Hey,…Hey wake up won’t you? There’s a hand on your arm that provides a stationary point keeping you still in the disorientation as the world you thought you were in falls away and dissolves into the world you might be in now. The transition is gradual and less than complete; the darkness and the lateness of the hour hold back full realization at first. Still, you have a vague recollection of a destination.
“Are we there? I thought it’d take longer.”
No, we’re still on the way, but I’m starting to lose focus. I thought maybe a quick stop just to refresh…
“And get your bearings? I know what you mean. You okay? I could do some driving now.”
No, thanks; it’s cool. Let me just get out and take a break here and I’ll be okay for the few more hours until morning.
“You just don’t want to listen to my CD’s.”
Tsk, tsk, always underestimating my interest in you.
Unfolding from the seat is a process; a few shrugs to pull my shoulders back, lean my neck back and side to side, push the heels of my hands into the small of my back. Yawn in a big breath of fresh air and let the chill get to the back of my neck. Now a big stretch grabs hold of me from shoulders down. One second, two seconds, three,… Yeee-argh! Pull my cap off with my left hand to vigorously rub through my hair with my right.
“Hey that’s an interesting look for you. You better put the hat back on.”
I don’t doubt it, and don’t worry. I slip the hat back on with a quick one-handed adjustment as I look up to check on the stars. Nothing, all washed out by the electric glare of the mercury lights of the parking lot. The neon at the edge says, “Chinese 24 Hour Diner” in English with those incongruous serifs meant to make it look like asian printing. Somebody put a lot of effort into making that work out in neon tubes.
The place is completely empty except for some insomniac in a paper hat leaning over from behind the counter working on the crossword puzzle from yesterday’s paper.
I’m not very good at this brother: can we just cut through the game-playing and you just tell me how much I have to tip you to end up at the best table in the house?
/The choicest are always reserved for friends and celebrities./
Well, won’t you let us be celebrities tonight, then?
/Oh yeah. I thought I recognized you coming in: she’s the teacher and you’re that guy on the radio. You look different with a hat on./
Writer, actually.
/No, that’s not it. You’re in that ad for motor oil, cereal maybe./
No, really, it’s words. Written words.
/Maybe we should just switch to “friends” instead of “celebrities” and not fight about it./
Done. We take the choice seat: window booth with neon lighting, jukebox, and view of the empty lot next door. Our new friend comes by with water, menus, and the folded-over newspaper he now holds his pen up to.
/Okay mister “written words”, how about a nine-letter word for “fondness”./
Starts with?
/”A”, I think./
Affection.
/Hmm, let’s just see,… Okay, you win, you can be the writer. That was a good one./ Then to you: /That was fast./
“Yeah, he’s quick on his feet.”
When I’m with the teacher here, certain things are constantly in the front of my mind. Any clues in there about ‘allure’, or ‘beauty’, or ‘cleverness’, or ‘delightful’, or ‘exuberant’? Just give me the letter and I’m on it.
“He’s not always like this, honest, I think maybe he’s a little over-tired.”
/No problem, I get hyper like that in the middle of the night too. Anyway, too much talk is better than dead quiet for me around here. You both want coffee?/
Yes, please, and two more waters.
/Alright, here’s your menus. I’ll be back with your drinks in a minute. I just gotta brew some fresh coffee./
So’s it gonna be breakfast, or just coffee?
“I thought we were going someplace,…”
This is someplace.
“Yeah, this is some place alright. What do you think, this place was put up in what, the 70’s, and maybe supposed to last 20 years?”
It’s really the company that matters – aren’t you always the one telling me to enjoy the ride?
“You, you’re devious”
/Why don’t you let my coffee help you decide?/ The voice rings out from behind the counter.
Excuse me?
/It’s a big place, but empty; voices carry. You guys are still talking in your we’re-alone-in-the-car voices./
“Sorry about,…um,…”
/It’s cool, I like the retro look, but you don’t have to./
Sounds like a good way to decide. Let’s have those coffees.
/And your waters. Here you go./
I can already tell from the smell and look of this coffee that it’s going to be right. I can taste it off the smell of it, and it looks like you could stand the stirrer up in it.
“Coffee Ritual?”
What’s that you say?
“Coffee Ritual. You’ve mentioned the coffee ritual, but never explained it.”
Oh, right, some of the origins are unrecoverable. I was there, and it all had a purpose, but some of the details have faded in memory. There’s a mystique to it that might not translate in a quick demo…
“Try me.”
Okay. You set your coffee cup up just so: you need to be able to see straight in, the handle needs to be out of the way, either straight at you or straight away – it becomes important later. Stir, preferably with a spoon. You need to create a vortex, center it in the cup as well as you can. Now open a creamer.
“You don’t take cream”
I know, but the ritual requires you to bend to it, even, maybe especially, if that involves some sacrifice. Non-coffee drinkers are probably the ideal candidates to perform it.
“Can it be non-dairy creamer.”
No, but I know something else that’s good for, put ‘em in your pocket for later. Now, while I’m stirring, pop that creamer open. Then I take the spoon out, observe the vortex a moment for suitability, then take the cream and pour it in the center of the vortex. Watch, don’t miss a detail, as the clouds spread and contract, then spread again, and contract again, eventually filling the cup. If you’re going to go all out, you tap the side of the ceramic cup with the handle of the spoon, listening to the pitch change.
“Why would the pitch change?”
You must learn to accept the ritual for what it is, do not question it.
“And what is it exactly, the ritual?”
It explains itself.
“You’ve been up too long. I’m driving after we’re done with ‘breakfast’.”
You neophytes, all the same. You do it, I’ll pop the creamer for you. Ready?
“Yeah, hand it to me… Huh, look at that… that’s kinda cool.”
Tap.
“Okay, but I still don’t see why the pitch,… would,… The pitch is changing.”
Now do you get it?
“A little, maybe, wait a moment. It’s simple,… yet,… “
Intricate, irreproducibly intricate.
“Yeah, the same four steps, always with a different result.”
Five steps, sorry, now that the tone has stopped changing, you put your hands on either side of the cup and let the warmth radiate into your hands. Don’t just watch it, feel it. Then I guess there’s a sixth step: drinking the coffee is implied.
“Right, feel it, then take it into you. Marvel at it, make yourself a part of it, make it a part of you.”
Wow, that’s good. The student has become the teacher. Don’t leave out the ‘different result’ part though; every moment, every cup of coffee, is unique.
(“Where do you come up with this stuff anyway?”
Killed a lot of time drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes in my misspent youth, hanging out with people who can’t help interpreting every little thing. The humanities folks, always looking for Meaning.
“And you? You weren’t a humanities major.”
Maybe I just liked the coffee and cigarettes. Now it’s just coffee.
“Better keep it that way, I’m not gonna put up with ashtray floors, dirty clothes and filthy jokes on these trips.”
If it were that way, we’d have to find ‘Someone [to] Take the Wheel’.
“Nice pickup.”
You should know better than to try to sneak that one past me.)
/What’ll it be for you two, more than just coffee?/
I’ll have the number 5, over easy, wheat toast, homefries, extra egg, and regular coffee, of course.
/How’s that again? Did you even look at the menu?/
Well, it used to be my usual at the Salonika, though no matter how many times I ordered it, there was always some detail I’d leave out. The Greek waitress always needed one more thing. Now that I’ve finally got my order down, I hate not having the chance to use it.
/Translate for me, what’s the number 5?/
Two eggs, any style, sausage, toast or muffin, grits or potatoes.
/And you want an extra egg, so that’s three, over easy./
I said that.
/And that’s patties, or link sausage?/
Augh! You don’t look Greek to me.
/You shouldn’t assume…/
I’d like links please, thanks for asking.
/It’s really no problem. And for the lady?/
“Maybe just an omelet, white toast.”
/Okay, coming right up./
Wait a minute? Aren’t you gonna ask what kind of omelet? Aren’t you gonna ask what starch?
/Well, it’s a feta omelet of course, and no starch. Right?/
“Exactly. I wasn’t sure, but that sounds good to me.”
/Lucky guess./
You can do that, but you couldn’t guess what type of sausage I was having?
He shrugs as he walks off.
(You have a way of getting into men’s heads you know.
“See, now I was afraid you’d be all jealous.”
Who says I’m not? Maybe I’m hiding it.
“You do understand that it’s better that you’re not jealous?”
In that case, totally not jealous, confident in fact…
“Now you’ve gone too far in the other direction.”
Okay then. Honestly? I’m still trying to figure it all out.
“I’ll try to help you make up your mind.”
Oh. Yes please.)
We take our time with ‘breakfast’, and it’s good, every bite of it.
“You’ve got a bit of yolk on your lip there.”
Mmm, thanks, I got it, still tastes good. I’m wide awake again, you ready to go?
“I’m gonna quick head to the ladies’ room before we start out again.”
I’ll just finish my coffee, I’ll get our check, and I’ll meet you out at the car.
Thanks chief, that was good. Here sit across the counter from Snowman, I‘ll put a coffee cup in front of him, you make like you’re showing him the puzzle.
>click<
/You two stop in whenever you’re back in the area, I’ll get you right into the ‘friends and celebrities’ table./
Out at the car, it’s still chilly, and I’m leaning against the hood turning something between thumb and index and middle finger.
“Whatcha got there?”
Book of matches. You still got those non-dairy creamers?
“Yeah, here.”
Okay then, here’s the ‘non-dairy creamer trick’.
At the moment, I mistake the light in your eye as a reflection of the trick. But it doesn’t fade afterwards.
“There’s got to be a story behind that.”
Well, sure, get back in the car and I’ll tell you more as we go…
Monday, October 29, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
Charleston
The power went out over an hour ago. The shutters are closed up over the windows, rattling their clasps and hinges, banging the frames. The wind pulls at the walls and howls through the trees. Lightning flashes in long multiple-stroke strobes followed close by the thought-stopping percussion of thunder that rattles the china in the cabinets and vibrates the floor from beneath your feet. The rain pounds the tin roof of the veranda and sends up a spray off the porch deck. The gutters overflow and the drive is awash with its own rapids.
It’s been getting noticeably worse by the quarter hour. You’re dreading sitting this one out in the dark. You still don’t know what led you to this miscalculation. You waved off the last ride inland so confidently. It seems just the thing you used to think you could count on me for – maybe it is over finally.
Still, you’ve been leaning up against the door frame, keeping watch through the screen door at an empty road. The trees thrash about as if wildly waving their arms to get someone’s attention for you. The air draws a voice from the siding now and again that seems to call out, “Hey!” then pauses, expecting an answer. You wipe the wetness from your cheeks, most of it rainspray off the screen door.
There was some thing in that last book that showed up that made you try Charleston. Made you dream of old world charm and craftsmanship, the scent of the mandevilla, the taste of bourbon in the afternoon, the methodical pace of the bay, unhurried casual drawls, gentlemen and ladies and parasols. Maybe you read too much into it. It came without a note, not even a smiley, maybe it wasn’t even from me,… and now you’re stuck in the path of the storm.
Maybe you’ve made too much of being able to trust your intuition with me. Maybe it was a moment of weakness that you should have turned away from quicker. Maybe you were hoping to let yourself be wrong just to show yourself it was over. Maybe I misled you on purpose – would I be spiteful like that? The thoughts chase themselves around an impenetrable funnel cloud in your head. It always seemed like it was too easy before; the let down was bound to follow, wasn’t it? You wipe your cheek again, and the coolness of the damp focuses you back on the present, and you look beyond the drips collecting in the spaces of the screen. Still no movement out on the road, there’d at least be lights visible. The tree branches are starting to protest from the continuous strain. Was that a gunshot? No, a tree trunk popping as it starts to split. There’s another one, then another in a lower register, and the old tree by the drive has given in; accelerating down, dragging its roots up out of the ground as it makes impact. Insurmountable forces have blocked the way – no use waiting or watching now, may as well finish closing up.
You step back away from the threshold and into the dark and throw yourself into closing the door, keeping your hand on the bolt handle so you can find it to turn it. Blindly, you turn it and feel it latch. The you let your hand fall away from the handle and pivot to lean your back against the door. As you’re realizing that it is not going to work out like in the stories, you let your weight fall fully back on the door, trying to take support from it. Close your eyes from the darkness to try and find the next image for this story, but only seeing brief flashes of the others. Too few and too short to string them together. You drop back into the present, feeling your weight against the door, the pressure of the unseen in the dark, your pulse (you’ve always tried to control it before) in every artery, the shallowness of your breath like when you cannot gauge the depth you’re in.
A barrage of thunder shakes the house. It is nearly constant now, only brief pauses between. An aftershock shakes the door against your back, and the floor under you, and a chandelier somewhere in the darkness. The door shakes again. Then again, more forcefully as if the door were trying to match the pounding of your heart with a pounding of its own. Now again, almost purposefully, like the thunder means to bring the door down on you,… like someone’s pounding on it,… like someone pounding on it? Something reckless in you convinces you to risk it. Turn the bolt handle, feel it click in the open position. Brush your hand down the edge of the frame to find the knob. Take a breath, stop yourself from wishing, turn the knob.
The door flies open and shoves you back as it and I are thrown inward by the wind. I give you a hand up and try to hand you a flashlight. Instead of reaching out to take it, you’re hitting me with the heels of your hands on my arms and chest, each impact splashing on my clothes waterlogged mostly by the rain. I put up no defense, leaving my hands at my sides and waiting it out, and dripping in the doorway.
When you’re done, you look down at the circle of light on the floor from the flashlight. An occasional sparkle gets thrown from the drops falling from my eyebrows and chin. They draw your gaze up to my face. It’s too loud to try and speak: we stand in the wind coming though the door and regard each other. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better, but it’s clear that I did all that I could. You still won’t take the flashlight from me, so I lay it on the ground and head back out on the porch. Returning, I distribute and light some candle lamps, set a battery lantern down in the beam of the flashlight, and put a picnic basket down in the next room.
I take your elbow and bend forward to speak into your ear:
You’ll be okay now? Stay in until it’s all over: it’s real mean out there.
I pause, considering what I’d planned to say next, but instead swallow it with pursed lips and straighten back up, letting go of your elbow. I turn back to the door with my head down and my eyes closed. I wipe at least the rain off my nose and pull my cap down tighter. It’s going to take a good grip on the door handle to get it pulled closed, but that doesn’t explain all the extra tension in my forearm as I pause in the threshold to gather myself. You move just in time to stop me, stepping into the door (“wait, it’s a big house, I’m sure there’s room for you somewhere”). Still, I keep my grip on the outer doorknob (but, there’s only one picnic basket), until you put your hand over mine and lift it off (“then you’ll have to be happy with what I can share of it. You can have any stinky cheese or anchovies there might be in it for starters…”).
In the morning, I wake from where I was sleeping on the floor propped up against the end of the couch. I'm cold all over except my hand, extended over the edge of the couch and held in yours. For a long time, I close my eyes and focus on that point of contact. Rain patters against the shutters still. I climb up to my feet slowly, crawling over to the bookcase to pull myself up on. Still damp, I shiver briefly as I slog across to open the window and the shutters. I put my hand on my chin and try to push the crick out of my neck as I look out. The rain’s still pretty heavy, and falling out of a dark sky. Now and again the wind kicks up a bit and blows some drops through the window.
Haven’t been able to get any writing done for weeks. Don’t remember how it came to this. I might try some now, but no notebook, no pen, and no reason to think there’d be any more stories. You’re stirring on the couch now, turning over and wrapping up in the blanket, then opening your eyes to catch me watching you.
Hey, the worst of it seems to be over. Want to take a walk around, see if there’s anyplace with power we can get a coffee from?
“Yeah, I’d do that with you. You okay?”
I think so, a little sore, pretty tired. A hot beverage might just do the trick.
“I’ve got some things for you.”
Yeah, what?
You reach over to the coffee table to grab them, and toss me a pen and notebook.
(How’d you know?
“I’d been reading along.”
I thought you’d gone.
“I thought you’d quit.”
Yeah, because you’d gone.
“Yeah, because you’d quit.”
Pause.
Nervous laughter, hesitant at first, then breaking into a full laugh out loud.)
That’s perfect. Just what I needed.
“So, you got a story for me or what?”
Let’s go see if we can find that coffee first.
It’s been getting noticeably worse by the quarter hour. You’re dreading sitting this one out in the dark. You still don’t know what led you to this miscalculation. You waved off the last ride inland so confidently. It seems just the thing you used to think you could count on me for – maybe it is over finally.
Still, you’ve been leaning up against the door frame, keeping watch through the screen door at an empty road. The trees thrash about as if wildly waving their arms to get someone’s attention for you. The air draws a voice from the siding now and again that seems to call out, “Hey!” then pauses, expecting an answer. You wipe the wetness from your cheeks, most of it rainspray off the screen door.
There was some thing in that last book that showed up that made you try Charleston. Made you dream of old world charm and craftsmanship, the scent of the mandevilla, the taste of bourbon in the afternoon, the methodical pace of the bay, unhurried casual drawls, gentlemen and ladies and parasols. Maybe you read too much into it. It came without a note, not even a smiley, maybe it wasn’t even from me,… and now you’re stuck in the path of the storm.
Maybe you’ve made too much of being able to trust your intuition with me. Maybe it was a moment of weakness that you should have turned away from quicker. Maybe you were hoping to let yourself be wrong just to show yourself it was over. Maybe I misled you on purpose – would I be spiteful like that? The thoughts chase themselves around an impenetrable funnel cloud in your head. It always seemed like it was too easy before; the let down was bound to follow, wasn’t it? You wipe your cheek again, and the coolness of the damp focuses you back on the present, and you look beyond the drips collecting in the spaces of the screen. Still no movement out on the road, there’d at least be lights visible. The tree branches are starting to protest from the continuous strain. Was that a gunshot? No, a tree trunk popping as it starts to split. There’s another one, then another in a lower register, and the old tree by the drive has given in; accelerating down, dragging its roots up out of the ground as it makes impact. Insurmountable forces have blocked the way – no use waiting or watching now, may as well finish closing up.
You step back away from the threshold and into the dark and throw yourself into closing the door, keeping your hand on the bolt handle so you can find it to turn it. Blindly, you turn it and feel it latch. The you let your hand fall away from the handle and pivot to lean your back against the door. As you’re realizing that it is not going to work out like in the stories, you let your weight fall fully back on the door, trying to take support from it. Close your eyes from the darkness to try and find the next image for this story, but only seeing brief flashes of the others. Too few and too short to string them together. You drop back into the present, feeling your weight against the door, the pressure of the unseen in the dark, your pulse (you’ve always tried to control it before) in every artery, the shallowness of your breath like when you cannot gauge the depth you’re in.
A barrage of thunder shakes the house. It is nearly constant now, only brief pauses between. An aftershock shakes the door against your back, and the floor under you, and a chandelier somewhere in the darkness. The door shakes again. Then again, more forcefully as if the door were trying to match the pounding of your heart with a pounding of its own. Now again, almost purposefully, like the thunder means to bring the door down on you,… like someone’s pounding on it,… like someone pounding on it? Something reckless in you convinces you to risk it. Turn the bolt handle, feel it click in the open position. Brush your hand down the edge of the frame to find the knob. Take a breath, stop yourself from wishing, turn the knob.
The door flies open and shoves you back as it and I are thrown inward by the wind. I give you a hand up and try to hand you a flashlight. Instead of reaching out to take it, you’re hitting me with the heels of your hands on my arms and chest, each impact splashing on my clothes waterlogged mostly by the rain. I put up no defense, leaving my hands at my sides and waiting it out, and dripping in the doorway.
When you’re done, you look down at the circle of light on the floor from the flashlight. An occasional sparkle gets thrown from the drops falling from my eyebrows and chin. They draw your gaze up to my face. It’s too loud to try and speak: we stand in the wind coming though the door and regard each other. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better, but it’s clear that I did all that I could. You still won’t take the flashlight from me, so I lay it on the ground and head back out on the porch. Returning, I distribute and light some candle lamps, set a battery lantern down in the beam of the flashlight, and put a picnic basket down in the next room.
I take your elbow and bend forward to speak into your ear:
You’ll be okay now? Stay in until it’s all over: it’s real mean out there.
I pause, considering what I’d planned to say next, but instead swallow it with pursed lips and straighten back up, letting go of your elbow. I turn back to the door with my head down and my eyes closed. I wipe at least the rain off my nose and pull my cap down tighter. It’s going to take a good grip on the door handle to get it pulled closed, but that doesn’t explain all the extra tension in my forearm as I pause in the threshold to gather myself. You move just in time to stop me, stepping into the door (“wait, it’s a big house, I’m sure there’s room for you somewhere”). Still, I keep my grip on the outer doorknob (but, there’s only one picnic basket), until you put your hand over mine and lift it off (“then you’ll have to be happy with what I can share of it. You can have any stinky cheese or anchovies there might be in it for starters…”).
In the morning, I wake from where I was sleeping on the floor propped up against the end of the couch. I'm cold all over except my hand, extended over the edge of the couch and held in yours. For a long time, I close my eyes and focus on that point of contact. Rain patters against the shutters still. I climb up to my feet slowly, crawling over to the bookcase to pull myself up on. Still damp, I shiver briefly as I slog across to open the window and the shutters. I put my hand on my chin and try to push the crick out of my neck as I look out. The rain’s still pretty heavy, and falling out of a dark sky. Now and again the wind kicks up a bit and blows some drops through the window.
Haven’t been able to get any writing done for weeks. Don’t remember how it came to this. I might try some now, but no notebook, no pen, and no reason to think there’d be any more stories. You’re stirring on the couch now, turning over and wrapping up in the blanket, then opening your eyes to catch me watching you.
Hey, the worst of it seems to be over. Want to take a walk around, see if there’s anyplace with power we can get a coffee from?
“Yeah, I’d do that with you. You okay?”
I think so, a little sore, pretty tired. A hot beverage might just do the trick.
“I’ve got some things for you.”
Yeah, what?
You reach over to the coffee table to grab them, and toss me a pen and notebook.
(How’d you know?
“I’d been reading along.”
I thought you’d gone.
“I thought you’d quit.”
Yeah, because you’d gone.
“Yeah, because you’d quit.”
Pause.
Nervous laughter, hesitant at first, then breaking into a full laugh out loud.)
That’s perfect. Just what I needed.
“So, you got a story for me or what?”
Let’s go see if we can find that coffee first.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Thomas II
“Are you all done with the water filter already?’
Yeah, the thing took about 15 minutes, went exactly according to plan this time.
“What are you doing now?”
Finally getting to the second half of that piece at the falls.
“You’ll be careful? I don’t want any of that spilling over and manifesting in the plumbing you just finished.”
Good point. It’s cool though, we’re leaving the park at this point and going into town.
“Leaving? I thought it had just gotten good.”
I don’t make the news, I just report it -- Hey! What do you mean, “just gotten good”?
“Oh stop it, you know perfectly well what I mean. I’m going to go get a drink of water from the new filter, you want anything?”
Not right now, I gotta get this thing down while I’ve got a bit of time.
We almost miss the town. That is we saw the sign, and drove down the street thinking there had to be more of it than that. Got to the other side of town within a few blocks. Still hadn’t seen the place, so we turned around and headed back on the other street, finally spotting the sign at the end. We circle around the entire town again, and 3 minutes later we’re parking at the far end of the street the place is on. The town has seen better days -- most of the shops seem shuttered. There is one woodshop with big windows in the front so you can see in to the works in progress.
Wow. Look at that. And smell that? Mmm, sawdust.
“If I could get that scent in a bottle…”
I’d be all yours, baby.
“But then would you be tempted to work on me?”
Is there something about me that doesn’t work now?
“You. You’re a silver-tongued one you are.”
See, now this is the kind of place I’m gonna have when I retire. Nice little shop, fully equipped, take a few jobs now and again… only without the big windows. Sometimes I’m just gonna close the door, put on a recording of power tools running, and see what I’ve got left in the mini-fridge. Then it'd be: Don’t come in just yet dear, it’s dangerous in here right now.
“Dangerous, right, sounds dangerous. So, what are you waiting for?”
What do you mean?
“You like doing that handyman stuff, why not use your current workshop and take on a few small jobs now? Why wait for retirement? You could find as much work as you could handle, maybe even make some money at it, use it to build toward that dream workshop of yours.”
I don’t know, I guess that’s just the way I started thinking about it… that’s a good idea, yeah, I might just start doing that.
(“Plus, then you’ll be ready to do things like put in water filters for me.”
See, you were way ahead of me on that one. I guess now I’ll have to come up with something else to do in my retirement. I’ve got a little time, the way my investments are working out I should be ready to retire when I’m about 100.
“I’ve got other ideas for what you’ll do in your retirement. If you get stuck, let me know.”)
I’m getting hungry, let’s get down there so we have plenty of time to eat before the show.
The Purple Fiddle used to be the town’s general store. The walls are still decorated with things that were useful once. Half of the inside has tables and chairs, booths in the middle up against the central posts, and a deli counter. The other half has rows of benches and stairs facing a stage. The entrance to the bathroom is behind the stage, and a waist high banister separates the hall way from the back of the stage.
There aren’t many people here tonight, the staff outnumbers the patrons by about 2 to 1.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“Well, let’s a least get something to eat while we’re here, and we’ll see what happens.”
The menu is unexpected, it’s not just ham sandwich and barbecue. You get the sesame chicken wrap and water, I get the Beau Thai Chicken wrap, though I was within an inch of trying the smoked trout sushi, and a Rogue Honey Cream Ale. We go have a seat in a booth while our wraps are getting made. You look puzzled and a little concerned when yours shows up with an empty Mason canning jar.
It’s for your water. Go fill it at the cooler there with the big (that’s gotta be what, 10 gallons?) glass water bottle. Actually here, I’ll go get it, I’m gonna get one for myself too. I better hydrate before I start on that beer, gotta drive back tonight still.
When I go up to the counter, the woman behind it smiles at me and offers me a couple slices of lemon for the jars, which I accept. Thanks.
/”Sure, you let me know if you guys need anything else”/
When I get back with the waters, you’ve been playing with the wooden peg puzzle at the table. You’ve also been looking at the brochures.
“We don’t have to drive back tonight. They have a bed-n-breakfast here.”
I know, I checked it out already when I was planning this. It’s all full up tonight.
“Oh, sorry, maybe next time? I can do some of the driving.”
Okay. We’ll see how it goes.
The band is setting up and warming up. The place is starting to get crowded. The two of us having a booth all to ourselves is getting more and more conspicuous. By the time we’re through eating the place is packed. The whole town must be here, and another whole town’s worth has driven in. Hospitable hosts and hostesses, and gracious appreciative guests. When I get back from the counter with an ice cream to split for dessert, you have a question on your face.
“I hope this is okay, but I did something.”
I’m sure it’s okay, what is it?
You point to the couple with a small child across the rail from us in the performance section. The three of them have only been able to find two seats.
“I asked them if they’d want to swap those two seats up front for our booth. They didn’t look very comfortable like that.”
That sounds like a great idea. It’ll be fun to sit near the front too. And nobody has to worry about my standing up and blocking their view, my legs are tired.
The band is simple: stand-up bass, acoustic guitar, and a percussionist with an accessorized washboard and deep pockets (kazoo, harmonica, bike bell, toy cymbal, wood block, cowbell, spoons,…). The lead’s got a steady deep voice that he occasionally allows to crack or climb into a squeezed higher pitch. It’s a musical trip through Appalachia and through time, roots blues and updated Americana classics.
“We will with patience bide the time, with blood, brick, and wine.”
There’s an occasional joke or gimmick in most of the songs, that you can catch if you’re paying attention. Each one is good for a laugh. They try to offer them deadpan, but they’re having too much fun and occasionally a grin forces out at their own joke.
“Blue drag, you got my soul on fire. Oh I’ll never tire of that slow drag.”
The place is really rockin’, or hootin’, or ananny’n, or whatever the term would be. I’ll bet it’s kicking up the sawdust down the street. The Wiyos are giving it all and working up a sweat. The waitresses have all lined up along the rail behind the stage, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, swaying and dancing and smiling as one (there’s a melancholy in their joy though, I wonder if the end of the summer doesn’t mean some of them leaving for school, maybe not coming back). The crowd claps to the up beat though, and gets it right, and keeps it tight, and the band races in the spaces singing about Strawberry Wine (if it was on the menu, I’m sure it’d sell out). You bump me to get my attention, bringing up thumb and finger tips pinched together to gesture. Yeah, I have a pen, and some bits of note card, here.
At the end of the show, we make our way out to the door, waiting for everyone else who was sitting behind us. Didn’t manage to get a disc – one of the disadvantages to sitting up front is that sometimes they’re all sold out by the time you get to the table. The bands you’d most want to sit up front for are the ones most likely to be sold out when you get to the door. I’m going to have to come up with a better plan for that. It had gotten so warm inside with everybody packed in; it really makes it a shock to find how cold its gotten outside. I put my arm around you on the way to the car, wishing we’d parked closer.
“You’re always so warm.”
…Check it and see, I got a fever of a hundred and three, come on baby you can do more than dance,…
“Awful, just awful.”
Alright, I’ll scratch that one off the list then.
The car’s kept some heat in it. After I let you in, I go to the trunk and get out my sweatshirt for you. The windows start to fog up on the inside.
“Too bad about the B-n-B, you sure you’re going to be okay? How many beers did you have?”
Two, thanks for asking. I’m okay, a little tired, but I think I’ll make it. If I start to fade, I’ll ask you to drive. I look for something peppy to put on to keep us alert, and decide on my Best Of CD of Brett and his Old 97’s. At one point, it occurs to me that the road we’re on must be called Oppenheimer. Any coffee left in that thermos?
“A little, you want me to pour it for you?”
Bitter!
“Please what?”
No, not bitte, bitter
“It’s hard to tell the difference with your Northern Virginia accent.”
The coffee turns out to not be enough to keep me awake enough. I’d better pull over.
“Smooth. Too tired? We’ll have to pull over here. Maybe the car won’t start again and we’ll have to huddle together against the cold.”
No, really, you stay in here and stay warm, I just gotta breathe in some cold air and move around a bit and wake up.
You still get out, and look up, “Totally clear sky, crisp air, aren’t you going to point out any stars or constellations or nothing? It’s cold though, even in your sweatshirt, why don’t you come sit on the hood with me and wrap me up?”
Now who’s the smooth one? What? No, I’m not complaining. Hey! What? Truck pulling over right behind us. Dude, you could at least put your lights off, have a little understanding. Fine (“That was a good one, I think you’re starting to get the hang of it.” Thanks, I study with a master of the art.), if that’s how they’re going to be, let’s get going again.
About a half an hour later, there’s a sign for an overlook at the top of the next crest. We pull over again. It’s still going to be cold out.
“I’m counting on it – you’ll make sure I’m okay.”
I can’t believe it, another truck. Or is it the same truck? You didn’t used to date a trucker did you?
“Are we gonna start prying into who’s dated whom?”
Um ,no, probably not. Maybe we look like we’re trying to read. Everyone seems to think shining a light on us is necessary. This is ridiculous, let’s just keep going. They’re not following are they?
Here, this was to be the place, a little pull off from the road, a small dirt road. Pull along a few dozen feet and park at the base of a tree. Try again?
“Yeah, let’s”
Getting out this time, I reach across the roof to grab on and let myself stretch. I can see my breath. I press my forehead against the cold roof to try to relieve the dryness of my eyes. Another late night. Turn around to lean back over the edge of the roof and crack my upper back. You come aroung the car to stand next to me and lean back also.
“Thought you weren’t supposed to crack it like that?”
Who said that?
“I think I read it somewhere.”
It’s okay, I know what I’m doing.
You do, do you? Then why park under a tree for stargazing?”
Thought we might walk around a bit first, stretching my legs might help.
“It’s cold though, you want the sweatshirt back?”
I want to be cold, maybe even catch a shiver or two, shake me awake.
“It’s too cold to walk though, plus, here’s another truck to shine it’s brights on us.”
This is stupid, I’m gonna go talk to this driver.
“No, you’re not, let’s just get in and drive. We can come back out here again to see the stars.”
You’re right, if we go straight through from here, we should get back at about 2.
“Maybe I could set the coffee pot back again, you’d have time to come up and chat for a while.”
That’s a plan that just might fly, if I can keep this story together until then. I’m getting sleepy, and it’s starting to get a little choppy (“and repetitive, and surreal, what’s the thing with the trucks?” I don’t know, they just keep showing up.).
“I’m sorry the stargazing didn’t work out, I like doing that with you.”
Hmmm, Early AM, first Sunday of September, heading south, I might be able to conjure up a consolation or two.
About a half hour later, there they are. Unlit highway, dark sky, and the Aurigids (or are they the September Perseids?) streaking across the sky behind the windshield. Those are good for a wish. We get a good half hour of viewing as we continue heading in, getting more suburban and lit until we can’t tell which are meteors and which are glints from the streetlights. In Manassas, I almost run a red light, and pull over.
I can’t keep going any longer. Struggling to even keep my head up. Eyelids impossibly heavy. You better take over from here. I can’t finish, tried to fit in too much in one day.
“Not coming up then.”
Maybe next time (“You gonna give me that pen before you fall asleep? I can take it from here.” Okay, here you go, let’s see what you got.), or maybe I’ll dream it presently. (Hey, nice one. “Thanks, now lean up against the passenger window and drop off to sleep. I’ll take care of a few dreams for you, make sure I leave the pen with you after you drop off. Okay? Ulysses? Oh,…”)
Yeah, the thing took about 15 minutes, went exactly according to plan this time.
“What are you doing now?”
Finally getting to the second half of that piece at the falls.
“You’ll be careful? I don’t want any of that spilling over and manifesting in the plumbing you just finished.”
Good point. It’s cool though, we’re leaving the park at this point and going into town.
“Leaving? I thought it had just gotten good.”
I don’t make the news, I just report it -- Hey! What do you mean, “just gotten good”?
“Oh stop it, you know perfectly well what I mean. I’m going to go get a drink of water from the new filter, you want anything?”
Not right now, I gotta get this thing down while I’ve got a bit of time.
We almost miss the town. That is we saw the sign, and drove down the street thinking there had to be more of it than that. Got to the other side of town within a few blocks. Still hadn’t seen the place, so we turned around and headed back on the other street, finally spotting the sign at the end. We circle around the entire town again, and 3 minutes later we’re parking at the far end of the street the place is on. The town has seen better days -- most of the shops seem shuttered. There is one woodshop with big windows in the front so you can see in to the works in progress.
Wow. Look at that. And smell that? Mmm, sawdust.
“If I could get that scent in a bottle…”
I’d be all yours, baby.
“But then would you be tempted to work on me?”
Is there something about me that doesn’t work now?
“You. You’re a silver-tongued one you are.”
See, now this is the kind of place I’m gonna have when I retire. Nice little shop, fully equipped, take a few jobs now and again… only without the big windows. Sometimes I’m just gonna close the door, put on a recording of power tools running, and see what I’ve got left in the mini-fridge. Then it'd be: Don’t come in just yet dear, it’s dangerous in here right now.
“Dangerous, right, sounds dangerous. So, what are you waiting for?”
What do you mean?
“You like doing that handyman stuff, why not use your current workshop and take on a few small jobs now? Why wait for retirement? You could find as much work as you could handle, maybe even make some money at it, use it to build toward that dream workshop of yours.”
I don’t know, I guess that’s just the way I started thinking about it… that’s a good idea, yeah, I might just start doing that.
(“Plus, then you’ll be ready to do things like put in water filters for me.”
See, you were way ahead of me on that one. I guess now I’ll have to come up with something else to do in my retirement. I’ve got a little time, the way my investments are working out I should be ready to retire when I’m about 100.
“I’ve got other ideas for what you’ll do in your retirement. If you get stuck, let me know.”)
I’m getting hungry, let’s get down there so we have plenty of time to eat before the show.
The Purple Fiddle used to be the town’s general store. The walls are still decorated with things that were useful once. Half of the inside has tables and chairs, booths in the middle up against the central posts, and a deli counter. The other half has rows of benches and stairs facing a stage. The entrance to the bathroom is behind the stage, and a waist high banister separates the hall way from the back of the stage.
There aren’t many people here tonight, the staff outnumbers the patrons by about 2 to 1.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“Well, let’s a least get something to eat while we’re here, and we’ll see what happens.”
The menu is unexpected, it’s not just ham sandwich and barbecue. You get the sesame chicken wrap and water, I get the Beau Thai Chicken wrap, though I was within an inch of trying the smoked trout sushi, and a Rogue Honey Cream Ale. We go have a seat in a booth while our wraps are getting made. You look puzzled and a little concerned when yours shows up with an empty Mason canning jar.
It’s for your water. Go fill it at the cooler there with the big (that’s gotta be what, 10 gallons?) glass water bottle. Actually here, I’ll go get it, I’m gonna get one for myself too. I better hydrate before I start on that beer, gotta drive back tonight still.
When I go up to the counter, the woman behind it smiles at me and offers me a couple slices of lemon for the jars, which I accept. Thanks.
/”Sure, you let me know if you guys need anything else”/
When I get back with the waters, you’ve been playing with the wooden peg puzzle at the table. You’ve also been looking at the brochures.
“We don’t have to drive back tonight. They have a bed-n-breakfast here.”
I know, I checked it out already when I was planning this. It’s all full up tonight.
“Oh, sorry, maybe next time? I can do some of the driving.”
Okay. We’ll see how it goes.
The band is setting up and warming up. The place is starting to get crowded. The two of us having a booth all to ourselves is getting more and more conspicuous. By the time we’re through eating the place is packed. The whole town must be here, and another whole town’s worth has driven in. Hospitable hosts and hostesses, and gracious appreciative guests. When I get back from the counter with an ice cream to split for dessert, you have a question on your face.
“I hope this is okay, but I did something.”
I’m sure it’s okay, what is it?
You point to the couple with a small child across the rail from us in the performance section. The three of them have only been able to find two seats.
“I asked them if they’d want to swap those two seats up front for our booth. They didn’t look very comfortable like that.”
That sounds like a great idea. It’ll be fun to sit near the front too. And nobody has to worry about my standing up and blocking their view, my legs are tired.
The band is simple: stand-up bass, acoustic guitar, and a percussionist with an accessorized washboard and deep pockets (kazoo, harmonica, bike bell, toy cymbal, wood block, cowbell, spoons,…). The lead’s got a steady deep voice that he occasionally allows to crack or climb into a squeezed higher pitch. It’s a musical trip through Appalachia and through time, roots blues and updated Americana classics.
“We will with patience bide the time, with blood, brick, and wine.”
There’s an occasional joke or gimmick in most of the songs, that you can catch if you’re paying attention. Each one is good for a laugh. They try to offer them deadpan, but they’re having too much fun and occasionally a grin forces out at their own joke.
“Blue drag, you got my soul on fire. Oh I’ll never tire of that slow drag.”
The place is really rockin’, or hootin’, or ananny’n, or whatever the term would be. I’ll bet it’s kicking up the sawdust down the street. The Wiyos are giving it all and working up a sweat. The waitresses have all lined up along the rail behind the stage, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, swaying and dancing and smiling as one (there’s a melancholy in their joy though, I wonder if the end of the summer doesn’t mean some of them leaving for school, maybe not coming back). The crowd claps to the up beat though, and gets it right, and keeps it tight, and the band races in the spaces singing about Strawberry Wine (if it was on the menu, I’m sure it’d sell out). You bump me to get my attention, bringing up thumb and finger tips pinched together to gesture. Yeah, I have a pen, and some bits of note card, here.
At the end of the show, we make our way out to the door, waiting for everyone else who was sitting behind us. Didn’t manage to get a disc – one of the disadvantages to sitting up front is that sometimes they’re all sold out by the time you get to the table. The bands you’d most want to sit up front for are the ones most likely to be sold out when you get to the door. I’m going to have to come up with a better plan for that. It had gotten so warm inside with everybody packed in; it really makes it a shock to find how cold its gotten outside. I put my arm around you on the way to the car, wishing we’d parked closer.
“You’re always so warm.”
…Check it and see, I got a fever of a hundred and three, come on baby you can do more than dance,…
“Awful, just awful.”
Alright, I’ll scratch that one off the list then.
The car’s kept some heat in it. After I let you in, I go to the trunk and get out my sweatshirt for you. The windows start to fog up on the inside.
“Too bad about the B-n-B, you sure you’re going to be okay? How many beers did you have?”
Two, thanks for asking. I’m okay, a little tired, but I think I’ll make it. If I start to fade, I’ll ask you to drive. I look for something peppy to put on to keep us alert, and decide on my Best Of CD of Brett and his Old 97’s. At one point, it occurs to me that the road we’re on must be called Oppenheimer. Any coffee left in that thermos?
“A little, you want me to pour it for you?”
Bitter!
“Please what?”
No, not bitte, bitter
“It’s hard to tell the difference with your Northern Virginia accent.”
The coffee turns out to not be enough to keep me awake enough. I’d better pull over.
“Smooth. Too tired? We’ll have to pull over here. Maybe the car won’t start again and we’ll have to huddle together against the cold.”
No, really, you stay in here and stay warm, I just gotta breathe in some cold air and move around a bit and wake up.
You still get out, and look up, “Totally clear sky, crisp air, aren’t you going to point out any stars or constellations or nothing? It’s cold though, even in your sweatshirt, why don’t you come sit on the hood with me and wrap me up?”
Now who’s the smooth one? What? No, I’m not complaining. Hey! What? Truck pulling over right behind us. Dude, you could at least put your lights off, have a little understanding. Fine (“That was a good one, I think you’re starting to get the hang of it.” Thanks, I study with a master of the art.), if that’s how they’re going to be, let’s get going again.
About a half an hour later, there’s a sign for an overlook at the top of the next crest. We pull over again. It’s still going to be cold out.
“I’m counting on it – you’ll make sure I’m okay.”
I can’t believe it, another truck. Or is it the same truck? You didn’t used to date a trucker did you?
“Are we gonna start prying into who’s dated whom?”
Um ,no, probably not. Maybe we look like we’re trying to read. Everyone seems to think shining a light on us is necessary. This is ridiculous, let’s just keep going. They’re not following are they?
Here, this was to be the place, a little pull off from the road, a small dirt road. Pull along a few dozen feet and park at the base of a tree. Try again?
“Yeah, let’s”
Getting out this time, I reach across the roof to grab on and let myself stretch. I can see my breath. I press my forehead against the cold roof to try to relieve the dryness of my eyes. Another late night. Turn around to lean back over the edge of the roof and crack my upper back. You come aroung the car to stand next to me and lean back also.
“Thought you weren’t supposed to crack it like that?”
Who said that?
“I think I read it somewhere.”
It’s okay, I know what I’m doing.
You do, do you? Then why park under a tree for stargazing?”
Thought we might walk around a bit first, stretching my legs might help.
“It’s cold though, you want the sweatshirt back?”
I want to be cold, maybe even catch a shiver or two, shake me awake.
“It’s too cold to walk though, plus, here’s another truck to shine it’s brights on us.”
This is stupid, I’m gonna go talk to this driver.
“No, you’re not, let’s just get in and drive. We can come back out here again to see the stars.”
You’re right, if we go straight through from here, we should get back at about 2.
“Maybe I could set the coffee pot back again, you’d have time to come up and chat for a while.”
That’s a plan that just might fly, if I can keep this story together until then. I’m getting sleepy, and it’s starting to get a little choppy (“and repetitive, and surreal, what’s the thing with the trucks?” I don’t know, they just keep showing up.).
“I’m sorry the stargazing didn’t work out, I like doing that with you.”
Hmmm, Early AM, first Sunday of September, heading south, I might be able to conjure up a consolation or two.
About a half hour later, there they are. Unlit highway, dark sky, and the Aurigids (or are they the September Perseids?) streaking across the sky behind the windshield. Those are good for a wish. We get a good half hour of viewing as we continue heading in, getting more suburban and lit until we can’t tell which are meteors and which are glints from the streetlights. In Manassas, I almost run a red light, and pull over.
I can’t keep going any longer. Struggling to even keep my head up. Eyelids impossibly heavy. You better take over from here. I can’t finish, tried to fit in too much in one day.
“Not coming up then.”
Maybe next time (“You gonna give me that pen before you fall asleep? I can take it from here.” Okay, here you go, let’s see what you got.), or maybe I’ll dream it presently. (Hey, nice one. “Thanks, now lean up against the passenger window and drop off to sleep. I’ll take care of a few dreams for you, make sure I leave the pen with you after you drop off. Okay? Ulysses? Oh,…”)
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