The latter half of Thursday, July 24 went swimmingly, and more than made up for the crappy first half. I hopped the BTS Skytrain from Ratchathewi Station to Phrom Phong, about five or six stations south. (Only 34 baht compared to the 150 I'd been paying them crooked tuk-tuk drivers.) Upon leaving the station and walking a few hundred yards, I noticed a plywood sign. It was affixed over the threshold of a restaurant named Im Chan, across the four-lane road beneath the elevated railway, and read "THAIFOOD VERY GOOD AND VERY CHEAP." Well, how could I possibly pass that up? I waltzed right in and ordered up some shrimp pad thai for 50 baht and fried tofu, also 50 baht. A hulking, delicious meal for only $3.50. I was beginning to succumb to the charms of Southeast Asia, corrupt tuk-tuk drivers and nosy Thai geezers notwithstanding. It was nice, for once, to not be able to decide which items on the menu to select...but to have the sound financial option of selecting both. I smacked my lips, paid my bill, and walked a few blocks further, to the area of Sukhumvit Road between Soi 26 and Soi 28, to a little foreigner-owned bookstore called Dasa Book Café.
The smell as I walked through the doors was a wondrous blend of hardwood floors, dusty shelves, yellowing pages, creased bindings, and dog-eared covers. I paused for a moment to savor it—it'd been many a long year since I'd smelled that particular deliciousness. I was looking for something to replace The Catcher in the Rye—my copy of which, in fact, is even now sitting on the shelf in Mixed Dormitory C of Boxpackers Hostel off Pretchaburi Road in Bangkok, awaiting the next thirsty reader. Almost immediately as I entered Dasa I spotted a tattered copy of Joseph Conrad's Lord Jim and snatched it up. I'd been meaning to read it for ages. A couple of minutes later I noticed a cardboard sign that had the legend "MORE BOOKS UPSTAIRS!" scribbled on it in black marker, so I ascended a narrow mahogany staircase and located the sci-fi section. There I found Frank Herbert's Dune and The Number of the Beast by Robert A. Heinlein. I almost bought both, but I figured I'd limit myself to two books, as heartbreaking as that was. I didn't want to bring a whole library home to Seoul in my backpack. I selected Dune. The final item on the day's list was to find some high place and get the lay of the land—preferably a cocktail bar that wasn't too picky about dress codes. So I chose the tallest building in Thailand: the Baiyoke Sky Hotel.
I paid $10 and rode up to the observation deck on the 77th floor, which was something like a museum. It had photogenic artifacts scattered about, tailor-made for the vain Asian obsession with selfies.
...which many a Westerner has fallen prey to.
I took a leisurely stroll around, looking at everything. It was only four o'clock and I had some time to kill before the sunset (or the bar opened, whichever came first). I took the elevator up to the 83rd floor and walked up two flights of stairs to the rotating open-air observation deck. A fine, cool breeze was blowing, wiping the sweat off my forehead after my steamy trek through south-central Bangkok. The city sure looked pretty in the late afternoon sunlight.
Then I went down to the bar, had a Manhattan, and watched the sun sink lower...
...directly into a welter of storm clouds boiling up from the western horizon. Rats. No sunset? I paid 300 baht for my drinks and went back up to the observation platform. The wind had freshened and I could see that it was raining like hell a few miles to the west, on the outskirts of the city. I dithered around up there until the first drops began to fall, and then I went back to the 77th floor, opened up Dune, and began to read. The thunderstorm rolled across the city and rain pelted the windows. Lightning flashed at three points of the compass and the room darkened to nocturnal depths. I was determined to wait the storm out. Sunset wouldn't be until nearly 8, so there was a fine chance that this monsoon squall would blow itself out before then. My instincts were correct. The sun broke through at 7:45. I slammed my book shut and raced back up to the top deck.
The air had a heavier, wetter, more relaxed feeling, as if some pent-up energy had been released, and sky and ground were but two lovers lying in bed and sharing a cigarette after a tempestuous bout of lovemaking. A few stray droplets still blew through the air and tickled the eyebrows and lashes. Loving couples stood tangled up with each other as they watched the sun peek through a hole in the clouds and illuminate all creation with its soft pinkish-gold light. Then the fiery orb sank out of sight beyond the western horizon and its ruff of grey oblivion, and I capitulated and went home.
I made two resolutions that evening: to tour western Bangkok by water bus, see two or three temples, and do it all without setting foot in a tuk-tuk. Come back tomorrow to see how it all fell out.
...for what man would be complete without the love of his life standing behind him and telling him not to do all the stupid stuff he'd otherwise do?
I really like the way The Art of Manliness says it should be done, too. The formula hits all the high notes. Not that I didn't know how to write love letters already, mind you. I had tons of practice in my youth. And I am a rather literary-minded fellow, and can wax poetic at the drop of a hat. But I'm not against taking suggestions. I followed the basic outline AoM suggested, penned a two-page letter, put it in an envelope marked My precious angel, laid it on Miss H's pillow, and when she came home...
...well, let's just say I'm her favorite guy at the moment. And that, my friends, is worth kingdoms.
I'm just ashamed that I haven't written her a love letter (or even a note) in over a month. Maybe I should make this a monthly or even weekly habit. She deserves it. She's worth it.
I don't know why I bothered getting up early and making the first train out of town, both in Tokyo or Kyoto. There was no need. In Kyoto I had to wait around for two hours because I arrived at ten o'clock in the morning and check-in time was at noon. I repeated the mistake in Kumamoto. Even though I slept in and took a late-morning train that took four hours to arrive, I walked into the lobby of the APA Hotel at one o'clock. Check-in wasn't until three.
I paid a few hundred yen to use the Internet workspace and "checked in" with everybody back home. I considered stowing my stuff behind the counter and sauntering outside to see some stuff, but there really wasn't time. I needed to do laundry, too, so I got that started before I'd even checked into my room. The concierge was thoughtful enough to bring me my key at 2:55.
My room at the APA was smaller than the one in the Karasuma Kyoto, a lot smaller. The bed was harder. There was barely enough room for me to turn around in the shower. But I did have a pretty good view out the window and a place to lay my head for two nights (all for the low price of 8,800 yen). I wasn't complaining.
Laundry finished at about four o'clock. Worried about managing to see everything on my to-do list (Lafcadio Hearn's house, the Suizen-ji Gardens, and Kumamoto Castle), I grabbed my camera and my trusty satchel and hit the bricks.
Now, I told you that Kyoto had subway trains and Japan Rail commuter trains as well as charming little trams, right?
Well, Kumamoto is so far south and is such a sleepy little city that all it has are trams. I walked outside Kumamoto Station and saw a tram station outside of the train station. (Trippy.) Cabs and buses, too, but you know me: I go for trams every time. There's a single Y-shaped tram line which runs through greater Kumamoto. For 150 yen ($1.50 per ride) you can go anywhere you want. There are stops every few hundred yards. Best yet, the tram stopped near all three items on my to-do list. So I hopped on after I dumped my stuff off at the hotel. The train rattled and shook. The people aboard blinked sleepily. The brass handles make an even louder cranking noise when the operator turned them. It was like the Keifuku Randen tram turned up to eleven. I loved it.
First stop was Lafcadio Hearn's old house, near the tram stop at Suidocho.
Whoa, wait. You don't know who Lafcadio Hearn was?
It's hard to describe him in one sentence, but I'll do my best: Lafcadio Hearn was a Greek-Irish journalist and writer who moved to Japan in 1890 to be a correspondent for a newspaper and wound up becoming a teacher and a naturalized Japanese citizen. Boom. There you go. Aw, rats. I suppose just one sentence isn't going to be enough. Okay, here: Patrick Lafcadio Hearn was born in 1850 on the Ionian island of Lefkada (hence his middle name) to an Irish-born British Army sergeant major and a Greek noblewoman. With his father he moved to Dublin at age 2, and received "a rather casual education." At age 19 he was sent to the United States, settling in Cincinnati, Ohio, living rough for a while. After befriending some powerful people, however, he started a career in journalism. He lived in New Orleans for ten years and wrote much about that city. However, his short-lived assignment to Japan was the one that changed his life. He liked the place so much (and was in such good graces with local ambassadors) that he managed to snag a teaching position at a middle school. He learned Japanese, took a Japanese name (Koizumi Yakumo), accepted a professorship at a university in Tokyo, married a Japanese woman, and just settled down and lived out the remaining years of his life. He died in 1904 of heart failure. He's best remembered for his writings about Japan, which back in the late nineteenth century was still a black hole as far as most Westerners were concerned: unknown and mysterious. Hearn's 1894 book Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan gained him notoriety and started the Western obsession with Japan and Japanese culture. My favorite book of Hearn's, however, was the one I read when I was—golly, eight years old or something. It's called Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things. It's a book full of Japanese ghost stories. I was just fascinated by it. Here was a group of people, monsters, ghosts and legends that I'd never heard of before. I was (and still am) a huge fan of Greek mythology and was just starting to branch out into others, like Norse and Hindu. Hearn's book was like a bolt from the blue. I loved the simple, straightforward, unpretentious and yet lyrical style of the work, and I adored the vividness of the settings and characters which Hearn coaxed out of the old tales. Kwaidan not only kicked off my long-lived curiosity about Japan and Asia, but also made me idolize Hearn. He became sort of a role model for me: a journalist who didn't do that well in the journalism world, but is best remembered for his travels and the stuff he wrote about the places he saw. I'm also rather awed at how well and naturally he was able to fit into Japanese society, learning the language and marrying a local. It's something to aspire to, you know? That level of linguistic assiduousness and cultural sensitivity.
Okay, enough of me geeking out. As an homage to Hearn and the impact he had on me at a young age, I decided to seek out his old house and have a look. I didn't feel like stumping up a few bucks to take a peek inside, but I satisfied myself from without. It was a beautiful little house. I was really rather envious.
For my international readers.
There was a lovely little park next to his house, too.
On the whole, I walked away feeling like a better person. I'd completed a successful pilgrimage. Some people go to see Shakespeare's house in Stratford-upon-Avon; others go to see Faulkner's or Twain's. Me, I like to challenge myself a bit. I went to see Hearn's (in Kumamoto on Kyushu Island). Someday I'll see one or two of Hemingway's and some of my other favorite expat writers', too.
Next up: SUIZEN-JI JŌJU-EN. If you want to see me pet a carp, you'd better tune in.
Having had a full first day in Kyoto, and having accomplished everything on my to-do list—
Okay, that's a bald-faced lie. I didn't accomplish everything on my Day-One-of-Kyoto itinerary. There was one thing I missed.
Do you know what kaiseki ryori is? No? How about kawayuka/kawadoko (down at the bottom of the page)? Not ringing any bells?
Someday I intend to write my memoirs, and then I'll have the pleasant privilege of explaining in great detail what all these things are, instead of lazily linking you elsewhere; but for the sake of brevity, I'll just provide links and you can peruse them at your leisure.
Since Kyoto seems to be famous for kaiseki ryori (tea ceremony food) and kawayuka (rickety-platform-over-running-water dining), I figured I had to try 'em both while I was in town. My hotel (the Karasuma Kyoto; that's my own review down there on the left of the webpage) was centrally located. I wasn't very far from anything, including Pontocho. Pontocho is a narrow alley running north-south from Shijo Street to Sanjo Street, one block west of the Kamo (Duck) River. Apparently they do kawayuka dining there a lot in summer, running a platform out over the river and letting the water cool people off as they eat. Plus there's a lot of kaiseki ryori restaurants there. Two birds with one stone. So I waited until the dusk was falling and strode out of my hotel.
...in the completely wrong direction.
Soon I realized my mistake and turned back east. After quite a bit of walking (the alleys were longer than I reckoned), I made it to the Kamo River. A quick right turn before the stone bridge put me onto Pontocho. It was, if I may speak plainly, one of the most charming little corners of the Earth that I've ever seen. I cursed myself for leaving my bulky Canon Rebel behind. This would have been one sweet opportunity for a picture. Running parallel to both the alley and the river a block away was Takase Canal, a narrow waterway utilized by merchants to bring their goods in off the Kamo and offload them. It wasn't used for much except urban decoration now, but it was still mighty pretty. If you can picture the low-hanging branches and green leaves of the cherry trees by the canal; the birds twittering and the cicadas buzzing; the waters gurgling; the sinking sun reflecting off the surface; well, then you might get close to what I paused and witnessed that night.
From Wikimedia Commons. Obviously this was taken in broad daylight in springtime, when the cherry trees were blooming. But hey, it gets the point across. Pretty, eh?
A lot of the restaurants along the canal had menus posted out front. Unfortunately, they also had prices. Turns out my little idea of eating kaiseki ryori would have required a $40-$60 bill. If I'd been with Miss H or a group of friends, that wouldn't have been a problem. But by myself? Nah. The evening was too romantic to dine alone. I resolved to bring Miss H back some other time and dine kawayuka style with her. Maybe in late summer. And we'll hang around until fall, when the leaves start to turn. I bet Kyoto's really pretty then.
Chagrined, I turned around and headed back to an izakaya I'd noticed earlier, just a few yards down from my hotel. I had some galbi and side dishes and beer, and retired for the evening.
I probably should have waited until autumn to see what I saw the next day, August 5: ARASHIYAMA AND TOGETSUKYO BRIDGE.
Contrary to my usual modus operandi, I don't need to narrate this post. We went to Disneyland. That was it. Oh, and we might have gone out on a grand hilarious search for ramen later that night, with plentiful hijinks involved. But most of August 1 was given over to Walt Disney's legacy and the Japanese take on it.
So here, feast your eyes:
Miss H (left) and Miss J (right). I'm so jazzed that they came out to Japan!
And then, right as we were eating lunch at the Blue Bayou, something happened (click the enlarge button):
That's right. Miss H and I are now engaged. She said yes. I'm the luckiest, happiest, most blessed man alive.
And we got engaged in Tokyo. There's one for the grandkids.
I've spoken at length about this topic before, and I don't intend to repeat myself. But I'm going to say a few words in defense of my friend Jethro.
Jethro Tull, that is.
I just downloaded their 1977 album Songs from the Wood from iTunes, and it is glorious.
Time was, I'd go to a music store (say Barnes & Noble, or Best Buy when they still had CDs). I'd pick a band I liked and listen to a few of the sample tunes on the provided headphones. If I found an album that had at least two songs I loved right away, I'd buy the album, take it home, and listen to it all the way through. Usually, on the second or third play-through, I'd start finding other tunes that I liked. Five or six of them, usually. Maybe I wouldn't like them as much as the original pair that had caught my ear, but they'd still be listenable. Customarily there'd be one or two tracks that I just couldn't stand, and I'd always skip over them on subsequent play-throughs.
I knew I had a winner in Songs from the Wood when every single solitary track tickled the pleasure centers in my brain. Every one.I've already gushed about this on Facebook, but every song on that album is a gem, unique and mellifluous and utterly addictive. It's only ten tracks, including the bonus items, but I've never spent $9.99 more wisely. I just can't get enough of that wonderful, wacky bard Ian Anderson and his restless flute. I was already familiar with the title track and "The Whistler," but they withstand the test of time. My particular favorites from the album are "Jack in the Green," "Cup of Wonder," "Fire at Midnight," and "Beltane."
"Fire at Midnight" is a particular love of mine due to its evocative lyrics. Listening to it, you can just feel the damp chill outside the door of your cottage, the warm crackle of the fire, the rich gold of the hot toddy on the mantlepiece, the soft rugs and wood floor beneath your feet. It just makes you think of cold spring nights and mist and quiet evenings and cheery conversations and delicious drinks and all the lovely intangibles that go with them.
Oh yes. I believe in fires at midnight. Here, I'll show you:
Yes, I added text to this picture, but the original image isn't mine. Boo-yah.
If you want my advice, go to YouTube (or better yet, iTunes) and look up that song. "Fire at Midnight" by Jethro Tull. Give it a listen. Click on the image I've provided (to expand it to full size) and stare at it while the music plays. You'll wonder why all your day's stress just vanished in smoke. I dare you not to make yourself a hot toddy or go stargazing or pen a few romantic verses afterward.
I know, I know. This is the Sententious Vaunter. I should be penning you a panegyric, not a philippic. But sometimes I discover things which make me want to scream, and the only place I can scream eloquently enough is here on this blog. So strap yourselves in. It's ranting time.
I'm drawing attention to this subject because (a) it bugs me and (b) to my knowledge, the phenomenon has only recently been named. Finally, we have a label for all those teen romance books that involve vampires, werewolves, zombies and aliens.
I first saw the label at Barnes & Noble. Two whole sections of bookshelf had been given over to the genre, whose individual components were earmarked by the Goth-looking teenagers on the covers, the sinister titles, the dark colors, and their universal, superficial resemblance to the Twilight series. The placard over this section indicated that these works were "Teen Paranormal Romance."
What? What the hell is teen paranormal romance? I thought.
Then I realized. The resemblance to Twilight wasn't superficial. People—grown men and women, not just teenage girls—had gotten so infatuated with the type of story which Twilight offered that the series had sparked an entire genre: teen girls (and, in some cases, teen guys) falling in love with eldritch monsters.
Oh jeez, I thought. That's ridiculous. Thanks a heap, Stephanie Meyer. You really started something.
As you can probably tell, I don't approve of Twilight or anything remotely resembling it. Specifically, I take issue with the manner in which Twilight has degraded and diluted the definition of masculinity. Instead of being rough, hardy, muscular, forthright and boisterous, like real men ought to be, Meyer's ideal man is a skulking, pale, sensitive, soft-spoken freak of a pretty boy. I don't consider that manly at all. And yet scores of swooning teenage girls have gone wild for Edward Cullen; Indiana Jones, Conan the Barbarian and James Bond are chauvinistic fossils by comparison.
This is not the kind of world I want to live in.
The problem is simple. The very fact that this disturbing trend has been labeled means that it's entrenched. Teen paranormal romance is here to stay, at least for a while. It's the big thing in fiction right now. The Twilight movies are slaughtering the box office and paranormal romance of every variety is infecting the shelves of booksellers nationwide. There's no way to dislodge the phenomenon. It makes me cringe to think of what might come next.
As always, I shall be the lone voice of sanity in these insane, chaotic times (boy, ain't that ironic). While teen girls (and, I suspect, a generous sample of middle-aged women) ooh and aah over the pencil-necked vampire boys, I shall continue to write stories which feature musclebound guys, ball-crushing badasses, and suave, straight-talking champions. I shall let the purity of the masculine ideal speak for itself in my fiction. Bold adventurers, quick-thinking rogues and rock-hard heroes will never go out of style, and though some distressing trends in fiction have arisen of late (and will do so again), I shall remain a bastion of artistic integrity and truth.
There shall be a good deal of romance in my books, and no street-smart, gorgeous heroine of mine is going to fall for any pale, bloodsucking pretty boy.
You probably already know that I like the Marx Brothers. My favorite is definitely Groucho, or "Julius" as he was sometimes known. Clever man. Always up for a good laugh, and if there wasn't one handy, he'd supply it. My favorite Marx flick is 1933's Duck Soup, where Groucho plays Rufus T. Firefly, the dictator of a small European country, Freedonia. (Don't that beat all?) For various uncomplicated reasons, Freedonia is drawn into a war with a neighboring country, thanks to the double-dealing ambassador, Trentino, who has secretly been trying to subvert Firefly's power.
Firefly's having none of it, though.
Then it's war! Firefly commands the troops in the field, keeping a Thompson submachine gun in a violin case by his side. A soldier comes in and hands him a message from the front.
"I'm sick of getting messages from the front," gripes Firefly. "Why can't I ever get a message from the side?"
Fine, fine. Go ahead and groan. Jeez, nobody appreciates intelligent humor anymore. Nowadays it's all bathroom humor and sex jokes and flatulence.
Soapboxes aside, I have some news for you.
I want to apologize for tapering off from my current spate of blogging fervor. Several things have come up. Firstly, I finally have a second job. The proprietor of the small café down at Apple Valley Airport, Mack, keeps asking me if I want to wash dishes for him, only half-jokingly. Since none of the bars in the area are hiring, I finally decided to take him up on it. I've read Bill Gates's 11 Rules Kids Won't Learn in School. Number Four is as follows:
Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your grandparents had a different word for burger-flipping. They called it opportunity. They weren't embarrassed about making minimum wage, either. They would have been embarrassed to sit around talking about Kurt Cobain all weekend.
That's telling 'em, Bill. For what it's worth, I agree with him. Work is work. I need the money, I'm able-bodied and capable, and it's not embarrassing or degrading. (Heck, more embarrassing yet would be sitting around my parents' house all day blogging about how broke I am.)
So I've taken the job and am working towards my goals with added zeal (and increased income, hallelujah!). I've survived the first weekend, so I think I'll be fine. It was tough, make no mistake. Mack runs a catering service on the side, and in addition to the café's dishes, I had all the catering trays and pots and pans and bowls to do. Saturday was ten hours and Sunday was eleven. Thank goodness for rubber gloves or the skin would've been sloughing off my dishpan hands.
So that took up Saturday and Sunday. The other thing that's been going on is...girls, dude.
I've gotten myself one.
Sorry ladies, the Postman is now taken. He's been reserved. Snatched up. Diverted by a wonderful lady. I'll call her Miss H. She's an old high-school friend. We had quite an amiable relationship in class, went our separate ways during college, and met up again one night back in August. What with one thing and another, we decided to go steady. So here we are, having a ball. We're an old-fashioned couple: we go to movies at the drive-in theater, sit out on hilltops and stargaze, or go prowling through used bookstores. We're both taking enormous pleasure in each other's company. I'm feeling much more sanguine about life in general since Miss H and I took up together, let me tell you. It's as though this void in the center of my chest has suddenly been filled up. Something's back in my life that's been gone for too long, and it's the grandest thing. She's a classy lady and a real kick to be around, cute as a button, easygoing all get-out, and shares a lot of my interests. What more could a guy ask for?
And last...did I tell you I sent a story off to Fantasy & Science Fiction? Well, I most certainly did. It's a 3,500-word humor/science fiction piece concerning two Earth astronauts who are trying to communicate with an alien life form—and failing miserably. Science believes that we may discover sentient crystalline life on exoplanets with odd geological makeups. So my question was, how would we communicate with them? How do you talk to a crystal? My two astronauts are trying some unusual methods: interpretive dance and impressionist art, for starters. If this story gets published, you'll see the results.
That's about the news. I've been trying to finish and finalize two of the other stories I've been working on, both much longer (in the novelette range, 10,000+ words). One of them needs to be rewritten; I've decided that this first draft is rather puerile and doesn't explore the themes fully enough. The second isn't finished, but I've got a handle on where it's going.
This just in: I had jury duty today, but I called up the automated hotline just a minute ago and it said it was canceled! So now I've got the rest of the day off, thank goodness. Looks like a busy week ahead, though. The chase program is finally starting up again on Thursday and there'll be another load of dishes to do on the weekend...but Miss H and I have a nice trip to the bookstore planned for later this afternoon. Maybe I'll pick up yet another forgotten sci-fi classic like The Escape Orbit. (Which, by the way, is turning into such an excellent work...the plot has gotten more convoluted than I ever would've imagined. Full review coming later.)
Life's more fun when you own up to having bad taste. Or better yet, glory in it. Indulging in strange or antediluvian books, movies, clothes and décor is one of life's greatest and rarest pleasures. I had a pretty darn good day yesterday, not just because I spent most of it with a special lady, but because I know what I like and am secure enough to partake of it without shame.
We went shooting in the morning. We had a Beretta semi-automatic, a .22-caliber Ruger target pistol, a big .45 M1911, and the pièce de résistance, an 1873 Colt single-action Army revolver. It's one of my father's reproduction cowboy firearms, and has served both of us well in many a competition. It's a surreal thing, just to see it and hold it: polished walnut grips, case-hardened frame, barrel and cylinder cold black steel, grit personified. It's a piece of history, this gun. Nothing satisfies the scholarly mind or itchy fingers like loading a few massive .45 slugs into it, spinning the cylinder flippantly, and driving six giant holes through a paper bulls-eye.
Some people are too caught up in your modern, plastic firearms like Glocks and M-16s. They don't appreciate the worth of a classic six-shooter. But I do.
Then we went to the Old 247 Café and laid waste to the cheeseburger special. Burger, fries, and a medium Coke for $4.60 apiece. Where else in the country can you still find that kind of deal? And it was delicious, let me tell you. Diets and veggie burgers and protein shakes can go hang themselves. There's no denying the decadence of a good old-fashioned hamburger, packed with lettuce, tomatoes and pickles and dripping ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise onto the grease-bound fries.
But the spiritual center of the Postman's brand of arcana—the place where I really let my horrible taste and singular cravings run loose—is the used book store.
I found a science fiction novel by some guy I've never heard of (James White), called The Escape Orbit. It's about a bunch of human prisoners-of-war who, taken captive by the instectoid race humanity has warred with for 60 years, get dumped on a wild planet filled with carnivorous alien monsters.
How cool is that?
Yeah, yeah, I know. It's not Twain or Brontë or Dostoevsky. But it's fun, all right? I don't care if people say I have questionable taste in books. I don't care if Dad rolled his eyes when I excitedly explained the book's premise. I think it's neat. I mean, come on: if I liked (the original) Clash of the Titans, where you've got a bunch of guys fighting fantastic monsters with swords and bows...well, shoot! How is this any different? The monsters just happen to be giant green elephants with six legs, two trunks and shark teeth.
I've delved into the first chapter already, and I must say that White does an excellent job of not clogging up the beginning with too much description or background. He just gets the story started, introduces some of the characters, and lets the context seep in where it seems logical. I need to work on that. I stand to learn a lot from this novel, especially since there's quite a few monster-fighting scenes in my own series. I could probably use some tutoring on how to do them properly. Just to make sure they keep the tension going and don't drag on endlessly, you know?
Now let's see, what else do I have to report? Did I ever render a verdict on The Reivers (William Faulkner)? I don't think I did. I also haven't told you much about Race to the Pole (Sir Ranulph Fiennes). I finished it. And I've started in on my cousin's Western romance novel, Blue Mist Rising. So let me give you the skinny on those three and then we'll be all caught up on our monthly book reviews.
THE REIVERS: In 1905 Mississippi, half-breed Indian Boon steals his boss's new car and, in the company of Ned, the family's giggly black retainer, and Lucius, the boss's eleven-year-old grandson, embarks on a long-haul joyride to Memphis, Tennessee, getting into all kinds of messes along the way.
I liked the book. Faulkner is one hell of a yarn-spinner, and manages to create an entire world, filled with characters of every stamp, and scrapes and plot-twists of every conceivable caliber. Despite using some admirably long sentences and an incredible amount of parentheticals, he doesn't waste a single word. The scenery is rich, the humor ribald, the voice matter-of-fact, the tone bleak and weary at times, wistful and almost jovial at others. I got the sense that Faulkner, in his declining years, and having witnessed the brutalities and absurdities of human existence and the hypocrisy, grandstanding, bombast and foolishness that accompany them, wrote this book to show all of it up. The author was rueful of men's idiosyncratic idiocy, and yet still able to jibe about it, probably because he realized that no one can honestly expect people not to behave like animals. At times his author's voice suggests a learned species of resigned acceptance. The trials and trammels of humanity in the modern age—greed, bigotry, mendacity, pettiness, fear, corruption, anger, and lust—are lambasted in this novel, often to humorous effect. Lucius, the eleven-year-old protagonist, begins as a naïve chump, and loses quite a bit of innocence over the course of the book. In the end, he comes to understand the basic principles of rape, extortion, whoring, horse-racing, horse-trading, misuse of power, political corruption, theft, dishonesty, and sexual exploitation, and even, to an advanced degree, the reason behind them. (And in only three days to boot!)
This is, as you may imagine, a traumatic process. Faulkner demonstrates his brilliance in both analyzing the human condition and translating it into words when he writes that Lucius, "having no receptacle" to put these new and confusing experiences in, and not having the maturity or wisdom to muster up some perspective, nearly breaks down with horror and chagrin as his worldview is assaulted. But with precocious rationality, Lucius refuses to let himself be corrupted completely, even if he willingly abetted the original sin (the theft of his grandfather's car and the start of the trip to Memphis) and many that followed. He takes in the unpleasantness he's witnessed, absorbs it without allowing it to consume him. (Of course, the cup does brim over at times; but whose doesn't?)
Lucius's character serves as a sort of everyman, with whom the audience can identify and learn: we may observe depravity, and even partake of it, but we must never fall wholly victim to it. With good reasoning and a little maturity, we may process the information and be on guard against temptation. Failing this, we risk being lampooned as a minor character in a Faulkner novel.
RACE TO THE POLE: Renowned polar explorer and O.B.E. recipient Ranulph Fiennes, the first man to transect Antarctica on foot (and who also ran seven marathons on seven continents in seven days) takes pen in hand to debunk the myths and pernicious rumors surrounding Robert F. Scott's second and final expedition to the South Pole in 1912.This was also quite an interesting read. According to Sir Fiennes, Scott has been infamously and unfairly treated by the critics and the history books. Many of the mistakes that were made during the fatal endeavor (Scott and four companions died of starvation and exposure on the way back from the Pole, to which Roald Amundsen had beaten them by over a month) were the result of ignorance and circumstance, Fiennes alleges. For example, 1912 turned out to be the worst year possible for such work. It was the most freakishly cold summer in decades, according to data collected by the expedition itself and latter-day meteorologists. Being the first expeditionary force to push so far into the Antarctic wastes, Scott and his party also suffered from a profound lack of knowledge about conditions, particularly where nutrition was concerned: Fiennes's research reveals that neither Scott nor his men were consuming enough calories to keep them going, leading to a gradual loss of stamina, body fat and muscle mass, which eventually resulted in hypothermia and exhaustion.
Sir Fiennes also hoists the English flag above Scott's icy grave, insisting that the only reason Amundsen made the pole first was his inherent sneakiness. He deceived the world, fooling both Norway and England into believing he was making a push for the North Pole, changed plans at the last second, bought up all the best Greenland sled dogs, rushed southward, and mounted his own expedition in opposition to Scott's. Since Scott's work was scientific in nature and Amundsen's was not, the Norwegian was able to make far better time and devote every ounce of energy to movement instead of data-collection. This may seem like fair play in the modern age, but in the old days Amundsen's actions were nothing short of barbaric. The English were hopping mad. Even Norway disowned him in embarrassment. Nonetheless, Amundsen rose to eternal glory as the first man to reach the South Pole.
If you want an interesting and well-written treatise on Antarctic exploration, scientific diligence, and the limits of human endurance (plus an engaging account of both of Scott's harrowing polar expeditions), pick up this book. It's got everything: killer whale attacks, breaking ice floes, wooden sailing ships, ferocious storms, hellish blizzards, deadly cliffhangers, and enough seal-blubber soup to choke a sled dog.
BLUE MIST RISING: Romance novelist (and my own second cousin) Jacqueline Franklin spins an erotic tale of danger, romance, and intrigue as Grady, a half-Indian gunslinger, returns to his Arizona hometown to save his lady-love Kaylee from the clutches of his mean and ugly arch-nemesis Dade.
I haven't read much of this yet, and (if you've read even half of this blog post) you know that I'm not much into romance novels. But Cousin Jax did me a great service by reading my manuscript, which, as a fledgling piece of science and historical fiction, must've been as repulsive to her as erotic romance novels are to me. But I'm going to finish it. And I must say, Jax sets a scene pretty well. Two chapters in and we've already been introduced to all the major players and their wants, desires, and dislikes. I'll let you know more when I've read more.
So that's what's on my plate right now, The Escape Orbit and Blue Mist Rising. And what am I going to read when I get through with these? You remember that special girl I mentioned earlier? Well, she has lent me a book. That book is Moby-Dick. Yes, the massive Melville classic. That's right, folks. I'm going into the breach again. Another attempt to scale the mountain will soon be under way. Let's see if I can get through the whole thing this time. I knocked off twenty chapters a few years ago and then completely ran out of steam. Melville is a pretty dry writer, even if the stuff he wrote about would make the average person pee their pants.
I'll let you know how it goes. Until then...stay tuned.
Here's a film for every chartered accountant who ever wanted to be a lion-tamer.
Hatari! (1962) concerns a group of expatriates in East Africa, capturing animals for zoos and circuses. And how do they do it? The fanny-kickin' way, of course: trucks, ropes, and cages. None of this wishy-washy tranquilizer nonsense. John Wayne and his gang are taking names. If you've ever fantasized about climbing into a beat-up old pickup truck and chasing an enraged rhinoceros across the sunlit grass of the Ngorogoro Crater, you've gotta sit down and see this movie.
The plot: John Wayne's character, Sean Mercer, is the boss of a game company, a crack team of drivers and animal wranglers based somewhere in Kenya. They live on an extravagant spread, a compound filled with bungalows, cages, enclosures, sheds, and enough booze and zebra-skin rugs to stock a hundred African adventure flicks. By day, they drive out to the savanna in a beat-up assortment of vehicles and run down the local fauna; by night, they smoke, drink, dance, and romance like New York socialites, accompanied by some of the grooviest tunes Henry Mancini could dish up. Seems like a pretty cool job, if you ask me.
Sean is a cantankerous Irish-American with bad luck in love. He came within an inch of getting married, once. Then he made the mistake of bringing her to Africa with him. She couldn't stand the place and walked out on him. Since then, Sean's shunned women with a vehemence bordering on misogyny. His well-ordered lifestyle is suddenly complicated by the arrival of a beautiful Italian photographer, Dallas (Elsa Martinelli), sent by one of the client zoos to take pictures of their acquisitions. Sean wants her gone, but Dallas immediately wins the hearts of his coworkers: wisecracking driver Pockets (a Brooklyn cabbie, played by the inimitable Red Buttons), who is secretly in love with Brandy (Michèle Girardon), for whose attentions the much-more-handsome-and-dashing Kurt Muller and "Chips" Maurey (Hardy Krüger and Gérard Blain) are hotly competing. There's the shadow of bad luck hanging over the whole expedition, too, as "the Indian" (Bruce Cabot), the expedition's rifleman, is wounded by a rhinoceros in the opening scenes. The crew must find a replacement and simultaneously cope with what the Indian is sure is a "rhino jinx."
Interspersed with all of this are some of the most amazing animal sequences ever seen in a movie, before or since. There are no CG effects going on here, people: it's the real deal. The cast members really did pile into trucks and Jeeps and go haring after rhinos and giraffes and zebras, all over the African plains. Not only that, but most of these scenes are unscripted: there was no way of knowing what the wild animals would do, so director Howard Hawks told the cast to ad-lib as they went along. Watching John Wayne doing his darnedest not to swear on-camera while wrestling a fully grown zebra into a crate (or getting his foot stomped on by a baby giraffe) is nothing short of cinematic gold.
Wayne proves his mettle, though. In one timeless scene, he faces down the charge of an angry mother elephant on foot, rifle in hand. I thought that was the pinnacle of manliness when I first watched this film as an eight-year-old boy. And it's not just chasing animals, either. Midway through the film, Pockets (my favorite character) comes up with a high-flown scheme to net a bunch of monkeys: a rocket. He plans to build a skyrocket to haul a net 100 feet into the air and drape it over an enormous tree, into which the helpful Warusha tribe (who, unfortunately, aren't really developed as characters, and are treated more as part of the African scenery) have chased 500 chattering, screeching vervet monkeys. Ever see that in any other movie? Eh? I thought not.
Comedy slides seamlessly in between hazards and canoodling. Not only are we privy to the whimsical courtship of Sean and Dallas, and Pockets's never-ending supply of one-liners (when a cape buffalo rams its head into the front grille of the catching truck, Pockets quips "Our insurance rate just went up"), but there are plenty of non-romantic hijinks to go around in between safaris. Bedlam ensues when someone leaves the gate of the ostrich enclosure open, and the lanky birds escape into the compound. Dallas, a compassionate soul, becomes a magnet for orphaned baby elephants, much to Sean's chagrin. And the research, development, and implementation of Pockets's monkey-netting rocket are always good for a laugh.
The film keeps the suspense going nicely, too. All the time, you're wondering whether the cast is ever going to run out of cigarettes. And through it all, there's the intangible sense of adventure hovering just below our perceptions. As one views this film, one subconsciously realizes the grandeur of the setting, the quiet ecstasy and omnipresent thrill of having a swashbuckling job in a far-flung corner of the planet. I dare anyone with a soul to resist the excitement that bubbles up in your midsection whenever the screen turns to a wide-angle shot of the Masai Mara and the catching cars heave into sight, engines roaring, bald tires kicking up dust. The very concept of the film—living and working in Africa, capturing fractious megafauna on a daily basis—is intoxicating.
Smoldering passions, shameless chain smoking, exhilarating chases, exotic locales, dangerous beasts, endless dangers and high thrills (and a hefty helping of male chauvinism) render this flick dated but endlessly fun. For world travel, nostalgia, adventure, laughs, romance, intrigue, and a rollicking good time, look up Hatari! and hang on for the ride.
Just don't get too close to the TV. That rhinoceros is a mean one.
All right, here's my entry for the Drunk At First Sight Blogfest. Rules are simple: grab a drink, cruise over to Jon Paul's blog, click on all the links, and read all the great fiction that the other applicants posted. Go on, do it. Kudos to everyone who signed up and a big hearty round of thanks to (a) Jon Paul for conceiving the idea and working hard to set it all up, and (b) everybody else for gettin' the word out. And by the way, I hope you're wearing green. If not, pinch yourself. Hard. And now, without further ado... My Bonny Lies Over the Seagram's
(c) 2010 A.T. Post
I was halfway through my third glass when I noticed her. Dunno why I did. The place was packed. The bar was in Boston, and in Boston it was St. Patty’s Day. Everybody in green, everybody totin’ a glass of that godawful Guinness swamp water, happy as pigs in you-know-what. She was all the way across the room, sittin’ at the bar, all by herself. Maybe that’s why I saw her. It’s like when you’re in a noisy room and you can’t hardly hear nothin’ so you tune out all the rest of the gab, but when somebody shouts your name you hear it ‘cause you’re hard-wired to. I see a girl sittin’ by herself in the bar, and she’s pretty much got my name stamped on her ass.
Speakin’ of ass, I can think of a few other reasons why she caught my eye. I’ll admit to fallin’ victim to the beer goggles once or twice, but this chick didn’t need no alcoholic enhancement. Or any enhancement at all, matter a’ fact. She curved where it counted, and straightened where she ought. The lines on her woulda made Frank Lloyd Wright keel over. Her face mighta converted Picasso to realism. (I ain’t no collector, but I been to the Museum of Fine Arts a couple times.)
Now, I ain’t the kind to get sentimental or nothin’, but lookin’ at her, up there at the bar by herself, and bein’ into my cups already, I got kinda melancholy. I mean, I dunno about you, but there comes a time when every hound has to find his bitch. You know what I’m sayin’? You can only philander for so long before it starts to get sour. You get tired of it after a while. Wakin’ up alone. (Or needin’ to sneak out.) Gettin’ stoned every weekend in the bars, cruisin’. Stupid dumbass sonsabitches hornin’ in on your stompin’ grounds. Breakin’ down the same old femme barriers, night after night after night. The lay is good—hell yeah, when wouldn’t it be?—but everything else, it wears you down. Don Juan died a lonely man, but y’never hear that part of the story.
I guess that evenin’ I’d about had it. I was sick and tired of it. I’d come out for the Big Green Whoopdedoo, and there was no action. Nothin’. The girls was either taken or too young or both. (I’ve given up on the little girls, those under-twenty-fivers…they gets attached too easy.) I was just sittin’ there, gettin’ stoned for the hell of it. And then I look up and see her. And I think to myself, Ya know? Maybe this is fate or somethin’. Maybe this is it. Maybe that’s the girl I been lookin’ for. Now, if you’d a’ come to me sober, and told me when I woke up that mornin’, St. Patty’s Day, that I’d head down to the bar, see some chick and wanna get to know her better, I’d a’ said, “Hell yeah, partner.” If you’d a’ told me I’d see her, and get mellow, and think “Maybe she’s the one for me,” I’d a’ told you to grab your ankles, brace yourself, and yank your head outta your ass. I had three rounds of brew in me, which was nothin’. But it musta been affectin’ me somehow, I thought. I shook myself, and told me to get it the hell together. I was Herbie Krakauer, a regular latter-day Casanova, the King of All Hounds, Philanderer Extraordinaire. I had no business thinkin’ like this. It was the booze. That was all it was. The booze was makin’ me feel mellow. I was either too drunk or not enough, I figured. I erred on the side of drunkenness.
I tipped the waitress the wink. The wink that had gotten me into a lot of pants. “What can I get you, sir?” she asked. Her cheeks were a little red. That wink’s never failed me yet.
“Gimme a glass of whiskey,” I told her. “Seagram’s.”
“Sure you don’t want Michael Collins or some 10-year-old Bushmills?” she asked, smilin’ a little. “To go with the occasion?”
“Positive, toots,” I answered. I nodded at her. “And send that lady up at the bar there another of whatever she’s havin’.”
The waitress craned her neck to look over at the bar. Then she looked back at me, and her smile had gone on vacation. “Will do, sir,” she said, all uptight.
I glared after her. Cripes, I thought, as her backside went around behind the bar. What wuzzat for? All I did was buy a woman a drink in a bar, for Pete’s sake. A few minutes later I was watchin’ as the waitress set the drink down in front of her. I saw her ask the waitress who it was from. I could see the side of her face, shinin’ in the lights above the bar. She looked like an angel. The waitress, her face still stiff, pointed over at me. The lady craned her head around to take a gander at me. Watchin’ her move was like watchin’ a willow sway in the wind. She moved so smooth-like, so cool and calm. Lookin’ at her from the front, she was even prettier—and with her ass, that was sayin’ somethin’. And then she swung off her stool and waltzed over to my table. I swear to Gawd, my ticker kicked up a notch. It started thumpin’ to beat the band, matter a’ fact.
Cripes, I thought again.
Our eyes never left each other as she came across the room. Suddenly that bar felt kinda huge—like a concert hall. But it was hot and stuffy, too. And sorta tingly, like the air was filled with feathers and snowflakes.
The lady sat down with a sexy kinda swivel. She glanced away for a moment to put her purse on the floor under the table. I breathed out, and breathed back in as she looked up and locked eyes wi’ me again. I heard one of her shoes scrape the floor as she crossed her legs. I couldn’t see those legs anymore, bein’ under the table, but my imagination kicked in somethin’ righteous. And then, suddenly, I found myself sitting at the same table with her. My brains were stuck in the mud, but my head felt like a balloon at a county fair—it kept tryin’ to float away. The beer wasn’t helpin’ either, as far as that goes. I couldn’ think straight. I didn’t hardly know what to do with my hands, so I glued ‘em to the empty glass in front of me. My ticker kept on thumpin’ away.
Cripes, I thought again, this is like bein’ back in junior high, for Pete’s sake.
She just kept starin’ at me. Up close, she was even more of a knockout. Her hair was dark brown, like a whiskey barrel, and wasn’t too long or too short. It was sorta done up, like, so it wreathed her head in Jesus-glow. Her face was just gorgeous. Liz Taylor had nothin’ on her. She had a nice, rosy face with a beauty spot, a little nose, some red lips that weren’t too big or fancy, a forehead like a Greek goddess, a chin that didn’t stick out, and a neck that Nosferatu woulda wept over. I liked her eyes the best, though. They were blue, almost bluish-purple, but not nasty-lookin’ like a bruise. What are them purple flowers that people like? Irises, that’s it. Her eyes looked like a couple a’ irises. They were deep and mischievous, too, sorta smilin’ at me. Her eyes reminded me of a sunlit flowerbed I saw once over in City Square Park in Charlestown.
I can’t tell ya exactly what it was like, lookin’ at her. It was kinda like Gawd took a Wordsworth poem and turned it into a woman, and that woman was sittin’ right across the table from me. I knew she was dif’rent than all them other girls before. That was for dang sure. The waitress stomped up and plunked that glass of whiskey down in front of me. “There you go,” she huffed.
I mumbled somethin’ and lunged for the glass, glad for somethin’ to do with my hands. I was about to knock it back, but then I met her eyes again. And she said somethin’.
“Come here often?”
It was a good thing she said that before I started drainin’ th’ glass, or I’d a’ probably spewed Seagram’s all over her, and died a lonely man. I set the glass back down, a bit shaky.
“Comin’ from you, that don’t sound like a pickup line,” I said, cautious-like, kinda surprisin’ myself with how steady I sounded.
“It’s not,” she answered back. She had a voice as strange an’ marvelous as her face. It was easy on the ears, very crisp, like a singer’s. And it lilted, kinda. It reminded me a’ music I listened to when I was a kid, sorta familiar and comfortin’, like.
“I ask because I’m trying to find out what sort of person you are,” she went on. That threw me for a loop.
“What, ya came over here to interview me for the Globe or somethin’?”
“In a manner. I’d just like to get to know you better, that’s all.”
“How come?”
“I’ll get to that later.”
“Well, for what it’s worth,” I said, giving her the wink, “the feelin’s mutual.”
Now her mouth smiled as well as her eyes.
This was awful strange, let me tell ya. When she’d walked over, I felt like I was gonna die. My heart was bangin’, my skin was tinglin’, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I was a deer in the friggin’ headlights. Now, with just a few straight words, she’d calmed me down. I felt all free and easy and relaxed all of a sudden, lookin’ at her across my glass of whiskey. It was comfortable speakin’ to her, ya know? Not weird or prickly or whatever, like it was tryin’ to talk to them other girls. It was like we were friends already.
“So,” she said, “do you come here often?”
“Yep,” I said, givin’ her smile a friend to talk to. “I’m in here a lot, matter a’ fact.”
“Okay,” she said, noddin’, like she was filin’ my answer away in her head. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Huh?”
“I ask a question, then you ask a question. You said you wanted to get to know me too, didn’t you? Let’s take turns interrogating each other. It’s only fair.”
Well, I didn’t know what to say to that. I was havin’ a hard time figurin’ this lady out. Most chicks I bought drinks for either threw ‘em in my face or took me home after invitin’ me over. No lady had ever got up and come to me before, hell no. And she was so frank and open about everythin’ to boot. Askin’ me questions and sayin’ we should take turns like that. It was weird. But it wasn’t weird in a bad way, ya know? I still wasn’t sure whether I liked the way she acted, or whether we were gettin’ ourselves into a bad round of speed-datin’. But I decided to go with the flow. Couldn’t hurt. And I was awful curious.
“Alrightie,” I said, “what’s your poison?”
“Pardon?” she asked, a puzzled little smile hoverin’ round her lips, those big beautiful eyes openin’ a little wider. Man, but she was a knockout. My ticker skipped a beat.
“What’re ya drinkin’?” I clarified, smilin’ right back.
“Oh!” She laughed. It was a beautiful sound, like clean water tinklin’ over rocks, or the birds singin’ on Boston Common.
“It’s something I ordered specially, just for today,” she said, and a little hint of her laugh stayed in her voice, and made it shine an’ sparkle. “It’s a leprechaun martini.”
“And what the hell’s in a leprechaun martini?” I chuckled, crackin’ her up as well.
“It’s vodka, Irish cream, and green crème de menthe,” she giggled.
“Sounds nasty.”
“It is. But I thought I should try it, at least, before I said yea or nay.”
“Least you c’n do.”
“My turn again. What do you usually do after a night like this?”
“A night like what?”
“This,” she said, gesturin’ at the bar and the happy swillin’ folk all crowdin’ around. “Where do you go and what do you do?”
Here’s my shot, I thought, grinnin’ inside.
“Well,” I said, free and cool and easy, “I usu’ly wind up takin’ a gal home and gettin’ some, if you know what I mean.”
I gave her the wink again. She didn’t stir a hair. That threw me off even more. Good or bad, that wink never failed to get a reaction outta the womenfolk. She might as well have been blind for all the notice she took of it.
“I see,” she answered, not mad, not glad, just plain. “Your turn.”
“You live around here?”
“Up in Charlestown,” she replied, impassive. “Are you happy?”
“Huh?”
“That’s my next question. Are you happy right now?”
I thought about that for a sec. Seemed like a simple question. But if it’s one thing I’ve figured out about womenfolk, it’s this: they ask loaded questions. They might ask how you’re feelin’ or how the grub tastes or what you think a’ this and that, but they’re actually tryin’ to find out somethin’ else—usu’ly how you feel about them. That little fact has bit me in the buttocks a few times, let me tell ya. So, natur’ly, I was careful how I answered her.
“Sure, I’m happy,” I said, sorta proud-like. “I’m real happy right now. I got a full whiskey glass on the table and a knockout chick sittin’ across from me. What more could a guy like me want?”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out,” she said. Her elbows were on the table, and she was leanin’ forward, all cozy and intimate, like we were plottin’ to kidnap the Pope or somethin’. Those killer eyes of hers were opened wide, not like she was surprised, but like she was investigatin’. My ticker kicked up another notch when I imagined that she might be likin’ what she saw, and wantin’ to drink in more. I could oblige her there. But there was a knowin’ little smile hoverin’ around her mouth. That I just couldn’t make out. What was she smilin’ for? Was she makin’ fun of me? What was so funny?
I didn’t know what she meant, so I asked her.
“Well, you do this a lot, don’t you?” she went on. “You come down here to the bars, get drunk, pick up women, go home with them, make love to them, and abandon them the next day, right?”
Oh boy, I thought. Now I saw where she was goin’ with all this. I was in for a lecture. I could just feel a reprimand comin’ on, from the way she was all squared up over there across the table. “Abandon” was a pretty punchy word, too. I felt kinda ruffled. My life was my life, and how I conducted it was nobody’s business. She shouldn’t presume to tell me whether what I was doin’ was right or wrong. It worked for me, so that should be the end of it.
But…well, I dunno why, but I got kinda uncomfortable after she said what she said. I hadn’t felt guilty too many times in my life, but I felt guilty right then. Somehow, hearin’ my love life repeated back at me that way made it seem ugly and heartless and low-down all of a sudden. Hearin’ her say, right out and honest like that, that I was a philanderin’ rake…well, that was a bitter pill to swallow. It was like gettin’ a splash of cold water in the face, the morning after the best sleep of your life. I’d never looked at things that way before. And it was hard. Real hard. It made me mad. I didn’t like that guilty feelin’ at all. I didn’t like feelin’ bad about the stuff I’d done. I didn’t like hearin’ my habits put to me like that.
So I got mad. I sat up straight in my chair, looked at her square-on.
“Hey, what’s your game, lady?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know what I’m talkin’ about. You got no call to be judgin’ me like that. I don’t care to hear my life put to your music. What I do is what I do, and I don’t mind it, and that oughta be good enough for you. I got enough problems without havin’ to hear the gospels preached to me by every moralizin’, uptight chick who walks into my bar. So lay off, will ya?”
I glared at her, intendin’ to keep railin’, or knock my whiskey back and take my leave. But I pulled up short. She was still leanin’ on the table, all casual, lookin’ at me with them same open, honest eyes, her hair still framin’ her head like angel-fire, that face of hers just glowin’ under the incandescent lights, like a lighthouse out on the cape. And that small smile was still hangin’ around her mouth, too. That was what really took the thorns outta my side, that smile. If she was goin’ to take me to task, she probably wouldn’t be smilin’ about it.
It was the same kind a smile people get when they’re thinkin’ about somethin’ familiar. Ya know? When they’re recallin’ an old haunt, or an old friend, or somethin’ that happened to ‘em a long time ago that made ‘em real happy. Or when they’re sittin’ next to their bestest old buddy and they do somethin’ silly. That’s the kinda smile she had on her face right then. And right then, it wasn’t like I was sittin’ across the table from a stranger. It was like I’d known her for years, all of a sudden. It was like we were friends, buddies, comrades-in-arms, almost. I can’t even hardly explain it. It was just a feelin’ I got that welled up inside when I looked at that little smile on her face.
She looked at me, and said, “I wasn’t going to preach.”
I’d a’ given a lotta money to see what my face looked like right then.
“Huh?”
“I said, I wasn’t going to preach to you. I don’t care what you’ve been doing.”
There was a little pause. “I just wanted to ask if you were happy doing it,” she went on.
I stared at her. My mouth was hangin’ open like an idiot. I just couldn’t figure her out. Now, just like that, I wasn’t mad. I was confused as hell.
“Well, whadda you care?” I fired at her. “What’s it to you whether I’m happy or not? What difference does it make whether I’m happy, doin’ what I do?”
“Wouldn’t you rather be happy?”
“Hell yes I’d rather be happy! Jesus—”
“So you’re saying you’re not happy now?”
“Sure I’m happy! Like I said, I got a drink in front of me, and a lady too!”
I was startin’ to get mad again. I couldn’t figure out what she was gettin’ at, and I didn’t like where the talk was goin’. I was still tryin’ to flirt, but she started to fire off questions at me like a machine gun, and wouldn’t let me finish a sentence. She never raised her voice or nothin’—just kept sittin’ there, all serene, just quizzin’ away.
“Don’t you think there’s more to life than booze and women?” she asked.
“Sure there is, but—”
“Don’t you ever wish you could find it? Don’t you ever get tired of doing the same thing day in and day out?”
“No, lady, for your information, I’m pretty damn happy doin’ what I’m doin’—”
“Don’t you think you could be happier?”
“Well, maybe, if I won the lotto or somethin’—”
“I’m not talking about money or wealth or anything material.”
“What in hell’s name are you talkin’ about, then?”
“Happiness.”
“In my book, happiness stems from booze, women and money.”
“True, lasting happiness.”
“Lastin’ happiness stems from winning the lotto.”
“Please, Mr.—”
“Herbie. Just call me Herbie.”
“Herbie,” she said, and she fixed me with a look outta them eyes like I ain’t never seen before. She was skewerin’ me with ‘em. She leaned in a little closer, and I almost got the urge to lean back, even though I loved the way my name sounded comin’ outta her mouth. Her eyes was so intense. She looked like she was talkin’ about the fate of the world or somethin’.
“Be honest with me,” she said, and her voice was low and so quiet I could hardly hear her. I couldn’t look away from her. That supernatural feelin’ just kept rollin’ off her, and my ticker didn’t slow down any. I can’t even hardly talk about it—I was mad, scared, confused, and curious all at once. I thought I’d explode.
But somehow, I didn’t reach for that glass of whiskey.
“Are you happy?” she asked, her voice almost breathless, her eyes narrowing.
“No! No, dammit, no! I’m not happy, all right? We got that all straightened out now?”
It just kinda slipped out. Here I was, trying to run my game, tryin’ to ignore those melancholy thoughts I’d had earlier, and here this strange woman had just up and drawn ‘em all out of me at once, without my even meanin’ to give ‘em up, usin’ some kinda hypnosis, like. As I spoke, her smile finally disappeared. That made me madder than ever.
“Look, what’s this all about, lady? What’re you interrogatin’ me for? Whadja come in here and mess up my evening for, huh? Why don’t you just leave me alone? Jesus Christ, I don’t even know what the hell you’re about. You’re askin’ me all these weird questions, and talkin’ about happiness and whatnot, puttin’ me off my drinks, spinnin’ me all around—”
“Am I really?”
“Jesus Christ! Yes you are! What’s your game? Why are you askin’ me these questions? What the hell do you want?”
“I think,” she said, finally taking her eyes off me, looking down at her drink, picking it up, and sipping on it, “that we want the same thing, Herbie.”
Suddenly, all the mad and the sad and the confused disappeared. It just dropped away, like a sheet drops away from a sports car on a game show. The whole pub seemed to go quiet. There were people standin’ all around, laughin’, yellin’, drinkin’, courtin’, getting’ blitzed as hell, makin’ noise fit to raise the dead—but I couldn’t hear ‘em. The rest of the world just kinda toned down. I had ears and eyes only for her. I fancied I could almost hear my heart beat. And if I listened, I thought I could hear hers, too. They were beatin’ to th’ same rhythm. And just like that, I knew what question I was goin’ to ask. For my turn at the game, y’know.
“Why’d you come over here?”
“I recognized you,” she said, and I could hear every sweet syllable comin’ from her lips, like music floatin’ over from the next street over durin’ a parade. “I saw the look in your eyes as you sat there.”
I didn’t say anything. I just let her go on.
“It’s the same look I see when I look in the mirror,” she said. She wasn’t smiling. She looked about ready to cry, in fact. There was another a’ them little pauses.
“So that’s what it is?” I asked, almost as breathless as she was.
“Yup,” she said, kinda joking, like, but blinkin’ a lot. “I think the both of us are tired. I think we both came in here tonight, believing nothing would happen, that nothing would ever change. And we took a look at each other and thought, ‘What the hell, maybe.’”
Man, I just about fell outta my chair. That was exactly what I’d been thinkin’, remember? She looked up. Her face was like stew—a little bit a’ this, a little bit a’ that. Hope, fear, sadness, lon’liness, and more than that— Trust. I saw trust in her eyes. No woman had ever trusted me before. The look in their eyes at night said it loud ‘n’ clear. “I know you’ll be gone tomorrow morning.”Her eyes told me: “I hope I find you next to me—tomorrow, the day after, and every day after that.”
“So how about it?” she asked. “Shall we take a chance with each other?”
I looked at her just one moment longer. The sound was still cruisin’ along at zero. That delicious silence was ever’where. I was sober, too. Those three glasses had gone right outta my system. I looked down at my whiskey and suddenly didn’t want it anymore. I looked up at her. That angel-fire hair. Those gorgeous eyes, like iris blossoms floatin’ on the water. That frank expression on ‘er face, that little knowin’ smile. Now I knew why it had seemed like she was pullin’ a fast one on me. She saw through me the whole time. She knew me. And now I knew her. We were the same, pretty much.
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s get outta here. And when we can hear again, tell me yer name, huh?”
“Certainly,” she said, her face lightin’ up like the Second Coming.
“And by the way,” she added, as I held the door open for ‘er, “thanks for the drink.”
