Month: March 2013

The Taste of Russian to a Party

Teódolo asked, “May I ask you a question?”

Melón mumbled something and nodded.

Teódolo stood and opened the blinds, avoiding Melón’s gaze. There was neither sun nor sign of calm. The street people beyond the wrought iron gates were trapped in the late afternoon march as they moved past and alongside each other politely and with great efficiency.

“I hope you will forgive me…” He stepped away from the window and faced Melón hesitantly. This was not peculiar behavior to Melón who was used to the tragedy of Teódolo’s face. The crenulations on the surface of his cheeks glistened from sunlight reflected off the surface of the glass table. “I just want to know if I may have a day off tomorrow.”

Melón spit out the wad of banana leaf he held in his mouth and eyed the old man warily. “And why do you need that?”

“My truck transmission is sticking, and I need to take a day to fix it.”

“What? Your truck transmission is bad? Well, I am sorry, Teódolo. I amsorry your miserable pile of rust is not working. You ingrate! You are already off work on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays! I pay you to take care of my daughter and that includes tomorrow. Now come here, now. Tell me about her day at school, or I’ll beat your ass.”

“Okay, sorry.” Teódolo rubbed the spot on his nose where the long white hairs grew and wondered about the Brazilian crotch wax before taking a seat on the latticework of the lawnchair and leaning forward, close to Melón’s face. He tried and failed to hide the frown.

“Well, look. Lucinda has been around with some guy who comes from Manchester. His family comes from that African money. Gold, diamonds, that shit.”

“To hell with his family,” said Melón. “What else about him? Is he fucking her?”

“No, no I did not see that. I am with her like chewing gum, boss. I never let her out of my sight.”

“I hope so because if that girl comes in here with a baby, you are the one I am going to beat before I leave you dead in the ocean.”

Teódolo swallowed and nodded obsequiously, his jowls jiggling for attention. He was nervous because he knew Melón would do far worse than what he threatened.

“Do not worry. I guard her as if she is my own daughter.”

Melón chuckled and removed a green handkerchief from the front-left pocket of his bowling shirt. He looked at his reflection in the surface of the table and wiped the banana leaf spittle from the corner of his coarse black stubble.

“You do not give me confidence, Teódolo. I want you to take care of her as if she was my daughter, not one of the bitches from your neighborhood.”

Teódolo swallowed again and nodded. “Yes, boss. With my life.”

Melón knocked on the glass table and shook his head, then stood and walked through the living room to the white door of his bedroom. He left Teódolo sitting in the lawnchair, wondering if the work was worth the price.

He appeared at the front gate of Melón’s house the next morning as he did every day except the three days at the end of the week when Melón himself would take Lucinda to school and then to the shops to make purchases. Melón called it the quality time between a father and daughter and Teódolo wondered both how buying a child more of the same things was quality time and if Lucinda’s behavior around her father was the same as her behavior around Teódolo. She did not seem very mindful of him when he walked several feet behind her in school, and she behaved unsuitably loosely. She would scream and she would cry, and under no circumstances would she show sympathy or compassion for a man such as Teódolo. Her time in class was comprised of using her mobile to type and send messages, then turning to talk to either female friends or boys who could catch her attention. When she walked from class to class, she tried her best to display her chest and rear, far ahead and far behind, respectively, and Teódolo observed that as a result of this behavior, every boy in sight would follow her, sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally. Her female friends would stand beside her and they would discuss the most mundane matters that Teódolo had ever heard. Only when the school day came to an end would Lucinda allow Teódolo to walk close to her as they returned to the Mercedes in the parking lot.

He waited for several minutes before Lucinda strode out of the house in a fury, her dark hair chasing to catch up to her rapidly bobbing head and school uniform, a long pleated skirt and white blouse, rumpled at all angles. Her eyes were concealed by large sunglasses and her right hand gripped a large, red leather handbag that Teódolo had never seen before. She held it so tightly that it began to shake.

“Let’s go!” she screamed, and walked past him into the back seat of the Mercedes. Teódolo nodded and held the door for her until she threw the purse into the corner of the seat and breathed out in exasperation.

“My father! He hates that I have a life!”

“Good morning,” said Teódolo. He rolled her window up as they drove up the tree-lined avenue, passing many other large, typically white, houses, and other large, typically black, cars. The situation was like that of a diplomatic convoy except the cars did not display any nation’s flag.

Teódolo glanced in the rear-view mirror and noticed Lucinda rummaging in her purse. “Did you forget something? Do we need to go back?”

“No, no. Looking for my make-up.”

“I see. Very good.”

Lucinda glanced at herself in the same mirror and proceeded to contort her face, stick out her tongue, and pull down her eyelid.

“Very good? Very good, he says! I am not good, Teódolo! My face is hideous! My father’s constant nagging forced me to leave without applying any make-up at all. I’m a damn pig, look at me.” She brought out a plastic case and began her cosmetic routine.

“You are beautiful, Lucinda. You do not need to worry.”

Lucinda chuckled as she applied the powder to her glistening morning skin. “You think I am beautiful, do you?”

“I am just saying, you do not need to put yourself down.”

Lucinda grinned and moved to the corner of the back seat. “What else do you think of me?”

The question unnerved Teódolo and he avoided speaking until he heard her move and stretch the upholstery. “Never mind. I did not say anything.”

They turned a corner where several merchants were offering roses, counterfeit DVD discs, and cotton candy mounted along long wooden poles. Teódolo was driving too quickly for any of them to approach the car and the noise from their sales pitches quickly passed.

“You know why my father chose you?” asked Lucinda while in the throes of applying mascara aboard a moving vehicle.

“No.”

“Because you’re so ugly that I’d never sleep with you.”

“I see.”

Lucinda sighed and turned to look at the side of street. “You think you’re ugly?”

“I am what I am,” said Teódolo, adding, “I am old.”

“And if I decide to sleep with you one day, what will you do?”

“Do not speak that way, Lucinda. Please, your father.”

“Yes,” she said. “A complete idiot.”

Teódolo sighed and contemplated turning the radio on, but such rudeness had the potential to anger Lucinda, and that in turn had the potential to anger Melón. If Melón was angered severely enough Teódolo would consider leaving the city altogether.

Lucinda was applying lipstick at a stop sign, a rich, carnation red, when she paused and called to Teódolo. He turned his head to the side just as Lucinda leaned forward and sloppily pressed her lips to his mouth. The lipstick smeared onto his lips and the stubble around them.

Lucinda smiled and leaned back. “It looks good on you, don’t remove it. It’s my favorite color. They call it Russian to a Party.”

Teódolo grumbled. After several clumsy wipes some of the waxy red substance found its way into his mouth, and he made a face that amused Lucinda.

“What’s the matter?”

“It tastes awful.”

“It’s not meant to be eaten, stupid.”

“I see.” He used a handkerchief to remove what his hand had not, and checked himself thoroughly in the mirror. Such impropriety was dangerous, and his heart rate climbed accordingly until he was certain that no trace of the lipstick remained on his lips or face.

“Why did you want to get out of work today?” asked Lucinda once she had completed applying her make-up and returned everything to her purse. This prompted another glance from Teódolo into the mirror where he met her smiling eyes.

“Who said that?”

“My father said. He was ranting about you and your poor, selfish ways.”

“Yes, well, it is true. I asked for a day to run simple errands when I could simply wait until the weekend.”

Lucinda smirked. “You’re a bad liar.”

“Excuse me?”

“You told my father that you were going to fix your truck’s transmission.”

Teódolo rubbed his rounded gray chin and coughed again. “I see. Well, I needed to run errands to pick up parts.”

“I didn’t mean you’re a liar because of what you said. You make it far too obvious.” She pulled a tissue from her purse and handed it to Teódolo. “You sweat and your face becomes shiny. I’m surprised my father doesn’t notice.”

Teódolo checked himself in the mirror and frowned.

“I see.”

“Just tell me the truth and my father will never hear of this.”

“Hear of what?”

“Lies,” said Lucinda. “He likes to know that he can trust people to be honest.”

Teódolo considered her statement and then nodded. “My daughter had cancer of the bones. She died. It was on this date, two years ago. I wanted to take roses to her grave.”

“You have a family?”

Teódolo swallowed and scratched his nose, using the gesture to conceal his shimmering eyes. “I had my daughter. Araceli.”

Lucinda smiled feebly and moved the hair that had come loose along the side of her face. “I’m sorry.”

They remained silent for the short remainder of the drive to the secondary school, and Teódolo scrambled to park and open the door for Lucinda so that the topic could be forgotten as quickly as possible.

Lucinda approached Teódolo, her purse hanging from her shoulder and sunglasses in hand. They stood silent, the students passing them and quickening their pace as the threat of the first bell loomed. Lucinda stepped closer and looked into his brown eyes, overlapped by the folds of his sagging lids and brows. Teódolo’s pitted cheeks began to glisten once again.

“Lucinda, if there is—”

She reached her hands up, cupping his face with her slender, brown hands, and moved her face to him, pressing her lips fully against his and parting them slightly, allowing wisps of warm breath to escape and flow over his muzzle. Teódolo remained still, unable to decide on the course of action that would not result in a beating, but was freed from making the choice when she pulled her face away.

“That’s for Araceli. Don’t eat it this time.” Lucinda turned and placed her sunglasses over her eyes as she joined the throngs of wandering students, disappearing from view in the span of time that it takes a girl to console an old and ugly man.

A Corner to Sleep In

The Shepherd approached the kitchen window. He watched as she stoked the fires of the stove. She did not look at the poker in her hand, nor the stove, nor anything in the room. Her eyes turned about as if observing but her blindness was plain to him. He walked around to the door and struggled to contain a cough. Blood gathered in his mouth and he spit.

“Best announce yourself,” said the woman.

He remained silent for a moment.

“Go on, unless you plan to invade a blind woman’s home and do what it is you’ll do.”

“A sick man,” he called out. “Not meanin’ to disturb, ma’am. Merely drawn in by the light of a warm fire.”

“And your intentions?”

“A chance at that warm fire,” he said. “And a corner to sleep in, if you’ll have me.”

“So you’re meaning to disturb?”

He turned and sat with his back to wall.

“I suppose so, yes.”

He heard her silently walk to the wall beside the door and pick up an object. Not likely to be a gun. A piece of wood or knife.

“You any good at hunting?” she asked through the door.

“Best there is.”

“’Best there is’ brings me a stag once he’s feeling better.”

“Yes, ma’am, he does,” he said.

She unlocked the door. He remained sitting for a few moments and then stood when he knew she was set in a safe place. He entered and found her facing him. She held a long, rusty sword in her hand.

“You won’t be needin’ that, ma’am. I’ll be no trouble.”

“We know that’s a lie,” she said. “Long as you bring me what you said and leave quick, there’ll be no problem.” She walked to the stove and shut the steel door. “Take them boots off. And don’t go thinking I can’t hear you if you sneak around without them. Make yourself known at all times.”

“I surely will. Thank you, ma’am. Mind if I set myself next to that stove?”

“Take your time. Suspect it’s cold out there.”

“Sure is.”

He sat on the floor again, with his back to the wall. He made no motion to remove clothing, but removed the boots. Shepherd sat and said nothing more as the woman finished her chores and disappeared into her room for the night. He lowered his hat over his eyes and slept until dawn.

Jack Mongrel

“What’d you see?” Angelina leaned out over the wooden balcony in light of the afternoon, her hair ragged and breasts shimmering. Her breath slowed as the throes of romp subsided and she regained her ladylike composure. There were few people on the street below, and none that could witness her baring all of God’s creation. She would return to this very balcony in full dress later in the afternoon and evening beneath the light of a nearby lantern, offering her wares to passers-by and the occasional farm boy who looked to make the most of his visit into town. Until then she would finish her work with this one, who calls himself “Alfred” and was likely to be a different person by the time he left town.

The man beside her ignored her as he concentrated on the row of buildings across from the way. His brows furrowed, the crevices along his forehead deep and well-entrenched after years of concentrated staring. His graying hair limply cascaded around the bloated and worn skin of his face. He would not admit to being frightened nor anxious about what he may or may not have seen, but it was his way to stand and stare. The stiff fur of the long-dead bear around his waist fluttered in the breeze, as did the fur along the man’s back and legs. After a long and punctuated silence he said, “I didn’t see nothin.”

“Then why’re you lookin out like that?”

“Cause I feel like it.”

Angelina turned back to the room. “Always squintin out at nothin, you fellas. Never get why.”

“You don’t need to get nothin,” he said. “Now get yourself back in bed. I got more comin to me.”

He stopped his turn when Angelina yelled out, and only had time to utter the words “thought I smelled—” before a bullet passed through his neck and erupted out of the other end in a cloud of red. Angelina’s shrieks heightened as the man fell to his knees, then his hands and knees, then his stomach, and finally his face. Blood continued to pour out as the other man in the room, the one holding the rifle, stepped toward the balcony. His entire form appeared to be shrouded, revealing little to no detail other than the man had a penchant for black and was not likely to pause to reveal anything more than that. As he stepped to the rail he paused long enough to reveal his face, which was dark and covered in the coarse approximation of several days of beard.

Angelina’s cries subsided as the robed man grabbed the edge of the railing with his free hand. “You tell em who done this,” was all he said, and leapt down to the dirt road below. As he walked he began to break apart the rifle in his hand, the rifle that ended the life of the notorious forger Jack Mongrel, known to make acquaintance with every prostitute in every town and village between the Four Rivers and Mount Hool.

He placed the barrel and butt of the rifle beneath his robe, and adjusted the white collar around his neck. The wide-brimmed black hat shielded his eyes from the sun. He walked toward the corner of the next road where a flittery woman and her child passed alongside him.

“Morning Father,” as she and her child walked along the lane.

“Mornin Sister.”

The sound of bells and the usual alarm that occurs after a death filled the air behind him. His gait quickened, and he kept his head low so as to not arouse the attention of the old ones sitting in front of a livery on the edge of town. He made note of the town name. He would not return to Buford for several years.

The Taste of Russian to a Party

Teódolo asked, “May I ask you a question?”

Melón mumbled something and nodded.

Teódolo stood and opened the blinds, avoiding Melón’s gaze. There was neither sun nor sign of calm. The street people beyond the wrought iron gates were trapped in the late afternoon march as they moved past and alongside each other politely and with great efficiency.

“I hope you will forgive me…” He stepped away from the window and faced Melón hesitantly. This was not peculiar behavior to Melón who was used to the tragedy of Teódolo’s face. The crenulations on the surface of his cheeks glistened from sunlight reflected off the surface of the glass table. “I just want to know if I may have a day off tomorrow.”

Melón spit out the wad of banana leaf he held in his mouth and eyed the old man warily. “And why do you need that?”

“My truck transmission is sticking, and I need to take a day to fix it.”

“What? Your truck transmission is bad? Well, I am sorry, Teódolo. I amsorry your miserable pile of rust is not working. You ingrate! You are already off work on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays! I pay you to take care of my daughter and that includes tomorrow. Now come here, now. Tell me about her day at school, or I’ll beat your ass.”

“Okay, sorry.” Teódolo rubbed the spot on his nose where the long white hairs grew and wondered about the Brazilian crotch wax before taking a seat on the latticework of the lawnchair and leaning forward, close to Melón’s face. He tried and failed to hide the frown.

“Well, look. Lucinda has been around with some guy who comes from Manchester. His family comes from that African money. Gold, diamonds, that shit.”

“To hell with his family,” said Melón. “What else about him? Is he fucking her?”

“No, no I did not see that. I am with her like chewing gum, boss. I never let her out of my sight.”

“I hope so because if that girl comes in here with a baby, you are the one I am going to beat before I leave you dead in the ocean.”

Teódolo swallowed and nodded obsequiously, his jowls jiggling for attention. He was nervous because he knew Melón would do far worse than what he threatened.

“Do not worry. I guard her as if she is my own daughter.”

Melón chuckled and removed a green handkerchief from the front-left pocket of his bowling shirt. He looked at his reflection in the surface of the table and wiped the banana leaf spittle from the corner of his coarse black stubble.

“You do not give me confidence, Teódolo. I want you to take care of her as if she was my daughter, not one of the bitches from your neighborhood.”

Teódolo swallowed again and nodded. “Yes, boss. With my life.”

Melón knocked on the glass table and shook his head, then stood and walked through the living room to the white door of his bedroom. He left Teódolo sitting in the lawnchair, wondering if the work was worth the price.

He appeared at the front gate of Melón’s house the next morning as he did every day except the three days at the end of the week when Melón himself would take Lucinda to school and then to the shops to make purchases. Melón called it the quality time between a father and daughter and Teódolo wondered both how buying a child more of the same things was quality time and if Lucinda’s behavior around her father was the same as her behavior around Teódolo. She did not seem very mindful of him when he walked several feet behind her in school, and she behaved unsuitably loosely. She would scream and she would cry, and under no circumstances would she show sympathy or compassion for a man such as Teódolo. Her time in class was comprised of using her mobile to type and send messages, then turning to talk to either female friends or boys who could catch her attention. When she walked from class to class, she tried her best to display her chest and rear, far ahead and far behind, respectively, and Teódolo observed that as a result of this behavior, every boy in sight would follow her, sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally. Her female friends would stand beside her and they would discuss the most mundane matters that Teódolo had ever heard. Only when the school day came to an end would Lucinda allow Teódolo to walk close to her as they returned to the Mercedes in the parking lot.

He waited for several minutes before Lucinda strode out of the house in a fury, her dark hair chasing to catch up to her rapidly bobbing head and school uniform, a long pleated skirt and white blouse, rumpled at all angles. Her eyes were concealed by large sunglasses and her right hand gripped a large, red leather handbag that Teódolo had never seen before. She held it so tightly that it began to shake.

“Let’s go!” she screamed, and walked past him into the back seat of the Mercedes. Teódolo nodded and held the door for her until she threw the purse into the corner of the seat and breathed out in exasperation.

“My father! He hates that I have a life!”

“Good morning,” said Teódolo. He rolled her window up as they drove up the tree-lined avenue, passing many other large, typically white, houses, and other large, typically black, cars. The situation was like that of a diplomatic convoy except the cars did not display any nation’s flag.

Teódolo glanced in the rear-view mirror and noticed Lucinda rummaging in her purse. “Did you forget something? Do we need to go back?”

“No, no. Looking for my make-up.”

“I see. Very good.”

Lucinda glanced at herself in the same mirror and proceeded to contort her face, stick out her tongue, and pull down her eyelid.

“Very good? Very good, he says! I am not good, Teódolo! My face is hideous! My father’s constant nagging forced me to leave without applying any make-up at all. I’m a damn pig, look at me.” She brought out a plastic case and began her cosmetic routine.

“You are beautiful, Lucinda. You do not need to worry.”

Lucinda chuckled as she applied the powder to her glistening morning skin. “You think I am beautiful, do you?”

“I am just saying, you do not need to put yourself down.”

Lucinda grinned and moved to the corner of the back seat. “What else do you think of me?”

The question unnerved Teódolo and he avoided speaking until he heard her move and stretch the upholstery. “Never mind. I did not say anything.”

They turned a corner where several merchants were offering roses, counterfeit DVD discs, and cotton candy mounted along long wooden poles. Teódolo was driving too quickly for any of them to approach the car and the noise from their sales pitches quickly passed.

“You know why my father chose you?” asked Lucinda while in the throes of applying mascara aboard a moving vehicle.

“No.”

“Because you’re so ugly that I’d never sleep with you.”

“I see.”

Lucinda sighed and turned to look at the side of street. “You think you’re ugly?”

“I am what I am,” said Teódolo, adding, “I am old.”

“And if I decide to sleep with you one day, what will you do?”

“Do not speak that way, Lucinda. Please, your father.”

“Yes,” she said. “A complete idiot.”

Teódolo sighed and contemplated turning the radio on, but such rudeness had the potential to anger Lucinda, and that in turn had the potential to anger Melón. If Melón was angered severely enough Teódolo would consider leaving the city altogether.

Lucinda was applying lipstick at a stop sign, a rich, carnation red, when she paused and called to Teódolo. He turned his head to the side just as Lucinda leaned forward and sloppily pressed her lips to his mouth. The lipstick smeared onto his lips and the stubble around them.

Lucinda smiled and leaned back. “It looks good on you, don’t remove it. It’s my favorite color. They call it Russian to a Party.”

Teódolo grumbled. After several clumsy wipes some of the waxy red substance found its way into his mouth, and he made a face that amused Lucinda.

“What’s the matter?”

“It tastes awful.”

“It’s not meant to be eaten, stupid.”

“I see.” He used a handkerchief to remove what his hand had not, and checked himself thoroughly in the mirror. Such impropriety was dangerous, and his heart rate climbed accordingly until he was certain that no trace of the lipstick remained on his lips or face.

“Why did you want to get out of work today?” asked Lucinda once she had completed applying her make-up and returned everything to her purse. This prompted another glance from Teódolo into the mirror where he met her smiling eyes.

“Who said that?”

“My father said. He was ranting about you and your poor, selfish ways.”

“Yes, well, it is true. I asked for a day to run simple errands when I could simply wait until the weekend.”

Lucinda smirked. “You’re a bad liar.”

“Excuse me?”

“You told my father that you were going to fix your truck’s transmission.”

Teódolo rubbed his rounded gray chin and coughed again. “I see. Well, I needed to run errands to pick up parts.”

“I didn’t mean you’re a liar because of what you said. You make it far too obvious.” She pulled a tissue from her purse and handed it to Teódolo. “You sweat and your face becomes shiny. I’m surprised my father doesn’t notice.”

Teódolo checked himself in the mirror and frowned.

“I see.”

“Just tell me the truth and my father will never hear of this.”

“Hear of what?”

“Lies,” said Lucinda. “He likes to know that he can trust people to be honest.”

Teódolo considered her statement and then nodded. “My daughter had cancer of the bones. She died. It was on this date, two years ago. I wanted to take roses to her grave.”

“You have a family?”

Teódolo swallowed and scratched his nose, using the gesture to conceal his shimmering eyes. “I had my daughter. Araceli.”

Lucinda smiled feebly and moved the hair that had come loose along the side of her face. “I’m sorry.”

They remained silent for the short remainder of the drive to the secondary school, and Teódolo scrambled to park and open the door for Lucinda so that the topic could be forgotten as quickly as possible.

Lucinda approached Teódolo, her purse hanging from her shoulder and sunglasses in hand. They stood silent, the students passing them and quickening their pace as the threat of the first bell loomed. Lucinda stepped closer and looked into his brown eyes, overlapped by the folds of his sagging lids and brows. Teódolo’s pitted cheeks began to glisten once again.

“Lucinda, if there is—”

She reached her hands up, cupping his face with her slender, brown hands, and moved her face to him, pressing her lips fully against his and parting them slightly, allowing wisps of warm breath to escape and flow over his muzzle. Teódolo remained still, unable to decide on the course of action that would not result in a beating, but was freed from making the choice when she pulled her face away.

“That’s for Araceli. Don’t eat it this time.” Lucinda turned and placed her sunglasses over her eyes as she joined the throngs of wandering students, disappearing from view in the span of time that it takes a girl to console an old and ugly man.

A Corner to Sleep In

The Shepherd approached the kitchen window. He watched as she stoked the fires of the stove. She did not look at the poker in her hand, nor the stove, nor anything in the room. Her eyes turned about as if observing but her blindness was plain to him. He walked around to the door and struggled to contain a cough. Blood gathered in his mouth and he spit.

“Best announce yourself,” said the woman.

He remained silent for a moment.

“Go on, unless you plan to invade a blind woman’s home and do what it is you’ll do.”

“A sick man,” he called out. “Not meanin’ to disturb, ma’am. Merely drawn in by the light of a warm fire.”

“And your intentions?”

“A chance at that warm fire,” he said. “And a corner to sleep in, if you’ll have me.”

“So you’re meaning to disturb?”

He turned and sat with his back to wall.

“I suppose so, yes.”

He heard her silently walk to the wall beside the door and pick up an object. Not likely to be a gun. A piece of wood or knife.

“You any good at hunting?” she asked through the door.

“Best there is.”

“’Best there is’ brings me a stag once he’s feeling better.”

“Yes, ma’am, he does,” he said.

She unlocked the door. He remained sitting for a few moments and then stood when he knew she was set in a safe place. He entered and found her facing him. She held a long, rusty sword in her hand.

“You won’t be needin’ that, ma’am. I’ll be no trouble.”

“We know that’s a lie,” she said. “Long as you bring me what you said and leave quick, there’ll be no problem.” She walked to the stove and shut the steel door. “Take them boots off. And don’t go thinking I can’t hear you if you sneak around without them. Make yourself known at all times.”

“I surely will. Thank you, ma’am. Mind if I set myself next to that stove?”

“Take your time. Suspect it’s cold out there.”

“Sure is.”

He sat on the floor again, with his back to the wall. He made no motion to remove clothing, but removed the boots. Shepherd sat and said nothing more as the woman finished her chores and disappeared into her room for the night. He lowered his hat over his eyes and slept until dawn.

Jack Mongrel

“What’d you see?” Angelina leaned out over the wooden balcony in light of the afternoon, her hair ragged and breasts shimmering. Her breath slowed as the throes of romp subsided and she regained her ladylike composure. There were few people on the street below, and none that could witness her baring all of God’s creation. She would return to this very balcony in full dress later in the afternoon and evening beneath the light of a nearby lantern, offering her wares to passers-by and the occasional farm boy who looked to make the most of his visit into town. Until then she would finish her work with this one, who calls himself “Alfred” and was likely to be a different person by the time he left town.

The man beside her ignored her as he concentrated on the row of buildings across from the way. His brows furrowed, the crevices along his forehead deep and well-entrenched after years of concentrated staring. His graying hair limply cascaded around the bloated and worn skin of his face. He would not admit to being frightened nor anxious about what he may or may not have seen, but it was his way to stand and stare. The stiff fur of the long-dead bear around his waist fluttered in the breeze, as did the fur along the man’s back and legs. After a long and punctuated silence he said, “I didn’t see nothin.”

“Then why’re you lookin out like that?”

“Cause I feel like it.”

Angelina turned back to the room. “Always squintin out at nothin, you fellas. Never get why.”

“You don’t need to get nothin,” he said. “Now get yourself back in bed. I got more comin to me.”

He stopped his turn when Angelina yelled out, and only had time to utter the words “thought I smelled—” before a bullet passed through his neck and erupted out of the other end in a cloud of red. Angelina’s shrieks heightened as the man fell to his knees, then his hands and knees, then his stomach, and finally his face. Blood continued to pour out as the other man in the room, the one holding the rifle, stepped toward the balcony. His entire form appeared to be shrouded, revealing little to no detail other than the man had a penchant for black and was not likely to pause to reveal anything more than that. As he stepped to the rail he paused long enough to reveal his face, which was dark and covered in the coarse approximation of several days of beard.

Angelina’s cries subsided as the robed man grabbed the edge of the railing with his free hand. “You tell em who done this,” was all he said, and leapt down to the dirt road below. As he walked he began to break apart the rifle in his hand, the rifle that ended the life of the notorious forger Jack Mongrel, known to make acquaintance with every prostitute in every town and village between the Four Rivers and Mount Hool.

He placed the barrel and butt of the rifle beneath his robe, and adjusted the white collar around his neck. The wide-brimmed black hat shielded his eyes from the sun. He walked toward the corner of the next road where a flittery woman and her child passed alongside him.

“Morning Father,” as she and her child walked along the lane.

“Mornin Sister.”

The sound of bells and the usual alarm that occurs after a death filled the air behind him. His gait quickened, and he kept his head low so as to not arouse the attention of the old ones sitting in front of a livery on the edge of town. He made note of the town name. He would not return to Buford for several years.

I wore this baseball cap today. Old torn thing I’ve had for years. The only one I own. Got to work and continued working on an iPad game that’s been out for months. They’re releasing a new update. Kept on it for a while and started feeling a soreness in my head. The early stages of a headache. I tapped on and listened to music. The Scorpions, Mötley Crüe.

“Keep on keeping on,” I said to no one in particular.

Hats for the sake of hats have not been my style for a long time. They need a purpose. Hiking in the cold, going on a long walk a ways up a mountain. Activities like that. I wasn’t going to play baseball, but I woke up late and my hair’s as thick as crab grass. Takes some taming I wasn’t in a mood for. I also missed my train, which means I missed my reading time. I finally started in on The Talented Mr. Ripley. I haven’t read a book in a while. Not a whole one. Can’t really say if I’ll finish this one any time soon, but I’m hopeful.

It’s been quiet at work on account of the time of year. Big events in the games industry. Lots of folks are out for one event or another. Giving talks, listening on with their colleagues. Something for most everyone. I’ve been in this for going on ten years and it’s a wonder the way things change. Would I still be in video games when I’m forty? What sorts of new ways to create games will there be in 2023? Kind of boggles to try and think that far ahead. It was thirty years ago that the market for this stuff just crashed out under everyone. Just as I was born, in fact. The whole thing plummtted. Lots of folks lost their jobs. They blamed greed. Lust and hunger for money. The industry bounced back when Nintendo and their strict quality controls introduced new and more advanced software. Now developers want to wrestle the controls away from the publishers and console manufacturers. Things evolve, as they say. Keep up or get left behind.

The cap is beige. A brown-colored Mario patch adorns the front and the Nintendo logo along the strap in the back. I bought a handful of them to give to my brothers and friends.

When you’re as rudderless as I am, plans are of little interest. Those too far away plans. Saving for rainy days that are sure to come but are as difficult to imagine as two seasons ahead. Surely there will be an autumn, but that is not now. Now is spring. Autumn will be accomodated when it arrives. Recently, disturbingly, I dwelt on the thought of inheritence. The certainty of material security upon the death of my elders. A sickening reliance on someone else’s hard work. The legacy ending with an old man and his brothers selling off all assets and living the remainder of their lives.

I don’t especially know what to do about headaches. I have only one cabinet that contains anything but shelving. My wines and spirits, tumblers, glasses, and bottle openers. Not even teas. I considered stopping for some on the way home, but I did not. I Did Not, perhaps.

“Victor,” said my neighbor, in Spanish, because I never introduce myself as Vic, “have this. Some cabbage and potatoes.” It was a strange moment, all the stranger when I explained that I don’t cook. I don’t even have anything in which to cook. He was puzzled for a moment, and I shrugged and added, “But, hey, if you ever have something cooked, I’ll take it.” He nodded and told me to have a good night, then. I was struck by the sincerest feeling of stupidity for what I said. Something cooked? Ass.

I removed the cap when I got home. Threw it on a big box of art I’ve collected over the years but have yet to frame or hang. When the headache worsened I took an orange and squeezed it into a tumbler, then an IPA left over from St. Partick’s Day. (An old joke that I’ve never shaken). Cooling, numbing after a few. The Mario cap was perhaps my dearest friend just then. I considered where I would wear it next. In summer, perhaps. Walking along a sun burnt ridge. The brown hills of California, from which you can see just about anywhere you’d like if you feel lost or scared about your general direction.

I wore this baseball cap today. Old torn thing I’ve had for years. The only one I own. Got to work and continued working on an iPad game that’s been out for months. They’re releasing a new update. Kept on it for a while and started feeling a soreness in my head. The early stages of a headache. I tapped on and listened to music. The Scorpions, Mötley Crüe.

“Keep on keeping on,” I said to no one in particular.

Hats for the sake of hats have not been my style for a long time. They need a purpose. Hiking in the cold, going on a long walk a ways up a mountain. Activities like that. I wasn’t going to play baseball, but I woke up late and my hair’s as thick as crab grass. Takes some taming I wasn’t in a mood for. I also missed my train, which means I missed my reading time. I finally started in on The Talented Mr. Ripley. I haven’t read a book in a while. Not a whole one. Can’t really say if I’ll finish this one any time soon, but I’m hopeful.

It’s been quiet at work on account of the time of year. Big events in the games industry. Lots of folks are out for one event or another. Giving talks, listening on with their colleagues. Something for most everyone. I’ve been in this for going on ten years and it’s a wonder the way things change. Would I still be in video games when I’m forty? What sorts of new ways to create games will there be in 2023? Kind of boggles to try and think that far ahead. It was thirty years ago that the market for this stuff just crashed out under everyone. Just as I was born, in fact. The whole thing plummtted. Lots of folks lost their jobs. They blamed greed. Lust and hunger for money. The industry bounced back when Nintendo and their strict quality controls introduced new and more advanced software. Now developers want to wrestle the controls away from the publishers and console manufacturers. Things evolve, as they say. Keep up or get left behind.

The cap is beige. A brown-colored Mario patch adorns the front and the Nintendo logo along the strap in the back. I bought a handful of them to give to my brothers and friends.

When you’re as rudderless as I am, plans are of little interest. Those too far away plans. Saving for rainy days that are sure to come but are as difficult to imagine as two seasons ahead. Surely there will be an autumn, but that is not now. Now is spring. Autumn will be accomodated when it arrives. Recently, disturbingly, I dwelt on the thought of inheritence. The certainty of material security upon the death of my elders. A sickening reliance on someone else’s hard work. The legacy ending with an old man and his brothers selling off all assets and living the remainder of their lives.

I don’t especially know what to do about headaches. I have only one cabinet that contains anything but shelving. My wines and spirits, tumblers, glasses, and bottle openers. Not even teas. I considered stopping for some on the way home, but I did not. I Did Not, perhaps.

“Victor,” said my neighbor, in Spanish, because I never introduce myself as Vic, “have this. Some cabbage and potatoes.” It was a strange moment, all the stranger when I explained that I don’t cook. I don’t even have anything in which to cook. He was puzzled for a moment, and I shrugged and added, “But, hey, if you ever have something cooked, I’ll take it.” He nodded and told me to have a good night, then. I was struck by the sincerest feeling of stupidity for what I said. Something cooked? Ass.

I removed the cap when I got home. Threw it on a big box of art I’ve collected over the years but have yet to frame or hang. When the headache worsened I took an orange and squeezed it into a tumbler, then an IPA left over from St. Partick’s Day. (An old joke that I’ve never shaken). Cooling, numbing after a few. The Mario cap was perhaps my dearest friend just then. I considered where I would wear it next. In summer, perhaps. Walking along a sun burnt ridge. The brown hills of California, from which you can see just about anywhere you’d like if you feel lost or scared about your general direction.

It’s been a long winter. Colder than expected, even compared to that one in Oregon. Too long for some pursuits to remain wrapped up in nylon inside a garage. The boat’s now in the past and it takes tremendous will not to ride away to the desert somewhere and blow loads of money. Well, money better saved and spent elsewhere.

Instead, I think of jobs I can take on for the weekends. Whatever I must do to hang onto my certain pleasures.

Local enjoyment. The joys of one’s home turf. How do you do it?

It’s been a long winter. Colder than expected, even compared to that one in Oregon. Too long for some pursuits to remain wrapped up in nylon inside a garage. The boat’s now in the past and it takes tremendous will not to ride away to the desert somewhere and blow loads of money. Well, money better saved and spent elsewhere.

Instead, I think of jobs I can take on for the weekends. Whatever I must do to hang onto my certain pleasures.

Local enjoyment. The joys of one’s home turf. How do you do it?