for the job and that was a problem for someone of his profession.

He walked carefully into the darkened room, checking in corners and behind pillars as he made his way forward. A pounding bass noise enveloped him and bright lights flared before his eyes causing him to duck suddenly towards an empty table tucked into a corner.

He sat with his back against the wall and watched morosely as a woman pranced up and down in front of him. Her long legs stretched out of high heels and into something that shimmered and swathed her body, reflecting the spotlights. Her lips were lathered in bright red and pouting, her face a studied repose of indifference. She sauntered the runway caught up in the music and her routine. Sipping his beer slowly, he cursed himself silently for almost having tripped on the stage in the semi-dark. Twelve months ago that would never have happened.

On a different floor of the building, a stranger bent and fitted the rubber plug into the drain of the old tub. She had been traveling all day in the smog and dirt, trying to flog the silly toys her small company manufactured to new and unsuspecting customers. The heat and the pressure had finally gotten to her, and with money dictating her every move, she had escaped to this ugly backwater for a little R&R. A light supper in a nearby greasy spoon had sufficed before she had retired to this dingy room, intent on a long bath before crawling between the thin sheets. She could hear the music pounding away beneath her, but she thought she could probably ignore it. Lying back against the threadbare blankets, she listened with suppressed anticipation to the quieting sounds of the water filling the tub, and promptly fell asleep. The music blared on.

He sat with his big hand around the sweating beer glass and let the music wash over him. With his proximity to the speakers it had more of a tendency to pummel him than wash, but he was oblivious to that. His dark clothes and unobtrusive manner helped him to fade slightly into the background, a technique he had perfected years before. He almost looked like any of the other old rummies, sipping their suds and watching the peelers, except their eyes were glazed and slightly lustful, while his were sharp and constantly sweeping the room. His dark hair was sprinkled with gray and gave him the look of a man who had caught his toe on middle age as he was trying to pass it by. With a forced nonchalance he watched the dancer perform her moves while his mind stripped away the years and took him back into his past.

He saw himself as a young man dressed in a snappy dark suit watching his shoes come down in the soft dirt of the road. With each step little puffs of dust swirled up and covered the careful shine he had put on them earlier that morning. He followed those shoes till they reached a ’44 Buick that was eased over on the edge of the road. He noted the birds singing spectacularly in the early morning sunshine as he put a smile on his face before he bent to the open window of the car.

The man inside had jerked nervously toward him at his approach but had relaxed noticeably with the smile. The guy hadn’t even seen it coming when he had raised the Tommy gun and sprayed him right in the face. That had been the order, right in the face. Afterwards, he had calmly doused the car and its inhabitant with gasoline, trailing a little line back up the dirt road till he felt he would be safe from the blast. The smouldering cigarette had lain in the puddle for a brief moment before it had ignited the gas and the flames had streaked towards the car. He was driving away when the explosion caused the birds to quit singing. He was going to have to polish his shoes again.

His mind shifted and he could see himself a little older now. He wasn’t as cocky as he had been in his youth and his face had new lines in it that reached down to his chin. He was sitting over a barrel, stirring the mixture within with a big stick, occasionally adding a little sand and water. An annoying mumbling filled the dank basement where he sat, but he ignored it and concentrated on the job at hand. Finally happy with the concoction, he hefted the barrel and poured its contents into the two forms that sat on the floor. The cement oozed up to the brims, nicely covering the feet that nestled in the center of each.

It wasn’t until he was finished that he actually looked at the man who sat on the chair in front of him. His arms were tied behind his back while his legs were bound securely. That part was important. Cement didn’t set too well while it was being agitated by wiggling feet. A dirty rag was wrapped around the man’s face, causing the mumbling that was on the edge of annoying. He had shrugged and lit another cigarette. It was all part of the job. It had taken a great deal of his strength to hoist the struggling man with the cement shoes and toss him into an obscure part of the river. But he was a soldier following orders.

He had been in a number of sticky situations himself over the years. He recalled with distinct clarity the icy sweat trickling across his testicles as he knelt in a filthy warehouse with his hands behind his head. He could remember the feel of the grease in his hair where it touched his palms as they trembled against his head. The sneering face of the member of a rival mob was unforgettable as he had silently removed nails and a hammer from a canvas sack. His heart thudded heavily even now as he remembered the intensity of the moment when the nail hovered over his knee and he had imagined the pain blossoming through his entire body. The relief that had crashed through him when his partner had stepped up behind his captor and slit his throat was engulfing and he had almost wept with gratitude and shame.

He sat in the smoky darkness that smelled of vomit and sawdust and watched as the stripper settled back onto the raised platform and started waving her legs about in the air. His nerves ached and stretched as he eyed his fellow drinkers. The years of soldiering had left him a wreck. He had whacked enough people in this job that he was sure more than one person would want to retaliate.

His bathroom mirror told the tale. The ticking cheek and bloodshot eyes were good indicators of the constant tension. He needed to get away for a long and overdue vacation. An image of palm trees and almond-eyed girls with glistening brown skin slid into his brain, and an unfamiliar upward tilting of his lips crossed his face. The stripper caught the look across the dark room and thought it was meant for her. In the room above him the water had crested the edge of the tub and was now pouring silently onto the bathroom floor. The lady slept on.

He shook his head slightly as he focused on the figure that sidled slowly up and down the stage, fully dressed. Somehow he had missed the end of the last show, and that frightened him. He dug the required change out of the pile in front of him to pay the waitress for the beer that he had forgot he ordered. Thinking about the past was ruining his concentration, and that could prove to be harmful.

With the music battering against his ears and the lights blinding him slightly, his strung out nerves were at a disadvantage. In the dark above his head, where the smoke curled and roiled, the smoke-encrusted ceiling sagged slightly. In front of him the dancer removed her bra and waggled her breasts within touching distance of his face. This distraction and the pounding of the bass from the speaker beside him effectively covered up the sound the two wet marks made as they hit the table beside his bent elbow.

He continued to goggle at the large brown nipples that bounced before him leaving him blissfully unaware of the looming event that was forming above him. As he raised his glass to his dry lips, the bulge erupted and gallons of soapy warm water and soggy ceiling tile hit him directly on the head, flattening him and the table. Shrieking like an old woman he battered away bits of spongy acoustics and fled the barroom, his wet footprints direct evidence of his overworked brain as they twisted and turned in different directions till they vanished in the dark.

Time to retire.

Let’s All Dance

Ani coughed into her hand and looked over at Ed who only shook his head and pretended to look busy. Up on stage the drummer gave a drumroll and suddenly the stage lights came on and Wayne Mack leaned into the microphone and started to sing.

‘Kiss an Angel Good Morning’ was the first song the band played and Ani watched the patrons as they bobbed their heads a bit and smiled at one another. The dance floor remained empty as Wayne briefly chatted up the room before launching into ‘Hello Darlin’ by Conway Twitty. It was obvious that Wayne thought he was the next best thing to sliced bread and Ani felt her shoulders clench; a sure sign the man was slimy.

Behind the bar Jan leaned on the counter with a happy grin plastered on his face. The grin slowly left his face when the phone rang and Ed handed it over to him, and a definite scowl had taken the grin’s place as he slammed down the receiver and came around the bar. His cowboy boots rang on the cement as he hurried up the landing and out of the bar and Ani turned back to Ed who just shrugged.

When Wayne started singing ‘Wings of a Dove’, many tables emptied as the customers headed to the dance floor and shuffled around clutching at each other. With most of the patrons up dancing, Pete and Hank sat on the railing again and watched. Ani noted that all three women had been asked to dance, and she watched as each of them stared off into space over their partner’s shoulders.

As the evening progressed, the dancers got thirstier and all three of them hustled around with drinks. Ani joined the rest of the staff who heaved a sigh of relief when Wayne Mack and His Trucks took their break. Jan appeared out of nowhere and immediately put on a country and western tape and the distinctive beat filled the room giving Ani a headache. Jan didn’t even notice when she threw him a look of pain. Instead he settled happily back against the counter again and lit up a cigarette.

By the time the clock showed 11pm, Ani felt like she had been there for 16 hours instead of five and her head was pounding. She had been bored for most of the night because there were so few customers, and listening to the band for their next 2 sets had almost done her in. Her back and legs ached and all she wanted to do was go home.

When Jan came back into the room, Hank smiled apologetically at her as Ed rang him off and he prepared to leave early. Having been sent home early for her first 2 nights, she realized that she had expected it again this evening. She didn’t begrudge Hank an early night, but she groaned inwardly with the pain in her body.

At midnight Wayne belted out ‘For the Good Times’ and everyone still in the room was up on the floor pressing their bodies against each other and mashing their slobbering lips together. Ani watched as the sweaty bodies ground together and the three of them rolled their eyes at the number of men whose pants hung on their hips, their butt cracks bobbing to the beat of the music.

When the reverberation ended from the last note, the band started packing up immediately and so did the drinkers. By 12:30 the room was nearly empty except for the few people playing pool. Intent on winning the ‘pot’, the players had barely noticed the band and the dancers all evening. Now Pete went around and told them all to wrap it up. When they groaned and complained, he suggested the local pool halls before ignoring them again.

Pete showed Ani how to clean up at the end of the night. Tables had to be wiped and all the ashtrays washed and stacked. Pete offered to clean her tables if she washed all the ashtrays. She soon found out why he had when she bent over the little sink and started. The smell and the grunge that covered her hands as she washed a sink full of ashtrays almost made her gag.

At 1am Ed rang them both off and Ani gave Ed his 10% of her tips. When she stepped out into the night, a light misting rain fell on her and she tilted her face up to the dark sky and let the water wash away the stench of the bar. Taking her time, she walked down the Avenue, keeping well clear of the figures she saw around her, even crossing the street to avoid any encounters. When she got home she pulled out her shoebox and added that night’s meager tips.

Biting her lip, she penciled in $21.60 for her nights wages and then totaled up the three nights of tips and drew an arrow and put in $109.65. She had been thinking she would make a lot more than that when she had done her calculations after her first night of work. But all in all, it wasn’t too bad for three days work. It was far more than she had made at the fur store, and all she had to do was try to adjust to ‘Western Saturdays’ and calculate accordingly.

'The Man' Tales - My Story

Today I am posting a short story I wrote about that time in my life as it portrays it perfectly. I'm not sure how to label this post - it is true so does that make the short story fiction? I really don't know.




THE MORGUE

The man of my dreams sat on my right holding my hand. The woman I had played ‘Maid of Honor’ to, sat on my left, holding my other hand. I sat in the middle, pegged down like a tent in a strong wind. A small man with indeterminate ancestry sat in front of us, his dark eyes searching my soul. The surrounding room was small and muffled with a fish-eye in the door, while the pale green walls that were meant to soothe the psyche mixed discordantly with the faint smell of antiseptic. I could hear the whisperings of cushioned feet passing on the other side of the door and the incessant sound of someone crying. The small man rubbed the dark circles around his eyes with both hands and resumed his staring. I stared back like a deer caught in the headlights. Words burbled out of his mouth and I turned towards my dream man with a questioning look on my face, my own mouth wet and slightly askew. Raising my eyebrows I shook my head slightly. I couldn’t understand the man’s heavy accent and the crying was beginning to get on my nerves. The man burbled again and I looked down into my wet lap with embarrassment at my inability to understand him. With a final soul-searching stare he stood and left the room, leaving us sitting awkwardly. The crying sound that wrapped around us seemed to emanate from the walls and descend like fog from the ceiling. A wingless angel appeared and put something sharp into my hip, then vanished through the fish-eye. In a little while the crying eased off and I closed my eyes, overcome by the tranquility of silence and the drug.

It was the crying that put me in there in the first place. It had been going on for days and I just couldn’t stop. With red swollen eyes and chapped nose I wandered up and down the long sterile hall dropping sodden Kleenex like cookie crumbs. Nameless creatures hunted me continually and then stood ominously by as I swallowed baby-colored pills. Time stood still and my mind wandered away, sometimes ricocheting off the other wraiths who drifted down the long hall, sometimes not. Then one day in a moment of brief respite, the oppressing clouds parted and I noticed the girl. She sat with her legs crossed under her, her blank eyes staring into space, while a long line of drool reached from her lower lip to disappear somewhere below the table. She had silver skeletons and jeweled crosses woven into a skinny braid that hung down beside her pretty face. Somehow these were relevant, but at the time I didn’t know how. I sat down in front of her and offered her a watery hello. She continued to stare into space while a bubble formed on her lip and began the long slide to her knee. I knew right then and there that we were going to be friends for life, and we became inseparable, the crying woman and the drooling girl.

As time passed I began to realize there was more to a day besides the long hall, the pills, and the sessions with the man with the heavy accent. During those first couple of months I thought I was waiting to board a cruise ship decked out in hospital pajamas and housecoat. However, once that delusion subsided I slowly became more aware of my surroundings. I watched with mounting horror the stream of residents happily whisked through the heavy doors at the end of the hall, returning with their heads lolling on their shoulders, their tongues protruding slightly. As the second hand swept around the bald face of the clock, they would eventually emerge with jerking smiles, slowly speeding up as if they had been electrically juiced. On movie night we sat stuffing salty popcorn into our laughing mouths as Jack Nicholson played us on the idiot box in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. The dawning knowledge didn’t help. The psychos wandered aimlessly while the vultures circled nearby, their little white cups filled with pills for every conceivable ailment of the mind and body. The rituals never varied as every morning I sat with the man with the heavy accent and talked, and every afternoon I sat in the circle of the mindless and was talked to. These sessions were like hawks caught on a thermal, the words hovering in the air, unable to find a stable surface to settle on.

My obsession started innocently enough when my lifelong morbid fascination with death suddenly surfaced after the mysterious disappearance of a ward mate. This fascination sprouted and took a strong hold on the barren landscape of my brain and in a moment of inspiration I decided to enlist the help of the girl. I found her in the lunchroom chewing on her seventeenth croissant. A slight adjustment to her medications had stopped the drooling and put everything edible in peril. With snacks nearby we huddled for days in corners and on our beds trying to devise a plan to escape the hall and begin the long arduous search for the dead body repository. In the end it simply came down to asking the man if we could leave the confines of the hall. After three long and vacuous months of life in a corridor a simple stroke of the pen finally released me from ‘close’ observation. The freedom to discover what lay beyond those heavy doors that had been part of my prison was now mine. After all the planning and anticipation, my first venture was accidental and solo. I had wandered off the hall, completely forgetting about the girl and our secretly laid plans. After all, according to what passed as my brain, it was just another day. My mindless wandering soon turned into mayhem and the fast pace beyond the doors terrified me. Luckily my little plastic bracelet helped my rescuers return a sobbing and frightened lost person in pajamas and slippers to ‘the hall’ where the circling vultures had miraculously turned into hovering angels who administered the calming medications. As a result, it took about three days to stop that damn crying again, then it was right back to the drawing board. This time I didn’t forget the girl.

Together we discovered by trial and error that evenings in a health institution are much quieter than the rat race that prevails during the day. We bided our time effectively and patiently. I guarded my food while the girl ate. As evening fell we would leave our destination clearly marked on the out-board with felt pen–“Out On A Quest”. We thought we were brilliantly evasive and full of subterfuge. At first we avoided the stairwells and searched the halls around the only home our tortured brains could remember. These forays proved incredibly daunting as the surrounding halls held back offices filled with files and paperwork and standing at the entrance to this labyrinth one’s gaze melted to a vanishing point at the other end. As I stood at this maw my quest suddenly felt futile, but my obsession would not let me give up. By day the girl fortified herself with food while I strenuously exercised my brain making little dolls out of empty cans and lace. When visiting hours ended and the fluorescent silence descended, our search would begin again. We would creep through the doors at the end of the hall and edge our way carefully along the hallways followed quietly by that eerie hum that huge machinery makes.

We drifted through the sterile surroundings peering closely at the nameplates on each door. Names such as Day Surgery and Outpatients we recognized in our altered states. However, with a simpleton’s fear and pounding hearts we hurried past Endoscopy, not daring to peer through the door’s little window. We climbed a staircase that wound upwards from floor to floor and came across a door that was marked Interspace. Goggling at each other in the dim light we pressed our ears up against it and reeled as the silence roared back at us. Had we stumbled on the place where they put the psychos who disappeared from the hall from one day to the next? Did windmills turn in the dark? My trusty squire wobbled unsteadily as we gulped air to strengthen ourselves. Afraid that we would be the next to vanish behind this mysterious door, we fled back to the hall, the quest suspended. What can I say–we were loony and we were getting nowhere fast.

As days piled upon days my mind chewed endlessly on my need to find the morgue. I could imagine the subdued lighting reflecting dully from the stainless steel walls, their huge gliding drawers filled with the cold cadavers who tossed up stiff on the outside world. White-coated attendants with green slippers would move soundlessly around gurneys, scalpels poised, their intent almost murderous. I tried to imagine where they would take me once I lay under that sheet.

A time came when I was almost ready to give up. It seemed we had searched every possible inlet and outlet. However, defeat wasn’t part of the plan so I had to keep trying. With a renewed resolution I found my friend, hauled her away from the refrigerator, and we crept out once more. With deliberation we returned to the bowels of the massive machine that continued to hold us within its gut. Walking down the now familiar path I suddenly noticed something we had overlooked before. Like iron to true north we headed straight for a nondescript door. Morgue was written on it in plain letters. With an enormous gratified sigh I turned to my companion to celebrate. As I threw my arms about her, something past her shoulder caught my eye and directed my vision to the nameplate on the door in the opposite wall. It read Cafeteria. Of course. It all made sense to me now. I cried with relief.

'The Man' Tales - Part Two

Ani Black sat in front of a roaring fire staring into the flames, seeing nothing. The click of the answering machine as it took all incoming calls occasionally punctuated the sound of the wood snapping and sparking. On arriving home, she had moved immediately to the machine, turning off the ringer and lowering the sound. Tonight she wanted to be alone. No bereavement calls or angry voices from the family that had stood without her at the graveside today. There was plenty of time to deal with that later. Tonight she had to deal with the man who lay beneath the crush of soil that covered his casket.

The stillness of the house wrapped itself around her. Like death, Ani thought. This is how quiet death is.

She sat staring into the fire then suddenly reached and poured herself tea from the yellow earthenware teapot that sat like a shock of color in the almost bare room. Steam escaped from the mug as she eagerly clasped it with both hands, seeking to ward off the chills that flashed through her body. Just like death, she thought again. Gulping the hot tea she leaned back and felt it rushing into her stomach, spreading its warmth as it went. She closed her eyes and deliberately recalled the image of her father. Now is finally the time to do it, she thought. Then she forced herself to think back to the beginning. To the first thing she could remember.

* * * * *

Wow! I’m doing it! I’m actually doing it! Sarah thought as she peered at the last words on the screen.

The word processor hummed faintly and its glow seemed surreal against the backdrop of the small room. It sat on an old table that had seen better days before it had succumbed to time and multi layers of paint. Running her hand over its surface suddenly brought back memories of her grandfather. The table had once been his paint table before she had liberally covered the splashes and daubs with her own testimony to change with its top and spindly legs a bright pumpkin orange. How it managed to hold everything on top, she never knew.

Pushed to the back of the table was an old manual typewriter. Beside it pens, pencils and highlighters sprung from an old toothbrush cup. Erasers and a pencil sharpener lay next to the opened dictionary and Thesaurus that was within easy reach of Sarah’s hand. Paper lay scrunched and discarded like some early thought thrown away. Beside the old table a box sat newly opened, the name of the glowing instrument stamped boldly on all sides. The wastebasket overflowed with Styrofoam popcorn and packing tape that had bits of cardboard ripped from the box in haste, still attached.

The soft gray walls and creamy lace curtains and bedspread seemed an odd setting for the rest of the room. Bookcases lined the walls, their contents spilling over the sides; too full to hold anymore. A special hardcover edition of everything Stephen King had published sat like a shrine beneath a picture of King’s house. Some years ago, Sarah’s sister Peoria, had taken a trip east with one of her many husbands, Sarah could not remember which, and they had made the effort to get a picture of the author’s house. They’d had it enlarged and encircled it in an old wood frame and Sarah could never tell her sister how much she cherished it when she had unwrapped it that Christmas, years, and husbands, ago.

The room faded away again as Sarah focused on the screen in front of her. She had always wanted to write. She read everything that she could get her hands on, only spurning romance novels. Her life had been so devoid of any special love that she hated the fairy-tale world portrayed beyond the gorgeous guy and pencil-thin young women always draped across the book’s covers. After graduating from high school, she had gone to university to study English, but had given up under the pressures of real life. A lack of funding and the question of what to do with herself firmly closed the doors to those hallowed halls behind her after her first year. Now she looked back and reflected if that mattered. Had not her experiences taught her more than her Norton Anthology ever did?

Friends and family had always encouraged her to write, so perhaps this was the way to do it. To write a story about someone else who was actually her. Well, almost. What would her family think if they ever got wind of it? There was shame in washing dirty laundry in public, no matter whose laundry that was. She looked at the white Persian cat sleeping on top of a stack of ruled paper and thought of the constant inner torment that hounded her days and chased her endlessly at nights.

No. She could not let her family stop her. She had to exorcise the demons that hunted her constantly. Some she had created herself, and others loomed out of the shadows that chained her to her family and her past.

Frantically she looked about the small room again, desperate to grasp onto something that would help firm her resolve. The jumble of her past and present surrounded her. The picture of her and Peoria as they stood in front of Sarah’s new orange MG Midget rested on top of her dresser. How young and adventurous they looked, posing for the camera before starting on their driving holiday across Canada. There were other pictures too; of best friends, nephews, boyfriends, a special place in the Badlands of Alberta. Her favorite was of a black cat she had called Taboo who had been her constant companion for eight short years.

There were old perfume bottles lined up atop a musty smelling sea chest that had belonged to her grandmother. One bottle captured the essence of orange blossoms from Florida and Sarah couldn’t bear to use any of the precious contents as intended. Instead, she saved the fragrance for those days she desperately needed to escape. She would remove the tiny cork and would suddenly be standing back in the Everglades, the smell of orange blossoms and the glades’ humid night air washing over her.

She smiled briefly at the thought before her eyes finally settled on the row of journals lined up like sentinels beside her bed. Protectors? Yes. They had been her escape and her guardians when she couldn’t bear the agony of her life. She had written her thoughts down; sometimes scattered, sometimes detailed, filling book after book as the years went by. Hidden behind their black hard covers was a truth that revealed itself only in the haunted look she saw in her mirror.

It all mattered.

'The Man' Tales - A small diversion

I am taking you now to the first chapter of The Wailings - my book in progress - as it is easier to use this to describe the upcoming events in my life and it also helps define some quotes I will be using in later posts. Please note that this will be done in two different parts as it is a little long. Also, please note that the event I first describe has not happened. It is fiction.


The Wailings


She sat there quietly staring at the jumble of paperwork on the desk in front of her. Her attention was elsewhere, her eyes distant and shuttered. To the people who browsed through the multicolored apparel displayed in the showroom that fronted on her office, it was a day like all the rest in their lives. But to the woman who sat at the desk, it was a day she had long expected and dreaded.

The phone sprang into life and jerked her back to her position at the desk.

“Fashion Gallery,” she answered.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” hissed a voice into her ear.

“I already told you that I wouldn’t be there,” she replied quietly.

The voice coming through the phone was a strange mixture of sorrow and ice.

“I’ve been saying for a long time now that there’s something wrong with you, and look what you’re doing to prove it!”

There was a moment’s hesitation as the woman at the desk pictured in her mind the person on the other end of the line. For as long as she could remember, her mother had always looked the same. She was barely five feet tall and quite stout. Her hair was a silvery white and fine, like her own. She had blue eyes that seemed suited to a kindly grandmother and belied the nerve and fervor with which she had conducted her life. She hid those traits behind large glasses that had become a part of her face in her early years. At nearly 70, her mother was a small immovable mountain.

“Look Mom. Jerome-or-Dad--he died for me a long time ago and I buried him then. I won’t be there today to watch him be buried again.”

“Well I hope you’re happy with the way you’re acting! You’re just like you’re father you know!”

Guilt resonated in her ear and Ani’s mouth tightened as she put down the phone. She glared at the myriad pieces of paper thumb tacked to the wall in front of her and strewn across her desk. With a sigh, she picked up a stack of invoices and removed the bull-clip that held them together at the top. With a practiced eye she skimmed each detailed item for receiving and costs as she quickly double-checked figures against her own calculator’s printout. The steady click of the keys and turning pages came to a sudden halt as Ani stared at the ink scrawled across the purchase order in front of her. Angrily she seized the stack of invoices and flung them into the air, watching as they floated like large white petals to the green carpet. From the floor, her father’s signature stared up at her accusingly.

“Will I never be free of that man?” she screamed.

A distinct hush fell over the salesclerks and shoppers in the showroom as everyone waited for something to follow. When it was obvious that no further entertainment was forthcoming, they turned away; some faces betraying their acute disappointment. In the silence Ani could feel them out there; like spectators at a car race, waiting for the big crash. They just want some juicy gossip to take home with them, she thought. At that moment, one of the clerks came through the small door between the office and the showroom. Ani’s back stiffened slightly as the salesgirl came over and gently touched her shoulder.

“You okay Ani?” Mare asked softly.

“Just a momentary slip--that’s all,” Ani answered back. A look of steely determination crossed her face as she turned to gather the papers up. Mare crouched quickly to pick up the remaining invoices scattered on the floor. Straightening them into a neat pile, she stood and handed them to Ani.

“Why don’t you go home?” she asked quietly.

Slowly Ani swiveled in her chair and stared at the now self-conscious salesclerk.

“What for?” she questioned coolly.

Mare refused to back down from the ice she saw in the green eyes before her. Her fingers involuntarily started to count the pearl buttons that edged the cuffs of the black shirtwaist she had neatly tucked into a matching skirt. Her mourning outfit set off the red shoulder length hair that now swung over her face as she briefly ducked the look in Ani’s eyes. If her boss had any hint of how scared Mare was, she didn’t show it. Nothing moved on Ani’s pale face. Her eyes were the only indication of her own life, and they glittered now like frozen emeralds.

Ani’s “Well?” stopped Mare short of what she was about to say.

Glancing away from the look on Ani’s face she silently begged to come away unscathed. She had already experienced a few confrontations with her boss and she didn’t want to antagonize her today. She liked her job, although working for a family business such as this one was demanding both mentally and emotionally. Still, she liked Ani. Her boss was not like anyone she knew.

Known for her untraditional manner, Ani stood out from Mare’s crowd, and most, for that matter, like a sore thumb. Her traditional attire was black; accentuated by silver everywhere. It wound around her throat and peeked out of her blonde hair. Silver rings covered every finger on each hand except one. Silver laced up her arm in bracelets piled one atop the other, another of her untraditional marks. Although of average height and build, at 40 Ani’s presence caught your eye and lingered even after she was gone. Mare could not pinpoint what it was about her employer that affected people so much. Ani was certainly not on the list of “beautiful” people. In fact, she was still single and drew only a scattering of male admirers.

Maybe she scares them off too, Mare thought quickly. Whatever it was, Ani wasn’t someone to take lightly. Refusing to back down from the ice she saw in the green eyes before her, she took a deep breath and blurted out, “Most people go to their father’s funeral Ani.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she had overstepped the line that Ani kept drawn tightly around herself.

“I’m not most people Mare,” Ani said smoothly into the empty space between them, then turned back to her desk. The stricken salesclerk raised a trembling hand to her own mouth, and then hurried back to the showroom, rebuking herself for what she had just done.

When her shift ended at five o’clock, Mare collected her purse and coat and started past Ani working silently at her desk. She had almost reached the showroom door when Ani’s quiet “Mare” stopped her short. Slowly she turned to face her employer, a look of fear starting to cross her pretty face.

“I won’t keep you long Mare.”

Mare searched the other’s face. It was tight with concentration and something undefinable. She tensed, certain now that she was about to be fired. Ani’s “I’m sorry,” didn’t even register the first time around. Mare heard her the second time when her boss reached out and touched her hand.

“I’m sorry for this afternoon Mare. I know you were just trying to help.”
Mare blinked. Too astonished for words, she stood staring at Ani.

“It’s okay,” she blurted, and immediately felt like a fool. Ani’s father had just died and here she was apologizing to her. She wanted to hug the woman, but her arms hung loosely at her sides, memories of earlier confrontations racing through her mind. Instead, she smiled and quietly bade Ani goodnight.

Ani sat for a minute after Mare had left, staring straight ahead. She didn’t notice the garments hanging silently around her in the stockroom where her desk sat wedged into a corner. A screen flickered beside her as the camera recorded the salesgirl’s departure out the front door of the store. In a backroom beyond the stockroom, sewing machines and mannequins sat stationary; the workers having left an hour earlier.

Gathering her personal belongings, she rose then and made her way through the small door and into the showroom. Winding her way past garment racks and the main counter, she quickly checked the day’s tallies and that the cash register was open and empty, ready for the next day’s business. Then she made her way to the front of the store, turning out the lights as she went, leaving only the chandeliers burning behind her. Without thinking, she automatically set the alarm and locked the door.

As she glanced briefly up at the store name over the door, the neon lights reflected off her eyes and flashed a brilliant green. Then she turned abruptly and strode into the night.

The Day I Taught Angelina Jolie How To Knit - Part Three

With those first words out of her mouth, I could see right then and there that it might be a little too much for her. What with all the children, her acting, and her refugee work, not to mention Brad himself. My sigh caught her attention and she turned those eyes on me and looked me over. I soon realized however that she was looking at the sweater I was wearing that I had knit myself. She glanced at the children again as they mauled the dog before turning back to Brad. The stare she gave him became so long and drawn out that it made me want to crawl under the door and slip away. His enthusiasm for the idea still clung hopefully to his face as he looked from her to the knitting basket and back. You could see he wasn’t going to give the idea up without much persuasion and I briefly wondered about their relationship as I watched this little scene. Finally, after what seemed to me an eternity, she tilted her head back and stared at the frescoed ceiling before making her decision.

“Okay. I’ll give it a try. But you and the nanny have to look after the kids while I’m doing this.”

Nervousness and despair swept over me at those words. What if I couldn’t teach her a single thing? What if she was hopeless when it came to crafts? Who was I to be involved in this? I gave them both a wan smile as they turned their attention on me.

“Well now. This is going to be wonderful.” Brad said as he wrapped her and Shiloh in one massive hug. “Maddox, Pax and Zahara. I want you to say hello to Ani. She’s going to teach mommy how to knit.”

A collective ‘Hello’ came from the group as they took their attention away from the dog for a minute to glance dutifully in my direction. I smiled back and waggled a few fingers; their obvious happiness touching a spot in my heart.

“Can you start right now?” Brad asked once the introductions were over with.

It was my turn to raise my eyebrows as I looked in Angelina’s direction. She gave him one of those looks that made it obvious we were both an intrusion in her life right at this moment, and I quickly searched the entranceway for something to focus on.

“Ahh! Well then. How about I send a car for you tomorrow morning then Ani? Would that be all right with you Angie?”

A smile crossed her face for the first time and she reached over and put a long slender hand on his cheek and locked eyes with him. Whatever passed between them definitely didn’t have anything to do with me, and I bit my lower lip and turned a beaming smile on the children, who ignored me over the dog. Remembering me and my basket, Brad finally broke away and arranged for a ride as he handed me back my belongings. Later, as I settled in my little travel trailer with my knitting in my hands, I thought of that look for a long time.

The car picked me up promptly at 10 the following morning. I figured a midmorning arrival would probably give the family enough time for cereal and toast and a trip to the school to drop off Maddox. The day was a little cooler and threatened rain, and I was shown into the library where a couple of wing-back chairs had been pulled up in front of a large fireplace where a fire crackled and spit as it caught on some sap. A low footstool stood in front of one chair, probably in deference to my age, and I noted with appreciation the needlepoint on it had been done by hand instead of machine.

“My grandmother’s.”

I jumped at the words and fumbled a hello as I recognized Angelina waiting patiently for me. She was seated in the wing-back without the footstool and I hadn’t seen her when I first came into the room being preoccupied with the decor. I set down the equipment I had brought with me and lowered myself into the other wing-back and clasped my hands, forgetting that I was the teacher in this room. “The children are with the nanny so we have the entire morning ahead of us,” she said without much enthusiasm.

Sighing inwardly I bent to my baskets and pulled out a skein of magenta colored wool and a pair of 6mm knitting needles. I had picked magenta as it is such a happy color to work with under any conditions, and it’s easy on the eyes when you’re looking for stitches. Taking the skein of wool, I held it up to my nose and inhaled the heavy aroma that only pure wool has, then I passed it over to Angelina. With a questioning look of doubt on her face she did the same, and I watched with interest as an understanding came into her eyes. “There’s nothing like it I find,” trying to show her my respect for natural fibers. When she handed the skein back to me, I showed her how to unwind it, and how they always tied a simple twist in it. As I stood holding the yarn in my two hands, Brad bounded in, eager to see how the lesson was going.

“Perfect!” I said as I held out the skein of yarn to him. “Would you hold this – just like this, please Brad?” Obligingly he held out his hands and I draped the yarn over it and told him to hold it taut. Then I showed Angelina how to wind a ball of wool from a hank or skein. At first the winding went fairly well. Then Brad seemed to lose track of what was happening and the ball was all distorted and falling apart. I watched as they tried to get in sync again – but Brad couldn’t keep the skein from tangling and I could see it was hopeless. “Wait! I brought some things – just in case this happened.” Bending back to my baskets, I pulled out a skein holder and a wool winder and set them up on a nearby table, making sure that nothing scratched the obvious antique I had chosen. Draping what was left of the skein over the skein holder, I unwound the ball and slid the end onto the wool winder, then I showed Angelina how it worked and let her wind the wool.
Brad couldn’t get over the simplicity of the two machines and wanted to try them for himself, so I pulled out another ball of periwinkle blue wool and let him go at it.

From there I introduced my pupil to the knitting needles and we spent some time forming a slipknot and learning how to do a knit cast-on – always my favorite. At first the going was slow as I showed her the positioning of the needles and yarn. We cast on a number of stitches and then I had her rip them all out and start from the beginning again; watching carefully as she made a slipknot – then froze. Once again we went through the technique and she shook her head, chastising herself underneath her breath. We repeated the process a couple of times until I felt she was ready to begin knitting. The fire crackled merrily as we worked away, me coaching her continually while Brad wandered in and out of the room or bent over the back of her chair and watched her quietly. Her fingers were long, and to me painfully thin, with dark blue veins running under the skin. When I had first held her hands in mine to show her the basic steps, they were cold to the touch, and I hadn’t failed to notice that she had on heavy socks and a fleece sweater. I was comfortable in the large room in front of the fire, but it was obvious that she felt the cold. When lunch came, she picked at it, and I came right out and told her she needed to eat more – something that would stick to her bones and give her warmth. She just smiled at me, those lips framing perfect white teeth - and went back to picking. I used that opportunity to explain the qualities of natural fibers, especially wool, when choosing something to knit with. I agreed that acrylics for the children would probably be smartest – wash and wear at its best – but for warmth – the wool. She admitted she liked the feel of it in her hands and of course there was the smell. We spent the afternoon knitting – or to us knitters – doing garter stitch. Row after row we knit. Back and forth - back and forth. As the daylight slipped away, I started to wind up the lesson; explaining there was more to knitting that just the knit stitch and without a moment’s hesitation, Angelina invited me back for the next day.

The next morning we started from scratch again – just to ensure she hadn’t forgotten how to cast on. She whipped several stitches onto her needles and knit a few rows for me like an old (although rusty) pro. From there we delved into purl stitches for a while and then moved on to increasing and decreasing. I had brought my encyclopedia of knit stitches just to show her how many different varieties there were. I then brought out a simple pattern I had picked up before I showed up that morning and we started chatting about following patterns. Knitting is just a variety of knit and purl stitches, and if you can follow the pattern, I figure anyone can do it.

As the afternoon dwindled again, Brad came in and invited me to stay for dinner with the family. As he was going to cook up his home version of Jambalaya I couldn’t say no. We moved from the library into the giant kitchen and watched as Brad bustled around frying alligator sausage and chicken in a huge skillet. He had a towel draped over his shoulder on which he absently wiped everything he got on his hands, and occasionally flicked in Angelina’s direction. A huge rice cooker bubbled away on a counter while he poured us each a glass of wine and we perched on kitchen stools at the island and looked through my binder of patterns.

Angelina was determined to make a sweater to show Brad she could do it, and eventually picked out a man’s simple cardigan done in a combination of garter and moss stitch. With her enthusiasm I was more than happy to let her have the pattern and even offered to help her pick out yarn at a local wool shop I had stumbled on in the Garden District. Ever helpful, Brad dug around in the junk drawer that everyone has in their kitchen and came up with a measuring tape. He posed and pumped his muscles for a bit while we tried to take his measurements, reminding me of his movie Troy. From there it was a matter of getting through supper without getting his incredible Jambalaya all over me, or holding my sides with laughter at the children’s antics as we sat around the huge dinner table and feasted.

The next day, true to her word, Angelina picked me up and we headed out to the wool shop to pick out yarn. With her hair tucked up into a Support New Orleans! pink baseball cap and wearing tight jeans, we wandered through the wool bins, holding colors to the light and checking yardage and weight. I have to admit, she was a quick learner and I was proud of my student when we dumped our selections of moss greens and browns with a dash of burgundy, onto the counter. The salesclerk kept looking at us as she rang up the sale, and thanked Angelina profusely when she handed over the large bag of wool, needles, skein holder and wool winder. We laughed together like lifelong friends as we watched through the window as an excited saleslady yelled into the telephone as we pulled away. We went back to the now familiar library, and I got her started on the back of the dropped sleeve sweater. I watched as she got well on her way with it during the day while I worked on my own creation. When the light was once more beginning to fade, I packed up my bifocals and my yarn and started to make my farewells. Brad gave me a hearty handshake and tried to push a load of money into my hand which I promptly dropped on the floor and ignored. Angelina hugged me hard and thanked me so sincerely that I almost cried. Two days later my time had run out and I was headed back to Alberta, Canada – my days of hobnobbing with the celebrities fading into an unbelievable memory.

About six weeks later, as I sat in front of my own fire with my feet on a footstool and a ball of wool unwinding itself onto my needles, the phone rang.

“Is that you Ani? It’s Angelina!”

You better believe I almost dropped the phone into the fire right then and there! A huge smile spread across my face as I listened to her sultry voice as it came across the miles asking me for help on that sweater. With her man’s birthday fast approaching, she wanted to finish the project, wrap it, and prove to him that she could do it. Would I fly to Zurich where she was on a film shoot – the ticket would be waiting at the airport in my name? Now – how could anyone say no to that – or to her? I did a quick search on weather in Switzerland, packed a small bag and headed to the airport. The flight was long, but first-class gave me plenty of time to get some knitting done of my own and I couldn’t have been happier.

A limo whisked me from the airport to the site where they were filming and some person with a clipboard escorted me to Angelina’s trailer where Brad and the kids greeted me like some long lost friend. Brad took me onto the set where I stood openmouthed like a groupie and watched his leading lady breeze through her script without missing a line.
When the scene was finished, we headed back to the trailer where Angelina shooed everyone away and we slid right back into our teacher-student personas. Solving the problem of casting off in pattern was an easy one and I could see that she was going to finish this project with plenty of time to spare before Brad’s birthday. She invited me to stay on the shoot with them so I could help her through the rest of the sweater during her breaks. And again – how could anyone say no to this woman? Three weeks later, Angie and I sewed in the last strands of wool and spread out the finished product to admire her work. Her stitches were smooth and the tension was even. No stressful days showed in her work whatsoever – and I was incredibly proud of her. One more shopping trip together found us loading up on wool again for her next project – something for Shiloh this time in a soft lavender color. I picked up a birthday card for Brad and addressed it “To my friend’s friend”, before slipping it into its envelope and handing it over to Angelina for safekeeping.

With the shoot over, we took the same limo to the airport where we were going our separate ways. I was heading back to Alberta and my quiet life in front of the fire, and the Jolie-Pitts were off to Italy to join George Clooney at his villa. As I settled in to first-class and picked up my knitting, I wondered if Mr. Clooney would be interested in learning how to knit.

The Day I Taught Angelina Jolie How to Knit - Part Two

“Right now?” I gasped as I gripped my knitting before he pulled it off my needles and out of my hands. I must have looked like a mime as my mouth opened and closed and no words came out. Flustered, I poked the sharp ends of the needles into the maze of colors to ensure the knitting wouldn’t come off and tried to gather my wits about me.

“You don’t have anything planned right now, do you?” he asked with some humility as he realized he might be invading my life. “I mean – do you mind coming right now and teaching her how to knit? You know, she’s a new Mom – and I think all Moms should know how to knit, and you looked so at peace doing it and so happy – and I’m babbling…..”

I laughed a bit and shook my head as I stood up and gathered my belongings. “Right now is fine – really. It’s just not how I was expecting to spend my afternoon. I thought I was going to get that sleeve done……”

“Oh! I’m Brad of course,” he said as he shuffled the basket to one arm and held out his hand.

“I’m Ani,” I said with some embarrassment and who knows why.

“You don’t mind walking do you? We don’t live too far from here – or – we could take a carriage back if it’s a problem.”

“A walk would be lovely. I love to look at all this old architecture and get some inspiration from it,” I said as I bent backwards a little and stretched my back. An audible crack raised his eyebrows and I made a brushing motion in the air with my hand, “it is just age – something you’ll recognize once you hit 50.”

Skirting the cathedral, we soon found ourselves on Royal Street and we both admired the old gas lamps and famous buildings as we hurried along. Brad chatted about their move to New Orleans and how much they loved living there, and I admitted I was a bit envious. How could I not be? New Orleans oozed inspiration, history, music and love. We weren’t stopped once by the paparazzi or admiring fans, so I guess the word should go out to all celebrities – if you don’t want to be recognized on the street – hang out with a nondescript commoner – nobody will notice. A few streets later, Brad unlocked a beautiful wrought iron gate and led me up a walkway to an old antebellum mansion nestled under towering Cedar Elms and surrounded by flowering Magnolias. A couple of gardeners were busy in the yard as they pruned and weeded, and Brad waved a hello to them as we made our way up the back walk. I was acutely aware that my palms had started to sweat as we neared the house and I was amazed that I was nervous about meeting his leading lady. Before I could give it any more thought, Brad ushered me in through the door and yelled out a great “Hello the house – I’m home!”

A great clattering of feet could be heard coming down the stairway, and I clutched my sweater about me in nervous anticipation as squeals and laughter echoed about the house. Glancing at Brad, I took in the huge smile that spread across his face (while I made a quick check for those vampire fangs). He let out a whoop as arms encircled his legs and he bent down for the kisses that were waiting for him. When I finally managed to figure out there were three children instead of four attached to him, I think I let out a small gasp before slowly looking around the entranceway. Angelina stood at the bottom of the stairway directing a stony gaze straight in my direction, with Shiloh perched on her jutting hip like some afterthought. I tried a smile and shrug combination, but that only elicited a raised, perfectly plucked, eyebrow. The silence between us loomed and I hurriedly turned back to the commotion happening to my right.

“Ummmmm, Brad?”

To be honest, I’m not sure now if I said that or if Angelina did. However, it did make him look up from his group hug and he quickly identified the problem.

“Hello my lady,” he said as he gave her a courtly bow. “I want to introduce you to Ani. I met her in the square and she is going to teach you how to knit.”

As the other, perfectly plucked, eyebrow slowly rose, I could see he realized that perhaps my presence needed a bit more explanation than he had given. Looking around in desperation, he finally spotted my knitting basket that he had dropped beside the door when we entered. A large golden retriever had its nose deep in the balls of wool and was spilling them over the side of the basket, obviously in search of something to eat. The brightly colored wools stood out against the ceramic tiles with a glow of their own in the muted tones of the entranceway, and I paused as I took in its understated elegance.

“River! Get out of that!” Brad yelled as he grabbed the dog’s collar and hauled him back. The dog’s tail wagged slowly back and forth, and the happy look on its face as his master chided him was endearing. “That’s a River Runs Through It – not a River noses through it dear pal.” Brad rubbed his ears hard for a moment before calling Maddox over and putting the dog in his care. Grabbing the basket again he scooped the wayward balls off the floor and piled them in the basket before hurrying over to Angelina’s side.

“Hon! You’ve got to look at this! It’s beautiful and Ani is making it with her own hands! I sat down on a bench in the square and she was sitting there knitting and I got thinking that you should knit too. You know, being a Mom and all that….”

His enthusiasm was hard to deny and rather infectious too. I could see her turning it over in her mind as she turned over my knitting for a closer inspection. I can’t tell you how happy I was at that moment that I had learned how to wrap and carry colors on the back of the work. I knew there wasn’t a single loose strand hanging anywhere, and I think I might have preened a bit with the knowledge.

“Let me get this straight. You want me to learn how to knit?”

The Day I Taught Angelina Jolie How to Knit - Part One

There’s something about New Orleans that, once experienced, makes you crave it down deep in your soul. It could be the historic old buildings in the French Quarter with their wrought iron balconies and gas lamps. Or, perhaps it’s the music and the food that belongs to this region. Maybe it’s the swamps and the close warm breath of a hot Louisiana night. Or perhaps it’s just the people - with their gaiety and laughter and overall love and gratitude for life itself. Whatever it is, New Orleans is enchanting and addictive. Once tasted – you are hooked.

I had thought that a quick visit to this city would be enough to satisfy my appetite, but I had been wrong. Sometime during my whirlwind tour, New Orleans had entrapped me like a new lover, and was holding me - a breathless captive – to its breast. Unable to leave with this newfound love blossoming in my heart I gave in to the siren’s call and became one with it.

That is how I found myself sitting on a bench in Jackson Square on a sunny October afternoon watching the tourists and listening to the bells ringing on the barges as they chugged down the muddy Mississippi River. At my feet sat my basket of wool, its colors exploding in the sunshine that tickled the fibers as they wound their way on to my needles and off again. To me, knitting and the fall season go hand and hand – and the beauty of New Orleans had inspired in me a need to produce an article of clothing that would keep it all close to me.

With my pattern tucked under my left knee, I worked in the mallard greens and the periwinkle blues, throwing in a dash of raspberry and pale yellow while the rainbow still waited its turn in my basket. I purled and slipped stitches, cabled and seeded – engrossed and happy and contented. I barely noticed the man who quietly slipped onto the other end of the bench, only nodding a hello as I changed my needles from the right hand to my left in preparation for starting another row. As I worked the intricate pattern, I was aware of the gentleman’s interest and again cast a glance in his direction, a slight smile crossing my lips as if in apology for my lack of conversation. He looked vaguely familiar, but the sunglasses and the newspaper boy’s hat did a lot to mask the eyes and the hair and I let that idea go – doesn’t everybody look familiar after a while?

Time passed as it will when you are knitting, and the sun had slipped a little lower in the clear blue sky, making the river look like dark slate. I fished around in my basket in the hopes of finding something close to that color to add to the palette on my needles. As I did so, I dislodged a ball of wool over its edge and I watched in disbelief as it rolled up against the feet of the quiet stranger on the bench beside me. With a smile he rescued it and handed it back, then complimented me on my knitting ability. As I blushed, I realized I recognized his voice – or at least I thought I did – and I stopped short, the splash of color forgotten in the palm of my hand, and took a good look at him. Dear God! I was sitting beside Brad Pitt!

I don’t know about you, but I get rather flustered in the presence of immortals. Having just come from a tour of Oak Alley where they had filmed Interview with a Vampire, I was still overwhelmed and under its spell. That is my excuse for immediately dropping the errant ball of wool. As we both hurriedly bent to save it from an untimely death underneath the feet of those passing in front of us – we knocked heads. Dropping my knitting, I covered my flaming face with both hands and let out a small moan. Of course the darling man thought he had physically hurt me and slid closer to examine my scalp for damages. The thought of his hands in my hair only made matters worse, and I wished fervently for the pavement to open and let me plunge directly into embarrassment hell. As the seconds passed with no reprieve in sight, I gave in and grasped my needles again, pasting a pale lipped smile on my puce colored face. I let him search my head for damages and smiled (again) gratefully at him then turned firmly back to my knitting as if it was the most important thing in my life. I remained calm as I slipped dropped stitches back onto my needle and took up the pattern once more, only to be stopped short again by the now nonstranger next to me.

“That is just amazing,” he said with so much excitement and awe in his voice that I almost dropped my cable needle. “You make it look so simple – and your combination of colors is confetti to my eyes.”

I looked at him closely to check if he was perhaps rehearsing some lines or just being patronizing. What I saw was something I recognized in others – a passion for creating – no matter how it is accomplished. “Well it is really quite simple once you learn the basic knit, purl techniques,” I said as casually as I could. Picking up my knitting again I showed him the basic knit and purl stitches, explaining how the needle goes into the front and into the back. Then, with a touch of reluctance – I offered him my knitting and asked him if he wanted to give it a try.

“No – No! Not me! I don’t want to ruin all your beautiful work!” he said as he raised his hands in the air and blinded me with the sun glinting off his teeth. Inwardly I heaved a sigh of relief and resumed knitting. I paused in midstitch when I heard him say “But!” It was said with such thought and was so long and drawn out, that I felt a little shudder run through me as I turned towards him, one eyebrow raised and a questioning look on my face.

“Do you think you could teach Angelina how to knit?”

I don’t think I gasped – at least I hope I didn’t let one slip out – but how many times does one get asked that question?

“Well,” and that was long and drawn out on my part too as I scrambled to think of what to say. “I have taught many people how to knit. In fact, I use to teach knitting. But some people just never catch on. So if you want a guarantee on that – I can’t give it to you. However, (and here I pretended to concentrate on transferring some cable stitches to allow my brain some time to think about what I was letting myself in for) I guess I could give it a try.”

“Great!” he yelled as he jumped up and grabbed my basket and piled my belongings on top. “Let’s get going!”

The Morgue

The man of my dreams sat on my right holding my hand. The woman I had played ‘Maid of Honor’ to, sat on my left, holding my other hand. I sat in the middle, pegged down like a tent in a strong wind. A small man with indeterminate ancestry sat in front of us, his dark eyes searching my soul. The surrounding room was small and muffled with a fish-eye in the door, while the pale green walls that were meant to soothe the psyche mixed discordantly with the faint smell of antiseptic. I could hear the whisperings of cushioned feet passing on the other side of the door and the incessant sound of someone crying. The small man rubbed the dark circles around his eyes with both hands and resumed his staring. I stared back–a deer caught in the headlights. Words burbled out of his mouth and I turned towards my dream man with a questioning look on my face, my own mouth wet and slightly askew. I raised my eyebrows and shook my head slightly. I couldn’t understand the man’s heavy accent and the crying was beginning to get on my nerves. The man burbled again and I looked down into my wet lap with embarrassment at my inability to understand him. He stood and left the room, leaving us sitting awkwardly. The crying sound that wrapped around us seemed to emanate from the walls and descend like fog from the ceiling. A wingless angel appeared and put something sharp into my hip, then vanished through the fish-eye. In a little while the crying eased off and I closed my eyes, overcome by the tranquility of silence and the drug.

It was the crying that put me in there in the first place. It had been going on for days and I just couldn’t stop. With red swollen eyes and chapped nose I wandered up and down the long sterile hall dropping sodden Kleenex. Nameless creatures hunted me continually and then stood ominously by as I swallowed baby-colored pills. Time stood still and my mind wandered away, sometimes ricocheting off the other wraiths who drifted down the long hall, sometimes not. Then one day I noticed the girl. She sat with her legs crossed under her, her blank eyes staring into space, while a long line of drool reached from her lower lip to disappear somewhere below the table. She had silver skeletons and jeweled crosses woven into a skinny braid that hung down beside her pretty face. Somehow these were relevant, but at the time I didn’t know how. I sat down in front of her and offered her a watery hello. She continued to stare into space while a bubble formed on her lip and began the long slide to her knee. I knew right then and there that we were going to be friends for life, and we became inseparable, the crying woman and the drooling girl.

As time passed I began to realize there was more to a day then the long hall, the pills, and the sessions with the man with the heavy accent. For the first couple of months I thought I was waiting to board a cruise ship decked out in hospital pajamas and housecoat. Once that delusion subsided I became more aware of my surroundings. I watched with mounting horror the stream of residents happily whisked through the heavy doors at the end of the hall, returning with their heads lolling on their shoulders, their tongues protruding slightly. A few hours later they would wander by with jerking smiles, slowly speeding up as if they had been electrically juiced. On movie night we sat stuffing salty popcorn into our laughing mouths as Jack Nicholson played us on the idiot box in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. The dawning knowledge didn’t help. The psychos wandered aimlessly while the vultures circled nearby, their little white cups filled with pills for every conceivable ailment of the mind and body. Every morning I sat with the man with the heavy accent and talked, and every afternoon I sat in the circle of the mindless and was talked to. Like hawks caught on a thermal, the words hovered in the air, unable to find a stable surface to settle on.

It started innocently enough when my lifelong morbid fascination with death suddenly surfaced after the mysterious disappearance of a ward mate. This fascination sprouted and took a strong hold on the barren landscape of my brain and I decided to enlist the help of the girl. I found her in the lunchroom chewing on her seventeenth croissant. A slight adjustment to her medications had stopped the drooling and put everything edible in peril. With snacks nearby we huddled for days in corners and on our beds trying to devise a plan to escape the hall and begin the long arduous search for the dead body repository. In the end it simply came down to asking the man if we could leave the confines of the hall. After three long and vacuous months of life in a corridor I was finally released from ‘close’ observation. The freedom to discover what lay beyond those heavy doors that had been part of my prison was now mine. My first venture was accidental and solo. I had wandered off the hall, completely forgetting about the girl and our secretly laid plans. After all, according to what passed as my brain, it was just another day. My mindless wandering soon turned into mayhem. The fast pace beyond the doors terrified me. Luckily my little plastic bracelet helped my rescuers return a sobbing and frightened lost person in pajamas and slippers to ‘the hall’ where the hovering angels administered the calming medications. As a result, it took about three days to stop that damn crying again, then it was right back to the drawing board. This time I didn’t forget the girl.

Together we discovered by trial and error that evenings in a health institution are much quieter than the rat race that prevails during the day. We bided our time effectively and patiently. I guarded my food while the girl ate. As evening fell we would leave our destination clearly marked on the out-board with felt pen–“Out On A Quest”. We thought we were brilliantly evasive and full of subterfuge. At first we avoided the stairwells and searched the halls around the only home our tortured brains could remember. These forays proved incredibly daunting as the surrounding halls held back offices filled with files and paperwork. Standing at the entrance to this labyrinth one’s gaze melted to a vanishing point at the other end. As I stood at this maw my quest suddenly felt futile, but my obsession would not let me give up. By day the girl fortified herself with food while I strenuously exercised my brain making little dolls out of empty cans and lace. When visiting hours ended and the fluorescent silence descended, our search would begin again. We would creep through the doors at the end of the hall and edge our way carefully along the hallways followed quietly by that eerie hum that huge machinery makes.

We drifted through the sterile surroundings peering closely at the nameplates on each door. Names such as Day Surgery and Outpatients we recognized in our altered states. However, with a simpleton’s fear and pounding hearts we hurried past Endoscopy, not daring to peer through the door’s little window. We climbed a staircase that wound upwards from floor to floor and came across a door that was marked Interspace. Goggling at each other in the dim light we pressed our ears up against it and reeled as the silence roared back at us. Had we stumbled upon the place where they put the psychos who disappeared from the hall from one day to the next? Did windmills turn in the dark? My trusty squire wobbled unsteadily as we gulped air to strengthen ourselves. Afraid that we would be the next to vanish behind this mysterious door, we fled back to the hall, the quest suspended. What can I say–we were loony. We were getting nowhere fast.

As days piled upon days my mind chewed endlessly on my need to find the morgue. I could imagine the subdued lighting reflecting dully from the stainless steel walls, their huge gliding drawers filled with the cold cadavers who tossed up stiff on the outside world. White-coated attendants with green slippers would move soundlessly around gurneys, scalpels poised, their intent almost murderous. I tried to imagine where they would take me once I lay under that sheet.

A time came when I was almost ready to give up. It seemed we had searched every possible inlet and outlet. However, defeat wasn’t part of the plan so I had to keep trying. With a renewed resolution I found my friend, hauled her away from the refrigerator, and we crept out once more. With deliberation we returned to the bowels of the massive machine that continued to hold us within its gut. Walking down the now familiar path I suddenly noticed something we had overlooked before. Like iron to true north we headed straight for a nondescript door. Morgue was written on it in plain letters. With an enormous sigh I turned to my companion to celebrate. As I threw my arms about her, something past her shoulder caught my eye and directed my vision to the nameplate on the door in the opposite wall. It read Cafeteria. Of course. It all made sense to me now. I cried with relief.