Wet Dog

It was a lovely day in the town of Oxford, and everywhere white flowers hung in thick bunches from branches adorned with fresh new leaves. Ed sat on a rock by the slow moving river in University Park, calmly observing the sunlight as it collected in the swirls of bubbles spiraling slowly past. He had just finished a tutorial on Eliot’s “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

“For I have known them all already, known them all:  Have known the evenings, mornings and afternoons, I have measured out my life in coffee spoons,” he said. It was the first time Ed had read Eliot and he was immediately into him, especially Prufrock. He looked up and across a grassy field and saw Corrine walking towards him. She was wheeling her old black bicycle. Ed got up and dusted himself off and walked towards her. She looked upset.
"Hey, are you Ok?"

“I fell on the way over,” she said, and looked down at her bare knees. There was a bright red scrape on each of her kneecaps.

“Look,” she said, and lifted her arm revealing another scrape on her elbow.

Ed took the handlebars and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” he said.

"No, I'm fine, besides being embarrassed. It happened over there,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “A whole bunch of people just saw me take a spill.”

‘Don’t worry about that.” Ed said, “Who are they anyway? Fuck them.”

Corrine laughed.
"Yes. Fuck them."
"Let me take your bike for you?" Ed said.

They walked along the narrow pathway by the river Cherwell and the sun filtered magically through the multitude of leaves dappling the grass and gravel path in a million brilliant spots of light.

“Where shall we go?” she said.

“I was thinking of this bistro on Little Clarendon Street. Is that too far?”

“No, not at all.”

They walked mostly in silence along the path and then onto the streets and through quiet neighborhoods where people sat and sipped tea and read books by windows. Ed wheeled the bike along and lay his hand on her shoulder and then removed it. Corrine smelled like lavender and sweat and Ed breathed in her scent and the verdant, pungent smells of spring and was filled with a feeling of vitality and good energy. 

Ed locked the bicycle to a lamppost right in front of the restaurant. It was called Chez Juliette. He had scrounged a few pounds together from his under-the-table job at the pub and was prepared to blow it all on Corrine. He had been trying for months to get her to go out with him. They were in Oxford on the same study abroad program and until recently she had been getting together with their drunk and womanizing program leader, Larry from Australia. Ed’s dalliances were numerous and just as short lived and he had been simmering for her for so long and was about to come to a boil. Corrine broke it off with Larry because of his drinking habit and fondness for amyl nitrate and disappearing to London for days on end. 

Ed and Corrine walked Inside the restaurant and a young sadly beautiful waitress in a tight white blouse greeted them at the door.

“A table for two?”  she said.

“Hell yes,” Ed said, “I mean, please.”

She led them to a table next to two half opened French Doors. There was a red rose in a small blue glass vase on the white linen table cloth, and there were only two other couples in the joint.

Ed observed a few solitary students and couples walking by lazily in the blessing that is springtime in England. 
((Start edit here) ----
Corrine was staring at him.

They locked eyes for just a moment then she laughed.

“I can’t believe this,” she said.

“What can’t you believe, dear?”

“I can’t believe we are sitting here right now.”

Ed tapped the table with his knuckles, looked down at his chair and scuffed his feet on the wood floor a few times.

“It seems to me that I’m here. But I can’t vouch for you.”

Corrine smiled and her long raven-dark hair fell over one eye.

The waitress approached the table and said,
“Would you care for a cocktail, or some wine?”

Ed raised his eyebrows and looked at Corrine.

“A bit of wine to calm you nerves?” he said.

She blushed and looked at the table.

“After your terrible accident, I mean.”

She looked up at him grinning tightly.

“I would love some white wine.” she said.

“Do you have a Sauvignon Blanc?” Ed said.

 “We have a choice one, by chance.”

“Ah,” Ed said “a dry white wine on a rare dry day.”

Corrine smiled and shook her head. The waitress couldn’t have cared less.

Ed never gave waiters a hard time, he had been doing the resto thing for years and knew the bullshit they had to deal with. But he was feeling lively with the spring air, and it was the third and last term was starting off with a bang and not a whimper. He and Josh had moved into their new digs at Hodges Court and now Ed finally had some private time with this wonderful cultured woman.

Corrine opened her menu. Ed left his on the table and leaned the chair on its back two legs.

“You hungry, Corrine?” he said.

“Yes, actually.” she said. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“I’ve got a healthy appetite.”

Ed liked the sound of that. Then he proceeded to put his foot in his mouth.

“You are very healthy aren’t you?” 

“What do you mean by that?” she said, slapping the menu down on the table.

Healthy is a tricky word to use with some women.

“I mean…you are a woman of the senses,” Ed said,  “you know, a sensitive, sensory person. I could tell that right away, when we met.”

“What do you mean?” she said, “When we met we were both trashed.”

“Exactly, that’s what I mean…you and me, we are the same...we suck the marrow out of life…the appetites are a wonderful thing.”

Corrine picked up her menu and shook her head.

The waitress came with the wine. It was uncorked and Ed knew that was a no-no. She placed two glasses on the table and poured a bit into Ed’s glass. He tasted it, looked out the window, did the little inhalation, wine-aeration thing and swallowed.

“Excellent.” he said.

She filled Corrine’s glass and then filled his and placed the bottle on the table next to the little rose in the blue vase.

“I’ll be back in a while to take your order.” she said.

Ed raised his glass. “To you Corrine, and a speedy recovery.”

“To you,” she said, “and a magical spring.” 

They touched glasses, ching ching.

Ed took a sip. It was fairly sweet for a Sauvignon Blanc. He watched as Corrine raised the glass to her lips. She put the her glass down gently and swirled the wine in her mouth and swallowed. Her nose crinkled up and she shook her head like one would with water up the nose.

“Ichh…’ she said, not quietly, “this tastes like wet dog.”

“Oh,” Ed said, “is that a vineyard? Where is it?” He truly thought it was a brand of wine.

“No, man,” she said “it tastes like a wet dog.”

“Is it going to be OK?” he said.

“Yes, of course, but Sauvignon Blanc’s are generally much drier. This one must be young.”

“Shall we send it back?”

”No. Not at all. It’s not that bad” she said, “It’ll do.”

“Anything for you, Corrine.” he said,  “You know that, right?’ speaking about far more than a different wine.

Corrine picked up the menu.

‘Thank you, Ed.” she said, holding in a smile, “I’ll keep that in mind. Now let’s see what there is to eat.” She couldn’t help but grin, her lips spreading wide and revealing a perfect smile.

Ed leaned the chair back on its legs, tipped his glass to her and took a long swig.

“God...” she said.

It was a delicious feast. Ed ordered the duck confit, and Corrine had a veal dish.

“I know it’s cruel to the little cow,” she said between mouthfuls. “but it tastes so good.”

The salads came after the meal, and the wine got better after the first glass, as it does, especially if you quaff it quickly. They ordered two more glasses of a very nice and very dry White Bordeaux. The sun was setting slowly in an orange blur over the old, low roofs of the shops along Little Clarendon Street. Strings of white Christmas lights that hung there all year round brightened the dank blue twilight sky like softly glowing pearls.

They decided to skip dessert, and Corrine had no interest in a cognac. Ed didn’t either but thought it might be fitting for such a place and such an evening. How he learned these things he didn’t know.

Ed paid the bill and Corrine left a low percentage British tip. As they walked out he gave the waitress a small bow and she still didn’t smile. He unlocked Corrine’s bike and handed the lock and the chain to her. She was on the curb and Ed was in the street so their eyes, and lips, were on the same level. Ed felt that raw primal urge to kiss her. They both leaned towards each other with a warm energy and kinetic pull bringing them so close he felt her breath on his cheek. Two crazy pigeons erupted in flight a few feet away and startles Ed who pulled back. Corrine put the chain and lock around the base of her seat and took the handle bars of her bike. The street was nearly empty and Ed felt just then that he was smack dab in the middle of a Van Gogh painting.

“Shall I walk you home?” He said.

“I would love that.”

Corrine opened the latch on a low, wooden gate and they walked down a path that ran behind a row of connected houses.

“This is where I live,” she said. It was dark now, and the night time smells of damp foliage and dew and chimney fires filled the air. She leaned her bike against the fence behind her house and they entered a small backyard on a thin blue stone path that ran through two large swaths of lawn. A pear tree in the corner near the house was festooned with a thousand tiny blossoms just emerging from their green buds, like lover’s spring dreams. A single bulb shone bright from a small iron lantern that hung over the back door. Corrine entered first and tossed her bag on a table cluttered with newspapers, books and scores of music. It was cool inside, like most British homes, and small and quaint and very, very old.

“Would you care for some tea, Ed?” Corrine said.

“I would love some tea.”

“I’ll start a fire, too. You take a seat anywhere and relax.”

She took an old metal kettle from the stove and filled it from the sink. Ed looked at  a poster on the wall. La Boheme. He read further and saw it was an opera.

“Do you like the opera?” he said.

“I love the opera.” she said turning off the faucet and looking at him. She put the kettle on the stove and turned the knob; it clicked a few times and a blue flame burst into being.

“How about you, Ed, do you care for the opera?” She said this last part in a highly affected British accent.

“Well, I dare say love, I have not, as of yet, had the pleasure.” He said, continuing the mimicry.

“My dear man,” she said, bringing a dish towel down into the palm of her open hand.

“We simply must rectify this tragedy at once. a man of your obvious class and culture should not be denied the magic and beauty of the O-Per-A.”

They both laughed.

“I’m ready to go anytime.”

“Well,” she said,  “I’ll find out what’s playing now in London and we’ll go!”

“Awesome.”

“Go have a seat in the den and I’ll be in with the tea in a minute. Then maybe  we’ll see if there is anything you can do for me.” She said, and winked.

It was Ed’s turn to blush. Sounds great to me, he thought, and went into the other room and sat down on the couch in a state of general peace and excited anticipation.

He woke early to the sounds of lorries rumbling down The Abingdon Road. He leaned up on his elbow and could not see Corrine. He sat upright and peered over the snowy mounds of her soft white duvet and pushed it down with his hands. There was a mass of black curls and Corrine snoring gently. Ed got up slowly so as not to wake her. He had become a master of the silent bed-exit through years of practice. He stood there nude and cold and stretched his arms above his head. It was feckin cold. The bedroom window was open a few inches and the brisk air was blowing in. Ed stood on the floor relishing that early morning, pleasurably drained, yet robust feeling of making love. Love, he thought, can happen anywhere at anytime for any duration. He slipped on his wool pants and wrapped an Afghan around his shoulders and walked through the living room into the kitchen. He filled the kettle and put it on the range and turned the knob on the stove, click click click. He sat down at the table and picked up a score of music and counted out a few of the notes, marveling at the complexity of sharps and flats and all the stuff that makes beautiful music. A black cat with a white star on his forehaed appeared silently from the living room, sat down, yawned and stared at him. “Bonjour, buddy.” Ed said, pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and leaned back, the old cane chair cracking and creaking.

Am I Disturbing You?

Ed pulled into the empty parking lot across the road from Omena Beach. He grabbed his towel, guitar and bottle of water, and scanned the little park that was in between the road and the beach itself, surprised that there was no there at all. It was a fantastic summer day in late August and the sun saturated the sky and the rippling bay with evanescent light. An empty beach was something not exactly rare in Leelanau County, especially, if you were like Ed, and had a nose for exploring and an inclination to deliberately deviate off course; you might be surprised at what you will find. But Omena Beach was only about 150 feet long, surrounded on both side by “private beaches,” attached to summer homes by folks from Chicago or New York. Situated between the busy town of Suttons Bay and the not-so busy town of Northport, the spot was popular for Indian families and all kinds of families, locals, and tourists, so Ed appreciated fully the chance to dwell on the beach solo. He could always connect with a sense of timelessness on the beach better when there were no homo sapiens about. The steady rhythm of the gentle waves, the warm sand beneath his feet and scooped in his hands to fall through fingers like minutes on a clock that no one is watching.

He crossed the road and dropped his towel and his guitar and stood there feeling the hot sun on his skin. Down the beach to the west was the Knot Bar, a corporate joint adjacent to a wine tasting room. Ed remembered the days of the Omena Bar, the owner operated, derelict, drunk bar with a good jukebox that he used to frequent when he first moved up to Northern Michigan. The bar had a deck that offered an amazing view of the natural harbor called Omena Bay. It often happens that remote, beautiful, largely agricultural areas become havens for those with disposable income who mostly live in large polluted cities. Add on the fact that agriculture is largely produced from 100,000 acre farms in the U.S. and overseas, the economy of these rural areas suffers and needs a boost from somewhere. Bring on the richies who build homes, eat at the restaurants, shop at the shops, buy groceries from the market, and get drunk in the bars. In Leelanau County, especially over the last 30 years, this influx of outsiders had increased dramatically and altered the economy, and to a small extent, the culture and atmosphere of an area that had been unpopulated until 1860. Before that it was a summer haven for Indians, then after being settled by the Europeans it became farmland.

Ed walked to the waters edge and stood in it up to his knees. He reached down and splashed water on his face and stretched his arms above his head.

“Sweet.” He said, sat on his towel and soaked it all in. He laughed thinking of what old George had said repeatedly about the county, having been there for 50 years, and seen most of these changes.

“You know Ed,” the old poet-woodcutter said, “This county used to be farmers and workers. Now it’s turned into a fucking Boutique.” He meant it, and he was right. Although Ed fully appreciated the sparsely populated county that he had been visiting since he was a child and was now his home. Some aspects of the place and people irked him. Almost the entire coastline was “Private.” The Lexus, the Range Rover, The Rolls Royce speed around the county driven by overly made-up and medicated septuagenarians and large bellied, red nosed business men with their cigars and boats and vapid personalities. But without them this area, with the decline of agriculture (although the cherries that sustained the area are still going strong and more recently wine grapes and hops were thriving), would have retreated into a real backwater, the kind of backwater that attracted an artist and maniac like George back in the 60’s and the kind of place it was to Ed even with all the blow-hards.

Ed pulled out the guitar and played a little riff. His fingers were beginning to have souls of their own, sliding up and down the neck without effort, and the time, the pauses, the rhythms seemed to emerge on their own. Ed had been playing for 5 years, mostly alone. Music is a source of all things good and there are not many things that deserve that statement. It only took a few minutes for the dark rosewood on the guitar to heat up, and Ed could feel that smooch from the sun layering his skin. He put the guitar back in its gig bag, got up and went in the water.

The cool, invigorating fresh waters of lake Michigan, clear as the Caribbean, and calm, with little foot tall waves the remainder of the currents from the big lake that curled around Omena Point and took their time slowing down as they made their way to shore. Ed went under and entered aquatic world, his whole body moving in concert, limbs, muscles and tendons, from his fingers spreading out to his feet now flippers propelling him forward. He swam around for 20 minutes, heading out to where the clear water ended and that twilight blue appeared as the steep shelf dropped off maybe 30 feet. That summer Ed had discovered what he called his inner otter, having hit the beach at least once a day for 60 days straight. He set a personal record without trying; he had four visits to the beach in a 24 hour period, just the week before. Ed was proud of this, as he was proud of maintaining his health, playing guitar, writing, doing things that were salubrious and good as the relentless whisper of memento mori was carried on every breeze and evident in every breath.

He emerged from the water becoming terrestrial again and noticed a woman sitting on the bench of the little park that was situated between the beach and the road. Ed heard the sound of her voice, and immediately knew, not just because she was alone, but evident in the tone and timbre of her voice, that she was on a cell phone.

“Oy Fucking Vey,” he said, grabbing his towel and drying his face. He threw it in the sand and walked down the narrow beach towards The Knot, trying to forget she was there, trying to forget the feelings he couldn’t help but get when he heard people yapping away loudly on cell phones.

He skipped a few rocks and walked back and spread his towel out and sat down. He touched the gig bag and it was hot. Not too good for the guitar, he thought, but it was his old one, beat up and banged around as a good first guitar should be. He knew the heat wouldn’t warp it too bad, or at least he hoped it wouldn’t. The woman was still talking. On the long curve of the beach with the slightest zephyr cooling the blazing heat from the sun, her voice carried and seemed to fill the space with an echo. “Rude, damn rude.” Ed said, knowing he was overly hyped about this cell phone epidemic. Or was he? He was a 70’s kid. He remembered the one phone in the house on the kitchen wall with the curly chord. He remembered the first cord-less and the first answering machine. He remembered the days before cell phones. Those days when people talked to each otherm made friends or simply sat on the beach and read a book or soaked in the scene. Ed didn’t get a cell phone himself until just a few years before and now people were using devices they called “smart phones,” Ed didn’t see the wisdom in it. Having a computer at your ear, in your pocket, every second of every day, whether in the deep woods or on your lazy boy? Sure it may be convenient for traveling or business, but man, a car is a great invention and you have people that drive 100 feet from here to there. It always struck him as freaky and weird, like a sci-fi movie scene, when he would drive to Traverse City, or anywhere really, and see 75% of the people with a phone to their ear or eyes and thumbs stuck to a device. It was just weird, odd and unsettling. In a world where humans are already so distracted, so out of the moment, so indifferent to anything except where they have to be, what they have to buy, and everybody else be damned, this kind of ubiquitous, self absorbing device just made people, Ed thought, into assholes. Their loss and his inconvenience.  

Like this lady. This woman he did not know. Was she a local, or a tourist? Did it matter? No. Her voice, her laugh, her absolute ignorance of the fact her conversation was now saturating the primal beach along with the sun and its endless heat and light. Who am I to judge her? Ed thought. It’s a free country, as they say, although he already knew it was only really free for some, while most of us pay the price and pay it dearly and daily. But she can do what she wants, he thought, it’s not my beach. He couldn’t ignore it though, because he knew it only took a sliver of a thought, a coin-width’s of awareness, a spider’s web of consideration to lower her voice a bit. She laughed loudly and leaned back on the bench, lost; truly in her own world, while Ed, and the placidity of an empty beach, were forced right into it.  

He looked out at the glittering water, hearing her voice. He tried to lose his mind in the clouds of dreams that slowly coalesced and slid across the cerulean blue, but he heard her voice. He closed his eyes and did some Ugai breaths to calm his nerves, center his mind, and simply be. He heard her say, “You have got to be kidding me!”  He had an idea. It was sort of crazy but sort of crazy isn’t too bad and sometimes it’s necessary. He stood up, looked up and down the beach, then back at the woman who was now hunched over chattering loudly, her elbows on her knees. “Fuck it,” Ed said, and untied the rope on his suit and it fell to the sand below.

He walked up the beach and stood 15 feet in front of the woman who did not yet see him. He stood there with the hot sun so good on his body, so warm, so welcoming, his skin taut from the lake water drying by its heat. He watched her and waited. Nearly a minute passed and Ed felt excited and nervous as he scanned the road for cars, but no one was around. Then, in mid sentence, “I can not believe that she let him….” the woman looks up, stops speaking and stared at him with her mouth open. “Oh, I'm sorry,” Ed said, “am I disturbing you?”

The Ferro Carrill

Ed saw her, like a vision, through the tubular chaos of congested bodies, standing and sitting and swaying in an old train that trundled its weary way deep into the deserts of Northern Mexico. She was iridescent, with bare white arms and a slender figure. Her broad ivory forehead seemed to glow and was crowned with a tiara of tumbling maple tresses. She stood by the window observing the simultaneous advance and retreat of the arid mysterious desert.

Ed moved towards her through the jostling bodies of families, old women, sullen solitary men with mustaches. He had been on the train for 6 hours already, heading to a small town to seek a vision, to seek more, to cease seeking, to expand a scope of seeing through being, of doing without knowing or needing to know, why. His friend Josh had scrawled directions to a town called Wadley on a bar napkin in his jean pocket: “Take a right at the Neon Cross, walk 3 miles and you’ll find the hostel, hopefully.”

Ed eased himself next to her and over the rush of wind through the window and the sounds of steel wheels on tracks he spoke to her in English. She turned and looked at him, a distant and perplexed look on her face. Ed leaned closer and smelled her scent mingling with the heat and aromas of tortillas, rice and beer, and the coal smell of soot and grease from the train. The crease in her neck at her shoulder was wet, and the light hairs above her lip covered in sweat, and Ed looked into eyes that were as green as malachite stone.

“Me llamo Eduardo, y como te llamas?” he said, this time in Spanish.

“Me llamo Emmanuella,” she said. Ed detected a foreign accent. She was French.

It was a strange feeling. The tension and movement and uncertainty, a bizarre trip taking twists and turns, opening portals of opportunity and fantasy, far from a reality of job, family and home town. The train rumbled and shook and everyone on it swayed and leaned with its incessant off beat rhythm. 

He stared into her eyes and knew he was in love with her. They spoke in broken English, Spanish and French, as the train tumbled forward. She said she was traveling with three other Frenchmen who were somewhere in the car ahead.

Ed wanted to take her away with him. He felt the insanity of the idea butting heads with the visceral reality that she might actually come with him and wander for a spell through the sacred and magical lands of this Mexico.

He asked her, “Quiere viajar conmigo?” Do you want to travel with me? She hesitated, smiled briefly, taken aback, her green eyes shimmering with an inner light. Just as she parted her lips to speak, one of her companions came through the sticky jostling sea of sweaty bodies and gave her a big kiss on the cheek and a possessive hug. He rattled off something in French and looked at Ed. The guy knew, he sensed it, like rival animals in heat hovering around a potential mate. Ed shook his hand as Emmanuella looked at him helplessly. What could she do? Her companion stuck around and Ed melted back a ways into the oozing mass of limbs and sweat. He watched her glowing by the window as the train carried on and on. He saw that she kept looking at him, almost furtively, as her companion did not leave her side. The other two guys joined her and after a while a Mexican dude produced a joint which they and others proceeded to smoke. Ed stayed back, far too frayed already to alter his mental like that. About a half hour later the train slowly came to a stop. Ed looked out a window and there was no station. It was dark. An official of the train, with a grey mustache and a cap, ordered Emmanuella and her three partners and the others off the train. Mexico is laid back but you’ve got to choose the right time and place just like anywhere else. Outside was pitch black and no town for miles. They made a feeble protest but the cap wearing man wouldn’t hear it. Ed took her place by the window and watched the motley crew walk down the stairs with their packs and stand with their bags in the one bright light from the train. It pulled away slowly, snorting and smoking and Ed leaned out the window and saw Emmanuella looking at him, her eyes blazing green in the darkness; they seemed to hang there as the train pulled away and the warm Mexican night swallowed them whole.

Rabbit

On a cold March evening Ed Slattery and Harry the Bulldog went to the Rattlesnake Bar in Bennington, Vermont and sat down at a hi-top table in the back. They ordered brew two by two, tall brown bottles of Pacifico Clara, a good Mexican beer, that costs about a quarter each on the beach in Mazatlan or San Blas. They brought back about five or so each and the bearded clown behind the bar was reluctant to give them any more.

“We’re on foot, dude,” Ed said, lying. “There’s no need to worry.” He touched his finger to his nose. “See?”

The bartender cut them off, so Ed and The Bulldog cheers to nothing and drain the last one already late for the movie.

Ed got behind the wheel of The Bulldog’s 1970 International Scout because his friend was somehow drunker than he was. So many vehicles have passed through this Vermont-Gardener’s life, and each car was like a woman, guaranteed to break his heart.

It was very cold and there was plenty of snow on the ground. It easily could have been January, and the stark barren trees creaked and groaned in the steady wind. The Scout had no radio and no heat, so the two friends had scarves up around their necks, Armani coats on their backs, as they rumbled through the small town to the Holeinthewall theatre to see the Coen Brother’s, “O, Brother, Where art Thou?”

There was no one in the theatre. They sat right down just as the last preview ended and Ed took out his one hitter and got up to go have a wee smoke in the John.

“Why not just smoke it right here?” The Bulldog said in his characteristic bluntness. “You sure?”

“The guy working is most likely more stoned than you, bud.”

Ed sparked it leaving a bit for the next day in the plastic ear plug container that he took from Isaac’s house three days before when he headed up to Vermont. The sweet incense filled the empty theater and is always a good accompaniment to good movie and is even better and necessary if the movie sucks.

After the movie they decided to hit another bar, the regular bar, Kevin and Mike’s, over in North Bennington. It was beat and nearly empty, sadly no sexy art school students were around for the boys to lay their rap on. They drank a few Amstel lights and lit out of there, bored, yet neither of them eager to go back to The Bulldog’s heat-less barn perched right on the edge of the Brattleboro river.

“I’m hungry,” The Bulldog said.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

“Let’s got to the Shop Rite.”

“Why not?”

They went to the 24 hour, super-huge-over-the-top market and bought sushi and two bottles of Spanish Rioja. They clowned around the aisles playing with stuffed Easter bunny rabbits and throwing walnuts and almonds at each other, annoying the 60 year old lady who worked up front. The Bulldog picked up a bright pink, 3 foot long rabbit, with bright white ears.

“What do you think about this one,” he said, “for Amanda.”

“Bloody perfect.” Ed said. “She’ll be wrapping her legs around that in no time.”

“That’s where I want to be.”

“Can I come too?”

They sat in the truck and ate the sushi, stomping their feet to keep warm and savoring the karmic burn of the wasabi. They didn’t bother opening the wine knowing that it would be a waste at that point.

“Let’s drop this off at Amanda’s house.” The Bulldog said. “Surprise her.”

“Sure," Ed said, "you are a bleedin' romantic."

He fired up the Scout and they took off. Those last few beers took The Bulldog out of commission nearly, for driving clearly, yet he was awake and giving Ed directions through the narrow, unlit back roads of North Bennington. They approached a steep turn in the road, bouncing over the bumps and pot holes and Ed was thinking that if they continued these late night, drunken and aimless nocturnal adventures they were going to be busted by some lurking, bored-more-than-them-cop. That night was the third in a row of pretty much the same action for the boys: chop wood and deliver it to rich yuppies during the day, drink beer, listen to music, drive around, scanning for girls, hit the bars, hit the market, eat sushi or something else and then leave flowers or a poem or a bottle of wine on one of The Bulldog’s latest-loves' front steps hoping she'd wake up and take them in. Ed took the sharp turn in the road slowly and a car passed them. The Bulldog looks back and Ed glances in the rear view mirror.

The car’s brake lights flare red.

“Oh fuck," The Bulldog siad, "that’s a cop. my tail light is out.”

“Fuck.” Ed said.

The Bulldog was nervous, not being behind the wheel, and drunk.

 “Go-Go-Go," he said, suddenly freaking out. "Drive, man!!!”

Ed hit the gas and the shaky 35 year old beast of a truck whirled around another sharp bend and down a steep hill. Ed blew through a stop sign with the The Bulldog frantically yelling “Go right, go right, oh shit…” looking over his shoulder then back at the road, then over his shoulder again.

Furious Sorrow

Ed woke up and felt soft fur on his neck. He turned his head and was greeted by the sleepy blue blinking eyes of his kitty, El Cid the Warrior. Mary Jane, his sister, lay in a calico ball in the corner of the bed by Ed’s feet. El Cid’s eyes were cobalt blue and bluer due to his white coat splashed here and there with spots of brown.

Ed sat up and the cat spilled from a ball into a long four-legged stretch. He scratched his chest and behind his ears to the kitty’s great enjoyment. Mary Jane raised her head over her shoulder and blinked her eyes a few times in a nonchalant and slightly disturbed gesture.

“What’s up with you cat?” Ed said, “What’re you looking at, huh?” She lay her head down ignoring him. The clock that was on Miranda’s side of the bed read 9:22. From behind the closed Venetian Blinds, an unusual light illuminated the cheap white flaps in a sort of glow. It was an unusual light because it was Seattle, and the sun there was as rare as finding a virtuous Catholic priest. Ed was feeling healthy and good, not having drunk too much the night before; just a few bloodies on the little deck of their little apartment. He had slept well, without the raucous dreams that generally accompany his nightly snooze. He hadn’t even noticed Miranda waking, getting dressed, and leaving for work.

It was a Friday morning in November and Ed was feeling strangely optimistic without really recognizing it. Their two-room flat on the corner of East Lake Avenue and Roanoke Street was small but comfortable, furnished from the Good Will, the Salvation Army and a plant and coffee table from IKEA. Ed went to the loo and took a piss and brushed his teeth and splashed some water on his face.

Ed and Miranda had moved to Seattle 6 weeks before, driving across country in her ‘87 BMW 3.25 with all their worldly possessions. The first month was there was rough. They didn’t know anybody and neither of them had a job lined up or any contacts at all.  But in a great testament to the will and believing in chance and following your heart, they had a fun journey through many states and found the flat within days. They spent their meager savings on a new bed and a used table and a few chairs. Home sweet home. Miranda was working as a temp in an architectural firm downtown and Ed had been catering for two different places, money was coming in, and they were a family now, with the two kitties adopted from an animal shelter 3 hours away near the Oregon border. 

Ed had to work at 4, so he had the whole day to himself to write, workout, read, walk around the neighborhood, play with the cats. I’ve got all day, he thought, and work tonight is going to be fun. He still couldn’t get over actually liking a job. The line from Gillian Welch’s song, Everything is Free, summed up Ed’s attitude towards work: “I never minded working hard, just who I’m working for…” But the people he worked with at the Fairview Club were all cool. Monica the sexy mini-skirt wearing manager, Ben the sober chef, Micah the guitar virtuoso dishwasher and the assorted servers, male and female, who worked with him on the many weddings and corporate parties, were all super chill.  Seattle was filled with people from all over the country and many parts of the world. Seattle City is in itself a revolving door. And the catering business is the ideal profession for transients. Through the years Ed had spent traveling he met many wild folk, travelers, artists, many of them the kind of people that liked the freedom of a random schedule, and the honesty and simplicity of serving food and taking the plates away. That was how Ed fell into it. He had been in the restaurant business for 7 years, during and after college, and had moved into catering a few years previous back in RI. It was honest work, paid fairly well, and had no Karmic repercussions to it.

There was something purely pleasant about Seattle. The Emerald City. There was very little apparent friction or angst. Most people Ed met had moved there for a particular reason, even if it was just a whim or simply wanting a change, or wanting to be near mountains and trees; but the level of misery and bitching was much less than in other places, especially back east. Ed and Miranda had been together for a year and had been living in Rhode Island. She was from Cranston and suggested the move. Ed, always ready to be out of Providence and somewhere new, happily agreed. Seattle, then. Who cares about rain?

On that particular Friday there was none, and the sky offered patches of robin’s egg blue and the magnanimous warmth of the sun in between roaming herds of cumulus clouds. Ed opened the blinds in the sitting room and the bright light filled the apartment.  He looked out over the bushes and the roofs of the houseboats down the hill on Lake Union. There was the Space Needle in the distance shining in the rare November sun. It still shocked him sometimes, when he caught a glimpse of the tower. It was a reminder of where he was and how far he was from where he didn’t want to be. He opened the door and it was quite warm out, the street and sidewalks still damp from an earlier rain. The kitties had not yet built up the courage to go further than the front walkway, that was up a few steps from the steeply angled street. El Cid came swaggering from the bedroom, took a few steps into the big sitting room and did his signature move. Miranda called it “the flop.” The kitty rolled over on his shoulders and back stretching his legs out and laying there, forelegs and hind-legs fully extended, looking at nothing and no one, enjoying the simple thrill of sprawling. Ed had seen other cats do this, but none with the same Zen-nature as El Cid, and this is why that cat was Ed’s confirmed hero. “Feeling good, huh, buddy?” he said. “Me too. Its gonna be a good day.”

Ed put on his black hoody and some boots over his plaid pajama pants and grabbed some change from the small china bowl on the stove. He closed the door but didn’t lock it and crossed the street in front of a big shiny Benz and walked down East Lake Ave.

“What a fuckin day,” he thought, laughing at his attitude and expressions. When he was in Rhode Island all he did was hate and try and avoid the “spacon” pseudo-gangsters with all there “how you doin, huh?” or “hey, o, what the fuck you lookin at?” But since being in the benign northwest he had begun to notice that he was now the one with the attitude. Not too much, though, Ed thought and skipped across E. Lake Ave.  There was one guy getting a cup of Joe at the coffee kiosk right outside the neighborhood market. When he was through Ed ordered a double cappuccino from the blond girl who seemed to be there everyday from 9 to 1. They chatted about the nice day as Ed put in his usual three brown sugars.

“You know what’s crazy?” she said, with pure espresso up-beat-ness ‘”this is my second winter in Seattle, and I still haven’t met one person who is originally from here. How about you?”

‘Nope, not me.” Ed said, “but I’m a citizen of the universe,” stealing a line from his buddy Jake from the hostel days in San Diego.

“I like that,” she said.

“It’s true if you believe it,” Ed said. “Thanks.”

He walked back down the same side of the street passing the park where he and Miranda played Frisbee as often as possible, and crossed over at the light, happily obeying the rules, Seattle style. In the apartment El Cid was lying on the kitchen floor, Mary Jane nowhere to be seen. Ed stepped over the kitty and took a spoon from the sink and stirred his coffee. He sat down at the small table, and flipped through the bible he had spontaneously stolen from The Good Will. He was not Christian, anymore, anymore than he was of any religion, but because of reggae, namely the musician-rebel-poet Peter Tosh, he was reviewing the psalms of David, which are often quoted in much of the good roots reggae music. “Yay though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.” He had no idea at that precise moment, with the sun filtering through the half opened blinds in the kitchen, the sugar from the coffee sweet on his lips, how much those psalms would come to mean to him over the next few months and forever.

The enema-tic effects of the caffeine worked quickly and Ed went into the bathroom and took a seat on the old porcelain throne. The phone rang from the sitting room.

“Damn it,” he said, “always caught with my pants down.” He got up and penguin-walked into the living room and picked up the phone, pressed the talk button and waddled back to the bathroom smiling to himself realizing his state.

“Hello?’ he said.

There was a slight pause before the voice on the other side came through.

“Ed. It’s Dennis.” Ed’s younger brother, back in Rhode Island. Dennis and Ed were good friends but they rarely spoke. Dennis’ voice was flat and distant and immediately Ed had a quick intuitive recognition of something horrible.

“What’s up, dude?” Ed said.

“Ed. It’s Richard. He’s gone.”

Richard, one of his best friends and his sister’s husband, a man Ed had known for nearly twenty years. From the sound of his voice, the flatness, the emptiness, the latent strength in it to even utter those miserable words, were so clear and horrifying and devastating, Ed knew it.

“What happened?” Ed said.

“He drowned. In Tel Aviv. Last night, we think. He was out boogie boarding.”

 “Dennis.” Ed said, “I’ll call you back.”

He pressed off on the phone and dropped it as he fell to the bathroom floor, pants at his ankles, tears pouring from his eyes.

“No No No No No No…..Oh God…. No No No No No No No…” 

El Cid walked into the hall and stared at him. He sat down and licked his front paw and rubbed it behind his ear a few times.

“What is done, is what remains, and furious sorrow.”

- Inscription on wooden cross, Holywell Cemetery, Oxford, England

The Rules

On a bitter January evening with a hang nail moon hovering bright above the city of Boston, Ed walked passed the Church of Christian Science.  The church’s façade and dome was surreal and impressive and even at night it looked as if you might just fold it up, take it home, and later tape it to your wall. By the church that night, the long pool was empty, reflecting nothing, like a mirror in a dark room and Ed stood with hands in pockets right next to it about thirty feet away from the church.

In an alcove of the church, out in the frigid air, a heap stirred slowly. A shadow shifting weight in amorphous directions. Just as Ed noticed the shape a man in a long coat and hat appeared from round the corner and stopped in front of the alcove.

“You have to move on,” he said, “you can’t stay here.”

There was no response from the dark heap of shadows.

“You must move on.” The man said, in a slightly louder voice. “This is Private Property. You cannot sleep here.”

The shape made no sound, but shifted slightly, like a large plume of smoke hanging in still air. The cap-wearing man had an aura that shimmered in a bright red against the darkness, a thin line countered his crisp, angular shape. He took a step closer and said, “You have to move on away from here!” nearly yelling. Ed took five long strides and stopped just a few feet away from him.

“Excuse me, sir,” Ed said.

The man was startled and took a step to the side and looked at Ed suspiciously. His dark eyes caught the golden light of the lanterns illuminating the mall.

“Can’t you allow the man to pass the night on these steps?”

The official looked at the heap of shadows, then back to Ed.

“No. He can’t stay here. It’s private property.”

The man was not excited nor did he appear to glean any pleasure from his duty, but his resolve was apparent in the flatness of his voice, a flat determination. An official voice.

Ed contemplated the scene. He was well aware that this was the guy’s job, and with a job there are duties that must be performed. But this is a church of Christ, Jesus, a man who accepted everyone and preached compassion and Caritas; charity. A man who dwelled with lepers and beggars and surely did more than just sup with prostitutes. How can anyone not be welcome at the steps of a house devoted to Him?

“Is this not the house of God?” he said, “and are we not, all of us, His children?”

The official’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. Ed watched his face. His eyes softened and went blank for an instant. His breath formed puffs of vapor that dissipated into the frigid air. He regained his composure and straightened his shoulders.

“That doesn’t matter,” he said, “he cannot stay here. I am on patrol and this is private property.” Then, he uttered the mantra of the sheep: “I don’t make the rules.”

Ed thought about saying, “Whose rules do you live by, the word of man, or the word of God?” when he noticed the heap of shadows was slowly moving away against the pale stone wall like an ink stain spreading across paper. The official let out another sigh and shrugged his shoulders. Ed walked away down the dark and empty plaza. He stopped at the Korean Store on the corner of Mass Ave and Hemenway. He bought a 40oz and sat on a bench in the Fenway watching the Boston skyline twinkle like jewels.

Gravity

Somewhere between Hemlock Road and Rathbone Street, it smelled like porridge. Ed pedaled his borrowed 14 year old bicycle slowly, steadily, scanning the trees that lined the road and trying to see through the desolation that permeated every beat up car, and smoke-belching bus and run-down house in his view.

He noticed the pot-hole in the street just in time, a spew of scratched stones and pebbles lay around it. He missed it by inches and the little stones jumped up from his back tire and fell to the ground behind him. Ed was wearing gloves with no tips, an old woolen blue cap on his head, his long corduroy jacket (the one his hilarious sister says is ‘puke green,’) and his dead buddy Richard’s old faithful brown boots keeping him warm in the wind and cold of this late February gray.

He turned up the steep hill that was River St. recalling when he was a child, and how his friend Danny’s dad would drive down the same steep street and look over his shoulder at the kids in the backseat, take his hands up and off the wheel and say, “You guys! The brakes don’t work…they don’t work!” He’d stomp on the floor over and over, staring back with frightened eyes, his hands gripping the wheel… “No brakes, No brakes!” he’d yell as they careened down the hill with the kids screaming as the street below and the big brick factory building came up closer and closer. Ed was breathing hard when he got to the top of the hill and looked back remembering the days of innocent bliss.

He cruised past a dilapidated city park with its rusted and peeling 20 year old playground. The jungle gym, old metal slide, dry grass and weeds with bare limbed trees; an 8 foot section of chain link fence bent and broken from some drunken escapade.

He turned in at a house that was like all the others, a tenement, with 3 floors, or stories, and most likely many, many tales to tell. It had aluminum siding and a narrow driveway with a strip of dried grass and gravel in between the strips of cracked concrete. This neighborhood was a home for immigrants. It once was Irish, Italian and Polish, and now it was mostly Mexican, Laotian, Dominican and Haitian.

In the back of the house there was an old rusted out Buick up on blocks with no doors or tires. Ed leaned the bike out of sight against a tall wooden fence on the other side of the house. The back door, as always, was open, the lock busted. He took the stairs two at a time up to the third floor. He knocked on the door twice. He knocked again a little harder, this time with three quick wraps. On the third one the door opened and a short, unshaven and weary looking dude wearing a white tank top, boxers and red and blue argyle socks looked up at him.

“Don’t you know how to use a fuckin phone?’ he said.

Ed smiled. “C’mon Tommy. Why call you when I know you never leave this fuckin place.”

Ed walked past him as he closed the door. Tommy slid two locks into place and turned a deadbolt.

“It was open, anyway.” Tommy said, “that bitch Marnie forgot to lock it.”

 “Yeah, well, I don’t want to walk in here all nonchalant and have you freak out and take a shot at me.”

Tommy went to the sink and poured a glass of water.

“What time is it?” he said.

“Around 4, I think. Sun’s going down. Not that there was much sun today. You get out?”

“Nah. I had a late one with Marnie. A late one that became a fuckin early one as in the bitch didn’t leave until noon. Which I guess makes it a late one. Whatever. She’s taking years off my life.” Ed knew it was more than a woman taking years off this guy’s life.

He walked into a big double living room with clothes and crap all over on the chairs, the couch, the coffee table, the love seat, and the floor. A big fish tank full of water but with no fish gurgled by a window. There was a tall Fichus tree in a corner with a bunch of sad looking spider plants on little tables and below the window sills. A guitar with only three strings leaned against a wall.

“Well,” Ed said, “you shoulda had Marnie cleanup a bit in between ripping your head off.”

“What?” Tommy said, from the other room.

“Nothin.” Ed said, and threw a dirty button down dress shirt and some socks off the love seat and sat down.

Tommy came in scratching his balls.

“What’d you say?”

“Nothing, man, forget it. You got it?”

“Yeah, yeah…give me a second to orient myself. I think I was sleeping when you knocked. And by the way, you kinda freaked me with that quick loud fuckin knockin, dude. Sounded like a cop.”

“A little paranoid, bro?” Ed said.  “Next time I will just walk in. Make sure you got the safety on that piece of yours. If you even know where it is.”

Tommy looked at him, smirking.

“Man…c’mon.” He reached underneath the fish tank and pulled out a Gloc .45 caliber pistol, black and mean looking. He ran a hand through his greasy hair and held it out in front of Ed.

“See? The safety’s on. And it is loaded. I know what I’m doin, bro. If you been doin what I been doin for this long, then you’d understand. But you’re too busy writing poems and shit.”

“It’s honest man, can’t call it work, but it keeps me from becoming an old ball scratching Al Bundy like yourself.”

Tommy put the gun back under the tank and looked at Ed with a yellow tooth grin on his unshaven face.

“I like you, Ed. You’re fucking funny even without tryin.’

“You’re easy material to work with brother.”

Tommy laughed and went into the bedroom and after a few minutes came out.

“This what you looking for?” he said, and threw a little baggie at Ed, who caught it with his left hand.

“This looks like my cousin. My dear old faithful fuckin cousin. You know what his name is?”

Tommy sat on the clothes on the couch across from Ed.

“What?”

 “Charlie. Charlie Blow. Not related to Kurtis but even more entertaining.”

“Did you make that up, or what?” Tommy said. He leaned over and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the floor.

“What you got to cut this up on?”

“How about my big white ass.” Tommy said, and got up with a sigh and walked into the bedroom. He came out holding a small mirror with a razor blade flat on the scratched surface and a quarter piece of a red and white straw. Ed took it.

“Thank you, my good man, you are good for something.”

Tommy lit a red and looked out the window.

“Man, the day is gone, like that. Not that I had anything to do.” The sun appeared beneath the grey overhanging clouds like a golden egg yoke dripping over the tenements across the park.

Ed untied the little piece of plastic wrap and gently shook it so two little white rocks came out on the mirror. He tied it back up and put the baggie in his jacket pocket. He pressed the flat wide side of the razor on the little blocks that crumbled easily.

“How is this?” he said, not looking up, slowly using the sharp edge of the razor to break up the remaining clumps.

“Sweetest shit you’ll find in Providence, bro.”

“Good. Cause in this town a man needs something to keep him from slitting his wrists.”

“Why you got this beef with providence, man, you’re from here.”

“That’s exactly why.” Ed said.

“So why the fuck are you here?’ Tommy said, blowing a big blast of smoke.

Ed looked at him, three neat lines like white scars on the mirror.

“Why am I here?” he said, and leaned over and pulled a line up through the straw into his nose. The cocaine did what it does and saturated his brain with that artificial, euphoric sensation that you know is way too good to be true and obviously can’t be good for you.

“I'm only here until I can figure a way to get the fuck out of here. That’s how it always is for me.”

“Did you think about what we talked about a few days ago? About taking that trip to Vermont?”

“Yeah…I’m still thinking about it.”

“Its easy money, bro. A couple-a-thou for a couple hours work.”

“I know, I know. I gotta try and borrow a car…I’m still thinking about it.”

Ed was not too sure about it. Transporting dope to people he didn’t know was not really his thing. He rarely did anything but smoke herb and drink anyway. He had met Tommy a year ago at a catering gig, and off and on he would pick up something from Tommy or hang with him after work, shooting stick and getting ripped. 

“Here you go bro,” Ed said, handing the mirror to Tommy with great care.

He bent down and did a line, then held it up. Ed got up and took it.

“Well you got until tomorrow to decide,” Tommy said. “Marnie might do it.”

Ed snorted another line feeling that perversely wonderful wild rush.

“You’re right man,” he said, wiping his nose, “this is pretty good shit.”

“I told you. I don’t know a lot about a lot, but I do know a lot about a little, man.”

“You’re a fuckin philosopher.”

“I know. My wisdom, and that shit,” he said, jutting out his chin, “sure as hell ain’t free. It’s 50, and that’s friend prices.”

“Is ones OK?” he said.

“Fuck off, asshole.”

Ed cut up another few lines and blew one, then handed the mirror back to Tommy.

He pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket and tossed it on the coffee table. Ed stared at the table cluttered with two full ashtrays, an herb pipe, newspapers and receipts and an open bag of potato chips. It looked like a painting.

Ten minutes later Ed coasted down the street past the beat up playground, where no children played, to River St. As gravity gripped him and the old bike he took his hands off the handle bars and went careening down the hill, memories rushing to greet him, in the back seat again, hurtling towards oblivion.