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The Blaze of a Heart #ChristmasClassics

JT Twissel 17 Comments

Next on my list of favorite Christmas stories that have nothing to do with Santa, is this short story by Truman Capote.

It’s the story of a young boy and his elderly “friend” who set out with $12.99 to make thirty fruitcakes for people who have been kind to them or people they admire (like Eleanor Roosevelt). They are the wards of “persons” who “have power over us and often make us cry” but who for the most part ignore them and so over the years they have figured out how to entertain themselves and, at the same time, save a few pennies here and there for their Fruitcake Fund.

 "... a morning arrives in November, and my friend as though officially inaugurating the Christmas time of year that exhilarates her imagination and the fuels the blazes of her heart announces: 'It's Fruitcake weather!'"

We know little else about them. The young boy remembers no other home and his friend has never traveled more than five miles from the house nor has she seen a movie or eaten in a restaurant … but she “has killed with a hoe the largest rattlesnake ever seen in the county (sixteen rattles) … tamed hummingbirds (just try it) till they balance on her finger … knows the recipe for every sort of old-time Indian cure, including a magical wart remover.”

She also knows how to make kites and fly them in any weather. The important things to a young boy.

Nor do we know much about where they live except that it is a “spreading old house in a country town.” There’s an orchard nearby where they gather “windfall pecans” from amongst the fallen leaves, a grocery where they buy “cherries and citron, ginger and vanilla and canned pineapple from Hawaii, rinds and raisins and … oh so much flour, butter and so many eggs” which they load into his baby carriage (the thing he arrived in with little else) and drag home. However, for the most expensive ingredient they must summon their courage to visit a notorious bootlegger by the name of Haha Jones. Any guesses as to what that most expensive ingredient was?

Truman Capote aka Buddy and his friend Nanny aka Sook

Okay – it’s whiskey! Any of my baking blogger buddies use hard liquor in their fruitcake? I’m thinking of giving it a try. It’s been just that kind of year!

Me … after gobbling down too much spiked fruitcake.

I draw naked people

JT Twissel 22 Comments

One of my many hobbies is figure drawing. There’s something meditative about spending a couple of hours intently focused on another human being, the contours of their body as they take different poses, the shadows and nuances of their muscles … I could go on and on. I haven’t done a lot of figure drawing over the past twenty years because it’s difficult to find a group of artists to join. And trust me, you don’t want to ask a friend, neighbor or spouse to strip and pose.

In the first session the five minute poses really killed me! But I had fun making messes.

A lot of people don’t understand that drawing naked people is not the same thing as creating pornography. Figure models generally belong to guilds that have strict rules and regulations. (Everyone can take off their clothes but not everyone can hold a poise for five minutes!) Successful figure models can earn up to 100 dollars per hour and the hours are generally mid-day or in the evening. Perfect for professional dancers.

Here I went a little crazy with a variety of pencils and chalks! I’m still trying to figure out my tools.

When my children were young I lucked on to a sculpture class that focused on the human form. Thus, my children were accustomed to seeing sculptures of naked people all around the house. However, every now and then I’d hear a new playmate snickering over the sight of “naked boobies!” and worry that the local vice squad might be showing up at my door.

This sculpture was done so long ago I can’t remember what I was thinking. We certainly weren’t beheading children and using them as props.

The group I was lucky enough to join meets in a room at the local community center that is also used for children’s art classes. It’s delightful to see their drawings posted all around … however, last session I needed to leave early and inadvertently left behind my sketches. Whoops. Naked bobbies in the children’s art space.

Experiments with chalk – it’s soooo delightfully messy.

I hope the janitor finds them and throws them away before the kids show up for their class! I don’t want to get arrested for warping young minds with naked boobies!

If I don’t show up for a while, send bail money!

The pretty kitty finally gets a name #MondayMadness

JT Twissel 20 Comments

Way back in 2013 this cat started showing up on our deck. I guess he/she figured my husband fed the birds and squirrels and so why not feed him/her as well? But … cats and birds generally don’t get along and so hubby shooed him/her off the deck and out of our yard. We couldn’t imagine such a beautiful cat was homeless. And then the weather turned cold and we discovered the cat had been taking refuge under a pile of plant covers left on the bottom deck. Long story short, we ended up dragging the beast, by this time, its long fur matted in filthy dreadlocks, off the deck. For two weeks the cat hid out downstairs but thankfully knew how to use a litter box! Another long story short, the cat turned out to be a neutered male and unable to find his owners, we more or less adopted him.

Can’t you find a better name than Pretty Kitty?

For years we’ve tried to find a more appropriate name than Pretty Kitty but none has stuck. Then, last night … or rather early this morning … the name came to me in a dreamlike fugue. Percival. A noble but whimsical name, I think.

Percival Von Kitty from his royal perch.

Anyway, that’s how my week is starting out.

I’m hoping the cold weather will hold off long enough for these, my only tomatoes after months and months, to finally ripen.

But with a storm and a drop in temperature on Wednesday, I kinda doubt it.

We shall see. Only Percival the Perceptive knows and he’s not telling.

This daylight savings crap has got to go!

Let’s hope that, with Percival finally getting his name, things will start to improve in this stark raving mad country!

The End #Storytime

JT Twissel 10 Comments

Daniel knew that his boss would hate to see him go. Unlike the other men who came and went from the service station, Daniel was courteous, didn’t smoke, and helped with the bookkeeping. But the boss had mentioned retirement on many occasions and so perhaps Daniel’s leaving would provide the impetus to take that step. That would be a good thing; a happy conclusion.

“Mr. B, it’s time for me to go,” Daniel said. “I’ve seen it, you know, sailing through the fog. The winos were right. It has returned.”

The Connemoira

But his boss didn’t seem to be listening. “What are those stupid girls doing now? They’re going get themselves killed!” He was referring to the three girls from Nevada, who, loaded down with their things, were heading toward their funny little car. Remarkably, it had survived a night on the streets of lower Manhattan. Probably because it was a foreign job whose ancient parts weren’t worth crap.

“It’s all right, Mr. B.  They’re leaving. Marcia talked them into going to an uncle’s house where …”

“Shit, not that asshole!” A vagabond known for aggressive panhandling had jumped out of the shadows and was blocking the girls’ path.

“Stay here, Mr. B. I’ll take care of him!” Daniel grabbed the broom from the garage and ran across the street swinging. “Get out of here,” he said swatting at the man with his broom.

The man looked around confused, “What the hell?” Then he took the spare change that one of the girls offered him and walked away.

“Oh no,” the Catholic’s Daughter cried. “Look at my car.” The passenger side window had been smashed and glass shards covered whatever remained inside, which wasn’t much. Just that sculpture of a man’s head looking wistfully up at them. “Oh no! My flute! My flute is gone! We’ve got to call the police.”

“They won’t come down here. They won’t even take a police report.” Daniel said.

“That’s so awful.”

“That’s why you guys need to get out of here. Go across the street to the service station and ask the owner to help you. He’s a crusty old guy but his heart is pure.”

“How about you?”

“It’s time for me to go.”

They seemed perplexed. “We’ll never forget you.”

He grinned. “Get on your way now.”

The girls drove across the street and told the old man who’d been watching them:  “Daniel said you would help us.”

“You saw Daniel? A guy about thirty, wears thick glasses, quotes a lot of scripture?”

“Yeah. That’s him.”

“Where is he?”

They looked across the street and Daniel was gone. “Well, he did say it was time for him to go.”

“He did? I guess that’s good. You wait here and then, yeah, we’ll patch those windows.” He disappeared into the station and then returned with some cardboard, duct tape and a newspaper folded neatly into a square.

He handed the newspaper article to the girl who seemed the most sensible.

img_2339

“Terrible thing. What happened to him shouldn’t happen to a dog, no sir. And that poor woman,” he shivered.  “Terrible. Unthinkable. Gives me the willies. You know, Daniel was a good kid, a little mixed up but then you should have met his mother. That lunatic held vigil here at the station for three days thinking her son was going to resurrect like the friggin’ Christ.”

The girls didn’t say a word, even amongst themselves.  Perhaps I should have softened the blow, Buckley thought, but then he hadn’t had much experience with the so-called fairer sex. “It’s been a whole damn year and they still don’t have any suspects. Not a one.”

“Daniel’s dead?”

“Yup. And you know it happened not too far from here. A year ago. Yeah.”

“But we were just …”

“I told you there was something evil going on in that apartment.”

“Daniel, evil? Nay. He studied to be a priest. You know, the winos claim they’ve seen him too but then they also see rats the size of German Shepherds,” he laughed. “Okay, nuff said, let’s get you gals fixed up and outta here.”

He helped them sweep out the inside of the car and put cardboard over the shattered window. He even gave them a can of oil after checking the dipstick and sighing in disgust “women never check the oil, or the tires. We’d better check them as well.” When he was satisfied the little car just might make it to Massachusetts, he gave them directions on how to get out of town. He watched the little car as it sputtered down the road. They’ll never make it, he thought, but he waved back anyway.

Happy Halloween Everyone! Have you ever spent the night with a ghost?

An Offer #Storytime

JT Twissel 1 Comment

Recap: Daniel assumes that his friend Marcia has talked the three wayward girls into returning home until he bumps into two of them on the street. They tell him that they’d left the third girl alone with a strange Englishman who arrived in the pre-dawn hours but whom Marcia seemed to know well. When he realizes who it is, Daniel returns to the Carriage House and confronts the man. After he leaves, Daniel, exhausted from a sleepless night at the YMCA, falls asleep on Marcia’s floor as the girls call their parents and finally arrange to return home.

Daniel awoke in the predawn hours slightly hungover and starving. Next to him the girls were heaped together like a team of sled dogs united against the cold Alaskan winds. Talking to their families and being reassured that they were still loved must have helped because they were sleeping peacefully and breathing almost in union. Yes, Marcia always knew exactly the right thing to do in any situation. He rotated the bean bag chair to face the dawn and sat back down. With luck he would be able to see the sun rise over the city skyline. What a grand start to the day that would be.

Sunrise by Charles Costello III

The quiet was broken by the rat-a-tat of footsteps in the courtyard, like a drum beat which grew louder and louder as the drummer approached until … Before he had a chance to react, someone had entered the carriage house and was climbing the stairs. He crawled into the kitchen and cowered behind the counter. Where was the phone? He couldn’t remember.

The door flew open silhouetting two figures.

“Well, lookie there. A whole pile of bitches.”

“Them? Oh no. Those sweet young things haven’t showered in weeks. I have something much better in mind.”

The taller figure was Theron. Next to him, a much shorter man twitched like a drunken marionette tangled in his strings.

Daniel rose and switched on the overhead light. The shorter man was an albino with only a pinprick of color in his eyes. Perhaps to compensate, he wore lime green trousers, a lemon turtleneck and flashy gold jewelry around his neck and wrists. “Shut off the damned light!” He squealed.

It wasn’t that bright. Daniel thought. The man must be on drugs. “No way.”

“Daniel, old man. Still here protecting your little flock? What a noble lad you are.”

“They poured out innocent blood, the blood of their sons and daughters, whom they sacrificed to the idols of Canaan; and the land was polluted with blood. Thus they become unclean by their acts, and played the harlot in … ”

Theron turned to his perplexed companion. “Daniel left the priesthood because he had a bloodly crisis of faith. He couldn’t stand the thought that God loved him the best, which is what his mother drilled into him. God, in other words, is a prejudicial old duffer who plays favorites so you better be pure of thought and blah, blah, blah. Isn’t that right, Daniel?”

Before he could say anything, Marcia appeared in the bedroom door dressed only in a man’s white dress shirt, her strawberry blonde hair spinning about her face like a delicate spider’s web. “What’s going on?”

“Now you’re talking,” the albino said moving toward her. “Hi Honey. How would you like a couple thousand bucks in exchange for a quick roll in the hay?”

“Sweet Jesus!” The girl who was not a Catholic cried.

“Shut up you, fucking virgin.”

“I’m not a virgin!”

“Well then …”

Get out Theron!” Marcia said. “Take your drugged up friend and get out now.”

“But Jamie just signed a record contract, Luv. He’s got the cash. He just wants a quick shag. A thousand dollars, as you Yanks say, easy peasy.”

“Get out!” Marcia ordered.

The albino spun around like a cartoon dust devil. “That does it,” he said, turning to leave. “There are plenty of bitches in this town who won’t give me this kind of shit!”


Theron seemed to grow in size as he turned and directed his attention toward the girls … specifically, the one named Nora. “A few minutes with my pigeon and you wouldn’t have to return to Nevahda to live out the rest of your miserable life with the jackrabbits … the sagebrush, and … with that arse who got you preggers. Oh yeah, he’s a real arse.”

“Danny and I are in love. We’ll be in love –“

Theron threw his head back and howled. “Oh please, little girl … don’t say it. Forever. I’ll have to vomit all over Marcia’s carpet. You were forn-i-cating. Forn-i-cating! And you loved it. I bet she made you other girls miserable, didn’t she? You know, she never really wanted to go on your silly, little romp across country. But she felt obligated. The most pathetic of emotions. Obligation. Now, see how she despises you. Despises you because she wasn’t bloody strong enough to be honest and tell the truth.”

“Enough, Theron or whatever your name is. Get out.”

“With pleasure. Who knows, I might be able to catch up with our little friend and the night won’t be a total faff.” He slid out the door with a sharp whistle that lingered and echoed through the room.

Marcia marched over to the door, slammed it shut, and this time … locked it. They debated calling the police. Daniel argued that the albino’s life was in danger. The year before, the police had been looking for a man who matched Theron’s description, a man who’d befriended drug dealers and prostitutes and then viciously killed them. Marcia countered that they wouldn’t do anything. They hadn’t done much before. A whole year had gone by and they still hadn’t arrested anyone. Besides she was more concerned about the girl whose secret was now revealed.

“Theron must be a demon,” Nora said, massaging her rosary beads.

“You have options. If you are pregnant, you don’t have to have the baby … “

Daniel thought about the cycle they were trapped in. Hadn’t they both tried to save Connemoira so many years before and hadn’t they both failed? And they would again. And again. Fail.

It was time to go. Shore leave was almost over.

Next: The Boundaries

Spending the Day with the Devil #Storytime

JT Twissel 14 Comments

Recap of the previous post: Daniel introduces the girls to his childhood friend, Marcia who works as a social worker and lives in a carriage house behind the Hari Krishna Institute. She agrees to help them.

By the time Daniel arrived at the gas station the next morning, the Volvo was gone, retrieved, his boss explained, by a couple of harebrained gals. Good, Marcia had worked her social worker magic. She’d either gotten them into some program or convinced them they were not prepared for life in the big, bad city and they’d left for home. That happy thought sustained him through a busy day spent fixing tires for teamsters (their only customers) and helping the boss keep his ledgers balanced. It would have been a good deed mentally rehashed for months. However … corned beef called, corned beef stacked on rye bread with sauerkraut and a drizzle of the kind of cheesy mayonnaise found only at certain delis. An indulgence he couldn’t afford every day but would be his reward. Corned beef on rye.


He savored the thought for several blocks, noting the cool October breezes as his stomach grumbled. Winter had come early and it would be a long one. He pictured the inside of the deli, the white-coated salami and barrels of pickles, as he turned onto Hudson Street. Maybe he’d eat just half the sandwich and give the rest to a street person, some poor soul seated on the curb or hunched in one of the alleyways

But it was not to be. Just outside the deli he ran headlong into two of the girls he’d rescued the night before: the ring-leader and the girl who reminded him of a young Eleanor Roosevelt. “I thought you guys left town.”

“Left town?”

“Or something.”

“Oh no – we’re going to stay with Marcia another night. Nora’s really sick. After you left, she began puking and she puked all night long! We’d finally gotten to sleep around FIVE in the morning! And this other guy showed up. A guy with a funny English accent and a really weird name.”

“Theron?”

“Yeah! So you do know him. He said you would. He called you ‘Daniel Beloved of God’ but he said it kind of sarcastically.”

“Oh my God Daniel. You look totally freaked out. Nora’s up there all alone with him.”

“What?”

“Marcia went to work. She told him he could sleep in her bedroom but had to be gone when she got home. Oh my God, is Nora in danger?”

“You should buy some chicken soup for your friend. Lou makes the best …”

“Daniel!”

“And it’ll cure … listen, Marcia wouldn’t have left if she thought Theron was a danger. But I’ll come back up there with you. I owe her an apology anyway.”

“Daniel, old man!” Theron said after he realized he was being watched and moved away from the Catholic’s daughter, who, despite being sick, had spread herself over the bean bag chairs suggestively. From the beginning Daniel’d been leery of Theron’s tall, dark and handsome movie star looks. It wasn’t jealously. Something was missing. Something, thankfully, Marcia had soon realized but then … she had more experience.

Daniel laid the groceries on the counter as the other two girls crowded on the floor next to their friend. “Where’s Marcia?”

“Oh my. Marcia has had a nasty day dealing with the wretched underbelly of Manhattan. She’s in the shower. And this lovely young lady,” he said with a wink towards a girl who was not much more than a child, has been entertaining me with the stories of their travels. Did you know they are from Reno Nevahda? Have you ever met anyone from Nevahda? Quite unusual really, one only thinks of Nevahda as the home to sagebrush and jack rabbits, now doesn’t one?”

“What are you doing back here?

Theron slid along the wall toward the door. “Oh you mean, why aren’t I in jail. Blimey,I’ve been alluding coppers since I was fourteen. They’ll never catch me. They don’t even know my name. Speaking of stories, that was rather funny this morning, wasn’t it girls?”

“It was four in the morning.”

“Sorry Luv. That’s when me shift at the docks ends. So funny, once they heard my English accent, they weren’t at all afraid of me. It’s those bloody Beatles. Made life ever so easy for us British blokes!”

“You work at the docks?”

“Longshoreman, we’re called.”

It was a ridiculous lie, so ridiculous that Daniel couldn’t help but utter a loud “Ha!”

“Why do you scoff, Mate? I didn’t have the benefits of a seminary education — a mother who thought I was the Second Coming. I’ve been on me own since I was a lad and, aye, I’ve had to do things I’m not proud of but haven’t we all?”

The rumblings of the first evening prayers sounded across the courtyard. Hari Krishna, Hari Krishna, Krishna Vishnu. Theron turned towards the Institute. “Oh my, they’re finished with their supper. That means it’s time for me to head off to work.”

“Are you coming back?” Daniel asked.

“I thought you didn’t live here any more, mate. I thought Marcia got tired of waiting for you to fuck her and kicked you out on your arse.”

The girls gasped.

Don’t respond. Daniel thought. He’s just trying to bait you.

Theron continued. “You’re such a funny old sod. This isn’t the bloody desert. You’re not the friggin’ savior and I’m not the devil. Although I do appreciate the honor of your, shall we say, compliment. But this place is rather crowded with all of us sharing only one rather stinky loo. I think I’ll crash somewhere else. Perhaps at your buddy Frank Frank’s. I hear they always have fresh blood,” he paused and then froze Daniel’s heart with a howl. “Look at Daniel’s face, girls! Hahaha!”

With that, Theron slipped through the door.

After he left, Daniel stepped over to the window but saw nothing in the courtyard. Only shadows. He unscrewed the cheap bottle of wine he’d brought and took a swig just as Marcia emerged from the bathroom.

“Oh good.Theron’s gone Can you believe that guy?”

“Maybe you should lock your doors tonight.”

She ignored him and addressed the girls. “I’ve been thinking. We should call your parents. I bet they’re worried sick about you.”

“Oh yeah. Tell them their daughters are hunky dory. They just spent the day with the Devil.”

“Shit, Daniel! No wonder the girls look so freaked.”

“He killed someone.”

“The police weren’t sure. Besides I don’t want to talk about him anymore. He’s not coming back.” She noticed the bag of groceries.

“Forgive me?” Daniel hadn’t slept the night before. His sole window at the Y was cracked and provided little protection from the rain or the sounds of the city. The walls were so thin he could hear a fellow transient snoring in the next room. Five years he’d spent in New York City practically homeless, figuring it would free him. But it hadn’t. And so the wine quickly gained on him until a dizziness ⏤ borne of eating little and guzzling cheap wine ⏤ soon overcame him. He slumped into one of the bean bag chairs and closed his eyes. He could hear the girls on the phone. Yes, we’re okay. Yes we’re going to Grandpa George’s first thing tomorrow morning. Further and further away they slipped until either he or they were gone.

Two more episodes! Have you guessed the ending? I doubt it!

A Long Time Ago #Storytime

JT Twissel 1 Comment

I guess it’s time to finish posting the story of Daniel and the three girls he takes under his wing on the mean streets of New York City. I’ve been dragging my feet because it’s hard to shift gears from paradise to the Bowery circa 1969 but, I try to finish everything I start, so here goes …

First to recap:

A woman named Sandy has been invited to an art exhibit/memorial for a childhood friend. Once there she’s told by the woman’s son that, although the two women had drifted apart, there was something in each of his mother’s final and very disturbing paintings that she specifically wanted Sandy to see, a face from long ago. October of 1969 to be precise.

Flashback to a rainy evening in October 1969. The scene is a service station in Manhattan’s notoriously dangerous Bowery. Three young women drive up to the pumps and, spotting a young man in the phone booth, plead with him for help. The young man, Daniel, is an enigma: an intelligent and well-educated young man but a drifter. Although he works at the station, he cannot help them because the owner has shut down the pumps and left for the night. Then he remembers he has a friend who, at one time lived not far away, in a place of relative safety. However, getting there proves to be a challenge when a “behemoth” drags one of the girls back into an alleyway. Daniel, who is half the man’s size, is powerless to stop him. The girl waves a crucifix in the man’s face which causes him to roar with laughter and lose his grip on her.

Finally they reach the street his friend once lived on. The rain has let up but they have one more obstacle.

Tomorrow Words Better Left Unsaid.

The Institute #StoryTime

JT Twissel 3 Comments

Recap thus far: Daniel convinces the girls that they will be safe at his friend Marcia’s place and that it’s not too long a walk. However halfway on their journey he hears one of the girls call out in distress and turns to see …

“Oh baby, baby,” the behemoth moaned as he dragged the girl back into his alley like a long lost Teddy Bear tucked under his arm. “Come with Daddy.”

Henry Clarke Illustration for The Mystery of Marie Roget by EA Poe

“Let me go,” she screamed heaving a guitar case into his chest. He twisted the case from her hand and threw it to the ground.

“Come on now, honey bunches,” he laughed, “be good to your man.”

Find something to distract him, Daniel thought looking around for a board or brick. The creature was nearly seven feet tall and had draped himself in a mountain of shredded blankets and rugs. In his world, and according to his set of ethos, he’d been able to nap a sweet young thing who’d wandered directly into his web and, per the rules of the streets, she was his. A gift from the heavens! Sweet nectar to ward off a dark and rainy night! Daniel knew that nothing he had to offer could compare. The other two girls began assaulting the beast with pillowcases full of clothes which he laughed off. To a man his size they were nothing more than yapping pups who could be slammed against the brick walls and kicked to the curbs when they were no longer entertaining.

Somehow the captive girl managed to reach into her coat and withdraw a crucifix.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” She thrust the cross into the creature’s face. “Pray for us sinners now and at the moment of our death.” His eyes widened. What’s this bauble my pet dangles in my face? But after he recognized the symbol he flung his head back and howled with laughter. Daniel froze. The girls froze. The creature seemed to be expanding! Growing taller and wider, his laughter now a cruel wail evoking stray dogs to join in from their dark and distant corners. The girl continued on: “Holy Mary, Mother of God …”

And this is hell, Daniel thought. But … the laughter soon shook loose the phlegm trapped in the creature’s lungs, and, choking on spittle, he began hacking so violently that he had no choice but to release the girl and lean into a nearby wall to gasp for breath.

“A crucifix isn’t going to save you down here, Catholic!” Daniel said, pulling the girl away from her awe-struck stance. “It just distracted him for a minute. Grab your stuff and let’s get out of here … “

“I’m not a Catholic!”

“Her mother’s a Catholic,” Venus of the Sewers said. “She’s what they call a …”

“Run!” There was no time for meaningless debate. Run! And run they did … right down the middle of the street … their shoes sounding like heartbeats on the cobblestone streets. Each time they tried to stop for breath, Daniel urged them on. On and on until they reached a neighborhood that had not been completely abandoned to night creatures. Here and there were pockets of light; storefronts that were only gated for the night and not boarded up forever, lights in the windows on the upper floors and even a car or two rolling past at a normal speed. “Okay … we’re almost there. We can stop for a second.” The rain had softened to a light mist. Even the sky seemed lighter. Gradually his heart stopped thumping in his ear like an out of control freight train and, as it did, he heard … the sound of evening prayers.

“At least they haven’t moved,” he said.

“Who? What’s that sound?”

“It sounds like bells.”

“No wind chimes.”

“You’ll see.”

They rounded the corner of Marcia’s street and sure enough. There they were, twirling and chanting in the light shining onto the street from storefront windows. Dozens of men, women and children in white robes oblivious to the mist, any passing cars, and the behemoths who hid in dark alleyways, shaking their bells and bangles in celebration of the Great God Krishna.

“Behold the International Institute of the Hari Krishnas! Marcia lives behind the Institute. Follow me closely and don’t look any of them in the eye otherwise you will be lost forever.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Ha! Compared to the fervor of a dedicated Krishna, that chap we tangled with earlier was a rank amateur!”

Next (in a couple of weeks as I am going on vacation): Evening Prayers and Things Better off Unsaid

Those of you who’ve been following along have probably guessed this is the story of Sandy and Nora from The Face in the Background (the first episode) and their adventures in New York City as young women. It would be lovely to think that, with the help of his friend Marcia, Daniel will be able to convince these silly girls to go home. It would be lovely but do you think that’s what’s going to happen?

The Behemoth #StoryTime

JT Twissel 15 Comments

Dear Readers: If you miss an episode or two and just want to catch up on the action, the short and sweet summaries of all the episodes thus far are here.

To recap: Daniel can’t abandoned the three girls who, desperate for gas, have driven up to the service station where he works after closing. He considers walking them to a Catholic refuge he knows well and then remembers he knows someone who lives closer. The heavy mist is turning to rain, the temperatures are dropping fast and the ghost ships have begun their nightly quest for new crew members, or so say the winos.

And now, The Behemoth …

“I have a friend you can crash with for the night. It’s not too far and you’ll be safe.” Daniel said.  

The girls stared at him mutely. “She’s a social worker.” His socks were wet. The next time his mother came to town he decided that he’d show her the holes in his shoes. She’d insist on buying him at least two pairs of new shoes, one of which he would give to the first shoe-less street person he met, of course. That would make her happy. She wanted Jesus as a son but a well dressed Jesus, not a scruffy one.

“What choice do you have? You can’t sleep in the car. Not in this neighborhood.”

“But are you sure she won’t mind having strange people in her place?”

“No. Not Marcia. I’ve known her a long time. But hurry up and decide.” Daniel knew what happened after dark in that part of town. The needy and vague-eyed — from drink or drug or mental illness — materialized from the crevices of abandoned buildings, crying and moaning and demanding money while in the distance sirens wailed, but always in the distance. A loud crack echoed in the alley across the street, probably just a trashcan being emptied for use as shelter from the rain, but it sounded like gunfire.

“Okay.” They mumbled and began unloading their valuables from the car. One of the girls handed Daniel a terracotta sculpture of a young man’s head. “This is Aragorn. He goes everywhere with us.”

“You know, from the Lord of the Rings.”

“Aragorn?” The thing weighed a ton.

“Oh yeah? Leave him here. No one is going to steal him. I know what. He can be Aragorn, Defender of the Volvo.” Giggling they set the sculpture down on the driver’s seat where in the dim light it looked like a severed head.

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Loaded down with guitars and pillowcases filled with clothes, the girls followed Daniel as he navigated sidewalks littered with broken glass, past boarded up storefronts and trash-filled alleyways, always careful not to step into gutters filled with urine and blood and vomit and even worse. He felt like he was leading a trio of ducklings to their doom. Wide-eyed, unfocused, gullible ducklings. Every now and then they heard a scream or a car screeching on the rain-slicked streets, normal sounds for that part of the city but he could tell from the gasps behind him, they would not last long in the city.

Soon they would be begging to return home to a safe suburb where the lights are out by ten and the police have little more to do than investigate mailbox crime. Especially if Marcia worked her social worker magic.

And than it dawned on him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Marcia. One summer had passed, at least. Maybe two. During that time, he’d moved many times. Maybe she had too. Maybe she’d married and moved to the suburbs. Maybe she’d died. Maybe he’d be forced to walk the girls all the way to Father Frank’s. Maybe that was a better plan in the first place. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

His moment of existential crisis was broken by a loud scream: “LET ME GO!”

He turned and his blood froze. The Behemoth had grabbed one of the girls and was dragging her into a dark alley.

Illustration for Murders of Rue Morgue by Henry Clarke

Next: The Institute

Daniel’s Dilemma #Storytime

JT Twissel 8 Comments

A recap thus far: Daniel, an obviously well-educated young man, works at a gas station in the Bowery at a time (1969) when that area of Manhattan (NYC) was considered the deadliest part of town. One rainy evening, he steps into the phone booth to make a call. He hears a rapping on the glass doors and assumes that some poor soul is looking for shelter from the rain. But …

It was a girl.  A girl with a Botticelli face dressed in bell-bottoms and a pea jacket standing in the steam rising from the sewers. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

Untitled by Sandro Botticelli

“What are you doing here?”  Daniel demanded as he stepped out of the phone booth and into the drizzle.

“We really need gas. We got lost driving around the city and then we saw your station.” 

“We?”

“My friends and I.”   

“There are more of you?”  One was bad enough.

“Yes, they’re in the car.”

Runaways, oh lord, runaways, he thought.  The city was swamped with runaways, all trying to find Greenwich Village and Bob Dylan. Instead, if they were lucky, they ended up at Father Frank’s calling their parents for money for a return trip home.  If they weren’t lucky, they were used and spit out by the godless ones, left to sit on the doorsteps of brownstones, selling oranges or themselves.

“You girls shouldn’t even be in this part of town.” He followed her to their car, a hump-back Volvo with Nevada plates. “You need to get back in your car and leave. This is the Bowery.” 

“But, you don’t understand. We’re really out of gas. We’ve been driving on empty for at least an hour!” 

Empty, out of gas, out of luck, lost.  Probably hungry, dirty and on each other’s nerves. But he couldn’t help.  His hands were tied.  “Look,” he explained, “I can’t sell you gas even if I wanted to. The owner has locked up the pumps and gone home and I don’t have the keys.”

“Oh.  Is there another gas station around here?”

“Not in this part of town!” 

Couldn’t they see where they were?  The dilapidated brick buildings, storefronts boarded up, trash and broken glass filling the gutters.  Were they blind to all of that?  “They all close at sunset anyway.  No one stays open after dark down here.”

By now the other two had fallen from the car and stood over him.  They were so like the girls who arrived every spring after the rye grass had exploded and formed a chartreuse chastity belt around the seminary. Arriving with their families to see the Passion Play.  Girls who came bearing homemade brownies and yeast rolls in their Easter dresses, their long hair flowering, their voices echoing against the tile walls.  Such a flutter of activity that made buckling down for year-end exams ever more difficult.

Passion Play circa 1966ish courtesy of Layton Damiano

But they were far from the seminary. Venus of the Sewers spoke first: “Is there a cheap hotel nearby where we can spend the night?” 

“You girls don’t want to stay in any of the hotels around here.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not prostitutes, are you?”

“What?”

“You’re not prostitutes are you?” 

”No!”

“Then you don’t want to stay in the hotels around here.”

Damn. He had to do something. He couldn’t just leave them at the station.  They’d never survive the night, hunkered down in that small car with winos banging on the steamed windows, begging to be let in for a warm place to sleep.  Maybe he should march them down to Father Frank’s.  They could sleep on the hard wooden benches beneath paintings of saints, and early in the morning have breakfast with the Father:  hard boiled eggs and slices of white bread, strong Lipton tea and, a stern lecture.  In the name of all that is holy, go home to your parents. 

But St. Marks was on the other side of the Village.  By the time they got there —if they got there — they would be soaked to the bone, chilled and susceptible to all kinds of city rot.  Still, what choice did he have? And then he remembered Marcia’s place.

Next time: The Behemoth.