Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Middle Eastern Rant, excised from current novel

   

      If only, Zoe thought, if only there was some brand-new ... thing that might start a mad trend for peace all over the Middle East -- something underwritten, anarchic, erupting from, say, the women; the mothers, the wives, the daughters, the sisters, who could not help but weep in sympathy and fear when another mother's young son strapped on the bomb-pack and set bravely forth, believing in Allah more than in that first, sweet, sweet kiss – God they got younger and younger, didn't they?  From their youngest twenties down -- once to a nine-year-old boy entrusted (entrusted!) with that enormous backpack.
     (Just get on the bus, Hakim, and pull the string.  Make sure the driver is driving, and don't make anybody look at you, no matter what...)
      And all the while the news got worse and worse.  She'd once met and couldn't stand a troop of Israeli soldiers with puffed-up chests talking about how they'd bombed a village near the ever-talling Wall ('women and children?  They looked at each other, a gleam in their eye, their faces absolutely solemn.  'Almost certainly not.'  The wink inherent; grotesque).
     She'd also met others, much too young to be haunted but haunted they were, their eyes hollow and flat, their voices raspy, saying they could not stand this man's army.  They wanted either to bury their guns or shoot their heads off.  
     They sat in cafes and drank from flasks all night long, speaking ever-more broken English but with such liquid eyes it was all understood, the mayhem and the cruelty, the orders of shoot-to-kill, even children, small boys of six, and girls, younger, imitating their brothers, shouting in their fragile little girl voices, a chant made up on the spot:  hey, hey, go away, don't come back another day!
     These were the young men who stumbled home crying, weeping, for the things they had seen; and the things they had done.  To children!  Just children, throwing stones.
     But it seemed everybody knew the secret that was no secret:  nobody wanted peace.   Everybody wanted just to win, when winning was in fact losing.  When winning would destroy half, if not all, of the land, and the crops would wither and die, the Dead Sea swell with the deader, until you could not wade into it without immediately being swung into the dead-man float.  Drifting on the surface, held high, high up from everything below – how much blood, how many bodies.  The sea was slick with it, the salt a salve that tore at your wounds, the sun a blister you got for being beneath it.
     Everything, this is how it seemed to Zoe some smoky, grey mornings, was going to get so much horribly worse before it got better.  And it seemed as if no single individual had more than zero to the nth power to change it/anything – because who was actually in charge?  The politicians, who had so-called been 'elected' by the people?  All the subversives working beneath, or the angels above (or maybe it was just the Kardashians, ruling the world?  Because what really matters?  Well, duh, if her ass is real or not!)
     Hey look to America for the freshest hypocrisy – organic!  Seasonal!  Homegrown!  The land of equality?  Yeah, tell it to the 99 (that includes way too many of my friends, she thought, and soon enough --) percent. Because what did a penny buy you these days?  Just a rubbed-out semi-likeness of Lincoln's profile.  C'est tout.

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

Scene from own postponed sequel to Some Girls, with Such & Claire

    Thus it was that two hours later, she was rested and fragrant, refusing to fret that Jasper still hadn't called (and if he wasn't going to call, then neither was she; anyway, they'd make up the way they always did:  face to face.)

     Half an hour after that, she was back at the Moroccan place from the night before, beyond relieved when she saw Such already waiting at the bar.
Is this cool or what?  she crowed, and he bowed his head, acquiescing, And you found it first.
  They ordered a frozen margarita (her), a shot of Patron (him), and went to sit at a small table with a bowl of salted pistachios.  She poured the entire story out and he listened, smiling occasionally, lighting her clove, which they shared, saying nothing till she was done.
Knew I liked that guy for a reason, he said, and she looked at him, hurt.
Do you think he was right?
Sure he was, Such said easily.  Obviously Miss Thing was competing with you.  He hit the nail on the head with her envy of your young youf and les tits – but (putting his hands up as Claire began the clamor of denial) – but in fact he knows nothing of your real relationship with her.  And you're right – the woman has a talent for living the charmed life, which God knows, someone should get paid for teaching the rich – and otherwise – to lead it too.  So she hangs out with musicians – so what? Not everyone is cut out to save the planet, no matter how much we should be.
After all, he added, putting his hands down so she could admire their beauty, I'm a musician too, and I like to think I bring a wee bit of joy into otherwise humdrum lives.
She laughed, already feeling much, much better.
Anyway, Such said, He passed the test.
What test?
What do you mean, what test?  The Jade test!  The one you subject every single one of your maybe-interested-in boys, to see if maybe she could interest them more?  Which, and do tell if I'm wrong, is usually the reason you fire them within twenty-four hours of such a meeting?
She stared at him, speechless.
Claire, Such said, now speaking slowly and with more volume, as it to a retarded, slightly deaf child, He met her, he saw the two of you together, and he knew instantly that he'd nabbed the prize.
He leaned back and lit another cigarette, consummately pleased with himself.  And might I say, he added, exuding a long plume of smoke, He got that right.
But...
He raised an eyebrow, as if to say, really?  This topic hasn't been dusted?  Then held up a hand, calling the waiter.
And speaking of how I'm doing, he said, I have, as it happens, a little news of my own.  But first, let's get another drink – (And then it was 'ooh la la, I got dibs on Cleopatra Eyes headin our way!')
They ordered another round, Cleopatra Eyes demurely half-closing ('now that's a man who's perfected the come-hither look,' Such said admiringly).
Served once again, Such laid the devastation down:
I'm moving to L.A.  Temporarily, at least, he said, his voice firm.  
Her jaw hung open for so long he finally said, Stop that!
But – but – but –
You can say ass, sweetheart.  We both know it's my favorite part.
-- But you're such a New Yorker!  She nearly wailed that part; the city and Such were so inextricably linked for her, and with such pure joy, it was worse than hideously awful to imagine them apart.
Yeah, well, the man made me an offer I couldn't refuse, he said, and though he aimed for arch and blew several perfect smoke rings, she could hear the ambivalence lurking beneath, which always italicized her:
What man?  What offer?
You know, some guy.  (This usually meant a piece of trade, rough or otherwise).  He came to the bar and stared at me so fixedly I started flirting with him – played Noel, Gershwin -- Christ, I even played Kurt Weill!  And he started buying me drinks – I'm talking Ketel One at first, but after Claude clued him in, Patron, and he kept 'em coming.
Clearly, this trade fell into the otherwise category.
Turns out –
You went home with him?  It came out accusingly; already she felt betrayed by this fan, his musical taste, his expensive tequila, the artful seduction he had obviously completed.
Well, if you consider the Four Seasons home – and I do – then yes, I guess I did.
She just stared at him, watching as he took his time stubbing a half-smoked cigarette out, then lifted his glass and said, It turns out he's a movie producer.
A 'ducer!  Claire said, allowing herself to hate this stranger even more.  Of what?  Porn?
Such looked at her, and for the briefest half-second she saw the glimmer of hurt in his eyes and cringed at herself, clasping her hands together and looking away.
I meant, she said.
  -- As it turns out, of some indie movie with a few raggedy wannabes – I think he mentioned Robert Downey, the Junior, and that li'l redhead, Julianne Moore, with ongoing negotiations for John Cusack and Maya Rudolph –
Are you kidding?  she nearly shrieked.  God, I love those guys!
And who but the Scarecrow and the Lion does not?  Such said dismissively, adding, Which said movie he wants accompanied by a single piano – he said he needed raw (here he rolled his eyes), and God knows I can do that; and he said he needed spontaneous, and God knows (she got a meaningful glance); and he said he needed 'haunted' – please, I told him, stop already!  You just described my last personal ad!
At which point, Claire guessed, He ordered Champagne.
He gave her an admiring glance.  Yes, he did, in fact.  Yes, he did.
And that's all it took?  She was embarrassed by the way her voice squeaked at the end, the worst part of adolescent boy.
Claire, please.  Such swallowed the last of his shot and signaled the bartender for another round.         She began to protest but he said, Trust me, this is gonna hurt you way more than it does me.
He offered to pay me, he went on, then wrote a number down on a bev nap and slid it her way.           Her eyes popped.
Seriously?  Holy shit!
Honey, isn't that the only reason people move to the Coast?  For the stupid money?
I thought it was to get famous.
I'll skip the fame, thank you, just bring that fortune on.
The drinks arrived and she held her glass up, determined to be happy for him.
Well, here's to you, then, she said.  
You mean here's to me getting out of the studio apartment with shower so charmingly affixed in the middle of the room and surviving on tips from drunks and tourists – aside of course from that dreary quartet with me and three lesbian strings, and, oh, living on a diet of mostly pizza?  Hell, yes, I'll drink to that.
...Even though it's New York City pizza?  Which absolutely does not exist anywhere else, no matter how many times they say it does!
Such leaned back, closed his eyes, and only then did it occur to her that that maybe this was, in fact, really hard for him, too.
God, I'm gonna miss it, he said.
She took another big swallow, pretended it was the alcohol that brought tears to her eyes, and smiled.
You won't stay, though, she said.  Right?
God forbid.  I think my driver's license lapsed a decade – and a half? -- ago.  You know, right after I moved here.  (This though he'd moved 'here' from his parents' house in Queens, a joke he'd capitalized on for years).
Are they going to rent a car with a driver for you then?  Put you up at the Chateau Marmont?
Those are my conditions, Such said, But it appears this guy has a an extra little roadster or two in his extended garage, and a two-bedroom apartment with sundeck dying for a tenant.  It's in WestHo – let's face it, ya gotta love the sound of that nabe – and costs entirely one full quarter less than my studio here.
So, what, you're moving out next week?
Such set his drink down carefully, avoiding her eyes.  More like three, he said.  I already gave my month's notice -- and I'ma skip out before all those maudlin goodbyes.
She sat back, as stunned as if he'd hit her.  This time, the tears brimmed over, and she had to pull a Jade and shade her face with her hand.
Come on, Claire.  Be happy for me.
I am happy for you, she choked out.  It's me I'm not happy for – you're gonna leave, like, tomorrow, and I bet you never come back!
Such encircled her wrist with one his elegant hands.
Sweetheart, I need the health insurance.  And it wouldn't kill me to see a boatload of sunny days all in a row.  Plus you can come stay with me, any time, as long as you like – you know, until your two weeks are up.  You'll have your own vacation getaway... won't you please try to think of it that way?
His voice so uncharacteristically gentle, all she could do was nod, even as the tears threatened to swell into outright sobs.
You're my best friend, she said.  You're my best friend!
Such grabbed a wad of napkins and pushed them into her hands.  You're ruining your makeup, he said briskly – he abhorred sentimentality, but she knew he was faking it this time.
And we both know damn well Miss Thing is your best friend, he added, watching approvingly as she mopped her face, wiping big black wings from under her eyes.  When she looked up, a couple of people glanced away but nobody seemed especially interested in their brief drama; it was New York, after all.  Who hadn't cried in public?  Especially as that particular public was what they'd come here for.
She's not – not exactly, she said, unable to finish the sentence.  Jade always had escaped definition, and Such laughed, slapping his face first on one side, then the other, saying, Friend (slap), lover (slap), friend –
  Oh cut it out, Claire said, failing to suppress a smile.  She's just Jade.
How adorable.  Now if we could just make a musical about her:  'Just Jade,' he squared his hands and put them up high, Can't you see it now, all lit up on Broadway?
There was a pause, and then they both burst out laughing, because the fact was they could see it, even as some vacuous runaway success ('but only if Just Jade starred in it,' Such added, 'wearing those miniscule leather scraps from Zeitgeist!')
Even in moments of true sorrow, they always cracked each other up.
      Oh, shit, Claire thought, shit shit shit shit shit!
Maybe I'll pitch it to Michel, Such said then.
Wait, the guy you're gonna work for is French?
So he says, you know, 'originally.'  But I'm pretty sure he's a Mike from waaay back.
What does he think you are from way back?
A complete and utter pervert, Such answered with a grin, And an absolutely divine piano player.


Marce, Portrait of a Dog



     Such a big dog, even as a puppy.  I teased Mai that he was part gorilla, with that big black nose, part bear, with those big goofy paws, and of course part crocodile
     (here comes the rain again/)
     with those big, gorgeous blindingly white teeth, and later, part billy goat with his little white beard –

     Remember his shagginess when his beautifully silky curls got overgrown, till they flopped over those intelligent deep brown eyes always watching everything, not missing a trick (especially when it came to fishing your favorite sunglasses out of your purse, left stupidly within reach of the notorious counter thief, simply because he was bored and you were 'ignoring' him.)
     Self-soothe, Marce, I used to tell him, while he stared at me as though to answer, Get a life, Kristin. 

     In some ways he was so unlike other dogs:  he used to balk so much at going for walks.  Everything freaked him out, was too big, too loud – the skateboarder, the garbage truck, the squealy brakes on some old car, a cat across the street, some jogger going by – in some ways, regardless his size, he was just better inside, with his family, standing guard at the window when it was time for Aaron to come home, running to Mai when Andre cried.
 
     He was a big guy but you could never catch him.  You could try (his favorite game; your least, not least because he always, but ALWAYS, won), you did try, sometimes until you were breathless, but no.  You never caught him.
     Not gonna happen.

     Remember taking him out back, throwing a tennis ball while he stared at you like, what?  Then, gamely, he'd run and get it, but if you threw it again you'd really get The Look, the 'WTF you throw that out there again?  I just got it back for you!'
     It wasn't that he didn't like to run – he LOVED to run, and he was incredibly good at it – watching him and Ali play was a thing of rudeness and joy, their combined young health, the way they scared each other on purpose, the sudden standing-on-their–back-legs dance...no, it was that he just didn't understand your motive.
     ('Seriously now:  Why are you throwing that ball away all the time if all you want is to have it back?  Why?')

     Remember one rainy day when he absolutely would not budge to go outside (looking at you like, I don't have fur, where's MY jacket?)
     -- having seen the rubber ducky jacket he was gonna wear in Seattle, he was so close to being there –

     [ASIDE:  FUCK. LIFE!]

     Anyway, I was saying about how one rainy day, stuck inside (I used to get paid to hang with him when he was still a puppy – a big puppy, always, at five months nearly full grown, tall as your hip), I tried to teach him how to dance.  I'd fool around with the I-pad radio they left for on him (either Portuguese jazz – he was a Portuguese water dog after all – or sometimes reggae, very low) when they were both at work (this being B.A.; Before Andre) – so I fooled around with the stations and tried different things:
     Motown just made him crazy.  When I danced around him he would bark at me and jump around and ultimately work himself up into a state I could not handle, so we didn't hit our brief groove until I put on the old standards.  The music my mother loves, Ella and Etta (both of them), the Shirleys (Bassey and Horne), and of course Frank Sinatra -- 
     I invited Marce to dance by bowing, then coaxing him to put his big shaggy popcorn-scented paws on my shoulders, which perplexed him, at first in a good way, but after a little bit, he got tired.  Bbut then, he was always easily frustrated.  If he didn't get it, fuck it.  He'd either bark at you (he had two basic tones, asking you either to 'explain it! or to just 'quit it!') 
     Either that or he'd just lope off to eat your shoe, but only when you thought it was safe to take your eyes off him.

     He was a big black incredibly smart bad boy, my favorite, and I used to call my mom and tell her about him, because she loved 'a good scoundrel,' and Marce was certainly that.
     He was that, and ridiculously sensitive, too, coming to sit next to me one day when I was crying (it was four times a week, sometimes I cried!), putting his big head on my lap, whining a little bit ('please stop!  Here I am, see?  I love you!')
     Which he did.  Which he showed every single time I saw him, flipping out when he saw it was me, jumping like a maniac though he was so much better behaved at two plus years –
     What can I say, I loved it.  I always felt like we'd been lovers in some past life, not least for the way this dog kissed.
     (I know it sounds like this little essay has taken the turn for the weyrd, but I'm not kidding, this dog could have taught lessons).
     So gentle, a sideways kiss, a swipe of your neck, a nibble on your lips, a brief shy glance aside, another little swipe of his tongue on the corner of your mouth.
     I used to kiss him shamelessly, even in front of Mai, and she would just grin.  She knew. 
     We used to rhapsodize about him, the two of us, telling every little detail of his day, rub his belly and croon his name (I don't believe I need to tell you how much he loved this) –

     He was every ordinary dog – fiercely loyal, unendingly loving, deeply protective – and he was Marce, an absolutely unique, brilliant, funny, sensitive and unendingly sweet individual.

     He barged a Marce-shaped space into his people's hearts and now it cannot be occupied by anybody else.  He once belonged to us.

     Now, we belong to him.