MEN

This was originally written because a particular guy became a problematic person in my life. He's still around. I changed the names to protect the guilty. I don't know why I'm posting it, either. Here goes me quoting me:

OK, just for a minute, let’s talk about men. They are a problem, don’t we agree? - I mean unless you are one. Are you a problem to yourself, men? They seem so simple, and yet so illusive. When I was younger it was always the wrong guy that followed me home. They would be all mooney-eyed and totally repulsive to me. It still is that way, but it happens less often. The ones I wanted were cool. They didn’t lose their heads. They had a plan and they lived their lives on their own terms. I guess that’s what I admire most about men. They seem to have a grasp on that living their life on their own terms thing. Maybe it is just that they are accustomed to appearing invulnerable for their peers – other men, and that is what so attracts me. Maybe- I am not so sure about that. It’s a sort of devil-may-care attitude, a personal assurance that they are so right so strong so in control of the world. I guess that’s it. A man sets the standard, and us women have to live up to it or flunk out. If you aren’t blond enough or thin enough or sexy enough, then you are generally out of the running for the cool guys. They have established what is cool for a female and reject anything that doesn’t measure up.

I never measure up. I am short for one thing. It seems long Julia Roberts legs are the most desirable. Mine are short because I’m short, and they are sturdy. I have defined muscling. I can’t help it. I build muscle easily when I exercise. I am fairly active – though not as active as I used to be or as active as I should be. I can’t run very fast. I can’t jump high. I guess they want to think about those long legs wrapped around their waists. I don’t know that, but men seem to be mostly oriented around sex when it comes to their relationships with women. One guy I met talked about his rotten luck with women. He had three wives, all of them the same sort of money-grubbing sex kittens who left him after a while. He said he never had a woman who was a friend. I asked why not. He mumbled stuff about feeling attracted and scared and I said "Oh, it’s the sex monster. You can’t think of a woman as a friend AND a sexual partner." He agreed. Friendship is reserved for other men. Sex is reserved for women. I think the guy is a victim of immaturity. I think when it comes to relationships with women lots of guys feel that way. To me, the ideal partner would be a man who is my best friend and my lover.

Another reason I can’t get the cool guys is that I am smart. Cool guys always want their women to be dumber than they are. Sometimes this is a real reach. Guys are not all uniformly intelligent. I try to hide my intelligence, but I am a know-it-all by nature, and it leaks out whenever I get comfortable. Maybe guys feel like I pulled a trick on them. If I am smart, then what other plots they can’t even think of am I hatching? I am also not humble. I think I’m pretty cool, and I don’t care if they know it. Maybe they don’t like arrogance in their women. Maybe they want smiling demure little sex kittens without a thought in their heads. Just look at the women some of these powerful men pick. They are not real people, they are accessories.
I want my guy to be my pal. I want him to know he can count on me to be there on the other end of the 2X4 holding up my end - metaphorically speaking, or even literally. I want to know he will be there for me, as well. I like hanging out with the guys and doing stuff they like to do. I don’t care about fingernail polish, jewelry and hairdos. Well, that last part is wrong. I have beautiful hair and I love it. I especially like it long and I like to arrange it different ways to reflect my mood. My hair is tri-colored naturally. When I was young, it was black mixed with a deep maroon and streaked with a bright rust-red that bleached out in the sun. I spent a lot of time in the sun. My hair looked like an expensive dye job, but it is natural all the way. Also, it is poker straight. I hate frizzing it all up with permanents and curling irons and such.

Nowadays the maroon is still there. The black is snow white, and the red is blond. It’s still tri-colored. I don’t dye it to cover up the gray. I guess that’s a problem. The perception of women who have grey hair is not a positive one. People tend to make assumptions about you that are not true, but the fact that they believe it makes it true for them. It is very difficult to get past that prejudice. It is very difficult for a woman my age to find a quality lover. You have to take the drunks and the rejects. Yeck! I’ll remain celibate, I guess, but it sucks – big time. It’s the second worst thing about getting older.

The first is aches and pains: joints that hurt, muscles that strain more easily. Before exercising, I have to remind myself all the time that I have to warm up more slowly and do gentle stretching before I do anything. Then, I feel like I have used up all my exercise time and go off to do something else – like take a nap or just sit down with my feet up. Also, when I over-do it a bit, I don’t recuperate as quickly as I used to. In the past, a ten minute breather would do it. Now, I may poop out for the day. If I lift too much or strain something it takes days and days to get over it. I used to take a hot shower, get a good night’s sleep, and be fine in the morning. No more. I gave up endurance riding, which at one time I loved. It got too painful to be enjoyable. I don’t even ride much because I am afraid of falling and breaking something. My bones are not brittle that I know of. I think probably they are just fine. I still am afraid of falling. After riding all these years, I know that a fall now and then is inevitable. It is a stopper. My horses are all spirited. I like them that way. That means, though that sudden moves can unseat me.
Another thing that turns off the cool guys is my weight. This society frowns on overweight people. A mature female form is almost never seen in the movies except in a derogatory way. Cool guys don’t want to be seen with a "fat girl". It is a put-down to their sexual prowess. Cool guys need cool women. That means tall, thin – very thin – and mostly blonde, although long brown hair is OK if all the other things are there.

I love to cook. I like to eat. I also have a very economical metabolism. I don’t need many calories to maintain myself. After all, if you are 110 pounds, (I wish) you don’t need 2,000 calories a day. You need about 1200 or less. That isn’t very much food. I love beef. I use real butter. I love potatoes and pasta, too. My favorite meal is a steak and a spinach salad. I love desserts especially ice cream. French vanilla is my favorite. I can’t keep a half-gallon of ice cream in my house. I will eat it all in a matter of a couple of days. I can’t resist chocolate, either. I can be fine for quite a while, and then I will go on a feeding frenzy and eat everything in the house. I have tried every diet I have come across. The one that works best is Weight Watchers. When I was weighing out portions on the diabetic exchange system I lost weight, too. I also need to exercise EVERY DAY.

My exercise routine goes like this:

AM: stretching and calisthenics working every muscle in the body without weights

Noon: walk 1 mile

PM: Go to the gym, do stretching, walk 1 mile, work out on exercise machines with maximum weights I can handle without pain for 30 minutes, walk ½ mile slowly to cool down.

This takes a lot of time and a lot of self-discipline. I can’t do some of the weight machines that I used to because of my hip. I dislocated it and it has never been right. If I move wrong, it "pops", and it hurts a lot. I have avoided the pain of exercising and so I have gained a lot of weight. It is all tied up with my frustration over no lover, too. I eat because it is a pleasure that I can still enjoy. Lately, heart burn is taking that pleasure away, too. I think that if I put on my walking shoes, and take Billy for a walk every day for at least an hour, it will help a lot, and maybe add some stretching and a few light calisthenics to keep things fluid. Yeah, I’ll get on my walking shoes, put on a jacket and take Billy for a walk right after I finish writing for the day. Yeah, right.

The cool woman is in touch with what her culture sees as current style. Cool women dress a certain way. Cool guys look for that. She doesn’t go way nuts. Cool guys want their women to be attractive to other guys. They want to be able to display her among their peers and get nods of approval. Nice ass, nice legs, enough mammary glands, a regular face with "pretty" eyes and lipstick. Good teeth, clear skin, shiny hair. She has to look healthy and ready to breed.
I gave up on cool guys a long time ago. I look for the diamond in the rough. I look for the guys with substance. I look for brains and a little brawn. I usually steer clear of pretty boys, powerful men and the extra rich. I don’t think that I fit the mold for their tastes, and I have had enough rejection from these types to last me a long time. I also have found that I am no good at approaching men. They almost always shy away from me if I approach them. It is far better if they make the first move. This almost eliminates shy guys unless they suck it up and make the first move. I find that when I just relax, go out for a reason other than to meet men, and just be me, dress as I like: clean, smelling nice, and with my hair combed, I can sit with the guys and chat and they will be glad to see me. They will relax, too and I will have a nice time. Unfortunately, I will always come home alone – the same way I arrived. I think perhaps I am too independent. You see, I don’t really need a man in my life. I can just be friends and it’s OK. I support myself. I am resourceful and I can do what I need to do to survive. I don’t want some man coming into my life and re-arranging things his way. I like being captain of my own ship. I sail where I want to. I am no man’s girl-friend. I am just Glee.

I just contradicted myself. On the one hand, I want a man to love who loves me back, and on the other hand, I like my independence. How can I resolve that? I have everything my way in my house. How can I make room for a man here? In many ways, it would ideal for me having him with his own space. I wonder if I had a lover if he would be comfortable with his own living quarters. Would he leave when I needed my space? Would he resent that?
Glee

The Fifth of July, 2005

Did you ever notice that men are mesmerized by a hole in the ground? When you pass a construction site, and there is a hole in the ground, there will be men gathered around it leaning on shovels, and talking to one-another while never taking their eyes off that hole. It doesn’t have the same attraction to women. A woman will walk by a hole, glance inside, and say, "There’s nothing in there.", and keep on walking. A man will stop, and soon other men will gather, and they will stand all around that hole and stare into it and talk. They don’t look at one-another, they stare into the hole. Sometimes they will pick up a rock or a clod of dirt and throw it into the hole. Sometimes they take a stick or a shovel and poke it into the hole. Even a small hole like a post hole will attract them. I looked out the back door the other day, and there was the neighbor from across the street standing next to my son. Frank had dug the hole to put a fence post in. There he stood, leaning on his shovel, and the neighbor man stood next to him, and they both stared down into that hole as they talked as if that hole was the most significant thing in the universe.
I imagine the conversation, which I never get to hear, because they quit talking as soon as a female approaches.
"There’s a hole in the ground."
"Yep, I dug that hole."
"It’s a good hole."
"I’m going to put a fence post in there."
‘It’s just the right size - could be a little deeper."
"Yeah, but it’ll do for that fence post."
"Yep."
In the back yard is a 30 acre hayfield. Right in the middle is a big hole. A contractor dug it a few years back when he had some hair-brained scheme that involved me giving him some acres and him getting rich while I would get a deed to some swamp land in Nevada. He came over to my house so many times, I finally I agreed to let him dig some holes to see if the soil would "perk" which, if it did, then he could dig some other kind of holes and put in septic tanks and build condominiums. I knew he would not find the right kind of soil, but that’s another story. Suffice it to say, that he was determined, and the hole got rather large before he realized I was right, there wasn’t the right kind of soil all the way down to China. After he and his men had their obligatory gathering around the hole, they stomped off, and never filled it back in. That was a few years ago.
That hole has some attraction to my son that I cannot fathom. Instead of filling the hole in like I wanted him to, he has invented things the hole can be good for. The pile of dirt next to it is great for propping up paper plates, milk jugs, tomatoes, watermelons and tin cans. Then, under the guise of "sighting in the gun" or perhaps "testing the load in some new ammunition", he and my grandson will fire away. If I look out there during the pauses, they will be standing together looking down into the hole. I think it might be some sort of male bonding ritual. I should have remembered this before I agreed to the bonfire.
That hole is a great place to throw anything that is organic in the name of landfill, and a good place to burn fallen trees and brush. It has become known as "the burn pile". We have always had one. It’s a useful thing. We burned the old corn crib and some other buildings, and ruined hay and broken furniture as well. There was a huge pile of such flammables about a story high. My son said he wanted the mother of all bonfires on his birthday. July fifth is his day. For years he thought the fireworks on the 4th were for him. I let him think so. His birthday is often a difficult day for him. I wonder if it’s because he knows that the fireworks aren’t for him or if it’s because he’s an only child. It seemed like a good time to invite the kids over, and have a birthday dinner, and light the fire. I went to the fire department to get a burn permit. Here, in Northfield Township, now that the people from the city are moving in and ruining everything, you need to get a permit to have a fire. I told the lady there at the township hall that it would be visible from the road, and we were going for a world record bonfire. She wrote that down and faxed it over to the fire station while I watched so they wouldn’t come over on a false alarm and I wouldn’t get a fine. Everything seemed just fine.
Dinner was great. Frank said the only way to be sure you weren’t disappointed in your birthday dinner was to do it yourself. That was his excuse to drag out one of his favorite toys - his smoker. He bought four chickens and a duck, and beer cans (we don’t’ drink beer) and special spice rubs and Boone Farm Orange wine to baste the duck, and cans of peas and dill pickles and cheddar cheese for his favorite pea salad. We all shared a sip of the Boone Farm Orange Wine and agreed it was perfectly horrible. It tasted just like Orange Crush. We thought it would be a good marinade for the duck. He happily mixed up sauces and "mops" and things all afternoon. I went to get the boys, and they spent the afternoon with their Dad throwing things into the big hole for the burn pile. This involved tractors, pick-up trucks and chain saws. Frank and Frank (his first son is named Frank) spent a lot of time looking into that hole, too. Frank was in heaven. I made a lemon meringue pie and roasted potatoes and broccoli cheese casserole. My grandson, John, isn’t into the male bonding thing, yet. He prefers to hang out with Grandma in the kitchen near the food. I taught him how to make a real cheese sauce from béchamel and grated cheddar cheese. It came out pretty good. Melissa came and brought along her current beau. He’s a beefy kid, a mechanic, with a big appetite, a beard, and an earring in his left ear.
After dinner, we all grabbed whatever we were drinking and piled into the pick up truck. Frank brought along a shovel. We drove out back to the burn pile. The dogs trotted along, too, and at the very tail end, just as we were getting the can of gas out of the bed of the truck, along came Pinky WashChowsky, the yellow cat with his tail straight up. He loves a good party. The sun was just setting. It was red in the west and we all chanted "Red sun at night sailor’s delight" and other wise sayings. There was a discussion about the right way to throw several gallons of gasoline on a burn pile without catching yourself on fire. Frank poured it all over the hay. I tried to tell him gasoline wasn’t necessary, but he insisted we needed to get rid of "spoiled gas" and so, he went ahead and poured a whole can on the pile, and saved a little to make a trail on the ground. He has had experience in these matters. He didn’t want to loose his eyebrows again. Of course, gasoline is invisible when it sinks into the ground. Frank hopped in the air a little when he dropped the match and the flames went "whoosh!" right under his feet, but nothing important got singed. The fire was good. It wasn’t a world record, but it was satisfying anyway. We stayed to watch until Melissa, her boyfriend, Mary and Pinky the cat all left. It was a good thing. I wouldn’t have wanted them upset. The fireflies came out. It was real pretty watching them twinkle like little sparks all over the hayfield. We had to stand back. The heat was pretty intense, but the ground was wet from rain and there was no danger of the field catching on fire. Then it began to rain again. John, Frank, Frank, and Billy, the Golden Retriever all piled into the truck and watched the fire from inside like being at the drive-inn.
I noticed a car stop for a long time on North Territorial Road. Its lights changed from white to red and back to white. I could tell that it turned around. Then another car drove up beside it, and they sat there one facing East and the other West side by side like people do when they stop on a country road to talk out the driver’s window. I said it was a fool thing to do on a busy road like that in the rain after dark. Someone might come along and run into them. Lots of some ones did show up. Pretty soon there was a traffic jam out there. Then I noticed the fire trucks and heard the sirens. I thought there was an accident. Then the trucks began to pull off the road, and point their headlights into our hayfield. It wasn’t long until we were surrounded by every piece of fire equipment in Northfield Township, and dozens of volunteers in pickup trucks.
"Oh, no, here they come!" said Little Frank. He’s not little we just call him that because big Frank didn’t want his son being called Junior. I stayed in the truck. Soon, all the firemen were out there in the rain talking to Big Frank. We were surrounded. The bright lights from the fire trucks and spotlights and such lit the place up. Along with the light from the fire it looked just like a movie. The whole town shows up because aliens have landed in the Bohanon’s hayfield. Stand back people, we have this under control. Go back to your homes and shut the doors, and pull the drapes so you’ll be safe. They stood and looked down into the hole. They leaned on shovels and talked not looking at one another. I should have remembered about how a hole in the ground attracts men.
Big Frank said" Let me guess – a yuppie with a cell phone."
The fireman was decked out in his fire suit and yellow hat. His boots looked too big for him. "Yeah, lots of yuppies with cell phones called. You can see the orange glow from this fire for miles." Then he laughed. "We had to come there were so many calls. Those people all moved out here from the city, and ruined everything."
The firemen circled the fire and stared down into the hole where it was. They lingered until they got a call about a traffic accident out in front of the fire station – no injuries, the voice on the radio said. They all smiled at each other. One of them brought a clipboard and wanted to see my fire permit.
"It’s up at the house on the kitchen table. You want me to go get it?"
By this time it was pouring rain. Water dripped off his hat and onto his clipboard making it hard to write down my name and address – like as if he didn’t know who I was and where he was. These were the same guys that were there the day Ed died. This man had tried to resuscitate him, and had carried his body out my door. He had rested his hand on my shoulder that day.
He shook his head "Naw, it’s raining. Let me see your driver’s license."
I thought," Oh no, I don’t have it with me or my glasses either. Was I going to get arrested right here in my own backyard because some yuppies with cell phones got to minding everyone else’s business? Had the world changed so much?"
I said to him. "No, I’m not on the road." He shook his head with an expression on his face that made me think he thought that was a stupid thing for him to ask me there in my own backyard.
"Naw, it’s raining."
After they left, we sat a long time re-telling each other what had happened.
Little Frank said "This is the best thing that’s happened all summer." Both boys laughed so hard they were jumping up and down in the back seat from the effort of it.
Then, they went and stood next to their Dad in the rain and looked down into that hole.

Searching with My Eyes by Glee Bohanon

Searching with my eyes looking for all things missing:
Love, playful and sweet, lost

Searching with my eyes for all love's being:
With me, for me and beside me.

Searching with my eyes I find wary removed mocking.
Watchful, you stay within.

Searching with my eyes I find no look that starts with joyful knowing
No tender touch, no heat warms me through the night.

Again I am disappointed, bereft of love and loving I end.
I sink within to that place where neither pleasure nor pain can find me.

May 14, 2005

Glee: aka GlaeWitch and Copyright Statement

Glee aka GlaeWitch


************************ Copyright Notice **************************
The material in this entire Blog Site is copyrighted (c) by Glee Bohanon
who retains all rights. Duplication of this material is forbidden without
the premission of the author.
********************************************************************

CodeWord Haven - Chapter One

Sir Michael O’Callahan chose a spot underneath a concrete overpass scarred black by an explosion. There were chunks of concrete, broken glass, a piece of a bumper and some shredded remains of tires in the street all detritus from confrontations between the Zoners and the Police.

“Park here, James. I’ll walk from here.”

“But, Mr. O’ Callahan, this is too far.”

“It’s OK, James. I have my ID.”

“At least let me go with you.”

“No! He won’t approach me if anyone is around. You know that.”

“Yes, that’s true. Be careful,” he said.

The door to the car closed with a heavy thud, and Sir Michael was soon
engulfed in the darkness of the deserted street. He thought that James would
be safe there. The car was substantial. No street urchin could do more than
scuff its tough surface. The windows were bullet proof. The license protected
it from the Police. They would recognize the emblem of a high council member.
Mr. O’Callahan knew it wasn’t wise for a wealthy man to walk around in this
area. People were starving. They would attack you for a crust of bread or a
single credit. A high council member would be a juicy target for these
freedom fighters. Sir Michael paused a few times and looked around before
continuing. This was the buffer zone between the so-called “free” area, and
the “permit” area. Permits belonged to the Government. They served the
Homeland. If you were a freedom fighter you had no permit. You could not
leave the Zone, or hold a job. You could not speak to a member of The
Government or be seen with more than two of your friends at one time or you
could be killed. Still, Sir Michael was aware that many times Freedom
Fighters did leave the zone, and he was on the alert for trouble.

“Father?”

Mr. O’Callahan turned, and recognized the gaunt figure of his step-son Thomas
O’Callahan, the leader of the Freedom Fighters. Tom’s blue eyes burned through the night with a fire that was clearly visible even in the dim light of one streetlight that by some miracle still worked. The two men embraced, and thudded each other’s backs.

“It’s good to see you, Son.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Dad.”

“Tom, you’re so thin.” Mr. O’Callahan held Tom’s shoulders at arm’s length, and
squeezed with strong hands.

“Food is scarce in the FreeZone, Dad. I give what I can to Jenny and the
baby.”

“How are they?”

“Jenny has a bad cough. The baby is fine.”

“Let me take her to my doctor. He can be very discreet. He should be I pay
him enough.”

“No, she wouldn’t hear of it. She wouldn’t touch any of your money or
anything it could buy. It would be selling out.”

Mr. O'Callahan nodded. "That sounds like our Jenny."

They walked side by side in silence with arms linked and Tom led Mr.
O’Callahan to a hole in the fence alongside the road. They entered the FreeZone and walked a few blocks to a small squat building with one dirty window. A wan pool of light shone on the sidewalk. When Tom opened the door, a cloud of smoke rolled out and enveloped them. A massive man with dark curly hair and a sinister look about him stood barring their way. He recognized Tom and stood aside just enough to let them through the
door eyeing Mr. O'Callahan with a cold eye as he brushed past.

“Evening, Tom.”

“Evening, George. How’s it going?”

“It’s quiet tonight. The Police are all over to the East Side. There’s a
rumor there'll be a gathering.” He smiled.

Tom smiled. “Imagine that.” He said.

The room was dark, and the air was filled with smoke. Men and women sat about
at tables or at the bar along one side of the narrow room. The tinkle of
glasses and the sound of talk and laughter were pleasant. The aroma in the
air might be tobacco, or maybe something else. No one looked up when Mr.
O’Callahan followed Tom to the rear of the room. Tom chose the seat with his back to the wall. George looked their way and then resumed his vigil at the
front door.

Tom spoke first. “You look much older than you did at our last meeting. When
was that – only 10 months ago? ”

Mr. O’Callahan took a deep breath before he replied. “I remember that
meeting, too. I beg you. It’s my grandson. Let me at least feed them. You can’t
possibly win against the Police. Even with all my connections and my wealth I
am not immune to their power. Here in the Zone, I can’t protect them. At the
Sanctuary, they would be safe.”

“I tried to talk to Jenny about it, Dad. When I told her about the meeting tonight she got mad. Winter will soon be here. If something happens to me, who will care for the baby? I don’t know what I’ll do. Nothing I could say would make her change her mind. She is so weak she can barely lift her head. I don’t want to leave them alone for long. I wrapped her and the baby in a blanket, put extra wood near to her hand, and filled the stove. Then I came here to meet you.”

They waited silently as a waitress brought them battered mugs filled with dark
beer. Sir Michael nodded his thanks, took a sip, and smacked his lips.

“This is good,” he said, and raised his mug to Tom who raised his glass as
well, and they drank for a moment. Sir Michael wiped some foam from his lips
before speaking

“Your mother sends her love. She would like to see the baby.” When
Tom began to shake his head, Sir Michael held up his hand. “Will you deny her this? She has a right as his grandmother to at least see him.”

Tom’s shoulders sagged. “I’ve tried, but Jenny won’t do it. You know how
she feels about money and power. You are linked with the Police. She will
never . . .”

Sir Michael interrupted. “Tom, listen! Please – just try it. If she doesn’t like it there, I will see that you and Jenny are returned to the Zone. No-one needs to know. I have friends here. They will help.”

Tom’s forehead wrinkled and he pursed his lips... “I will ask her, but I think it’s useless. She has her mind made up.”

Sir Michael glanced around. People sat about with drinks in their hands. The bartender polished a glass. George stood at the door peering outside through the small dingy window into the night. Sir Michael hunched his shoulders, and leaned forward, his eyes intent on Tom’s face. He spoke in a low voice.

“No-one can know of my plans. To reveal them pre-maturely would be a disaster both for World Motors and for your mother.”

Sir Michael shifted his position in his seat so he could look around the room again. He turned back and focused his eyes on Tom before he continued. Tom leaned forward and nodded.

“I plan to step down from my position on the High Council next week. It has been widely publicized that my health is not good. It will not be unexpected. I also plan very soon afterwards to appoint your mother as sole administrator of World Motors”

Tom sucked in his breath audibly. “Won’t the board challenge her authority
and just vote in the guy they want? The Police have people even within your
organization, I’m sure. “

“Yes, they do, but I have a plan that will effectively neutralize them. You
see, I have evidence that the man they all think will be my successor, has
been embezzling from the company and selling proprietary information to our
competition. The evidence is provided by an impeccable source. When that news
breaks, I will demand that the board remove him. With my opposition
neutralized, I will force the rest of them to vote to sell all their stock to a private foundation I have founded to run World Motors. Your mother will be its administrator. I will then announce my retirement. There will never be another public board to deal with. I will hand the company over to your mother. “

“How can you do that and keep your hands off of it? It’s been your company
from day one. You founded it. You hold all the patents. You have lived your
whole life for that company.”

“That’s true, but I won’t be around to interfere.”

Sir Michael Paused. He watched Tom’s face. It took a moment for Tom to move
from disbelief to realization of what he had said. Tom reached forward and
touched Sir Michael’s hand. He looked at him intently.

“I noticed how pale you are.” He rubbed lightly at a brown spot on his hand.

Sir Michael continued.

“I will be gone by spring. I just hope that I can get World Motors squared
away and provide a sanctuary for your mother and the people who have been loyal to me all these years. I want her to live among people she loves and who love her. Tom, please. Join her. Bring Jenny and the baby and come live at the sanctuary. I can get you out of here. I can get all three of you away from here now, while I still have some power.”

Tom shook his head. “I am the leader. Everyone looks to me for strength. I
can't leave them. Besides, Jenny won’t leave her people.”

“What about the baby? What chance does he have? At the Sanctuary, he will be
warm and loved and well-fed. He will have a chance for an education. He won’t
have to scrounge for food in the streets and hide from the Police every time
they do a sweep.”

Sir Michael fell silent when he realized that Tom wasn’t listening. He waited.
Tom swallowed hard before he spoke.

“You are the only father I have ever known. I can’t get my mind around it. I knew about the infection. I thought it wasn’t natural. I suspected the hand of the Police in this. Your plan will effectively neutralize them for a time. But, World Motors is a fat plumb. It won’t be long before the wolves will sweep in and take it away from Mom.”

Sir Michael made one last appeal. “Remember how we used to take walks out in the woods? Remember how you used to pretend you were an Indian guide? Remember the hunts and the fishing? Let your son know these things, too. Let him grow up in clean air with enough food and lots of room to run and play.”

“I remember. Those were the happiest days of my life. If it wasn’t for Jenny, I would chuck all this and come home, but I love her, Dad. I can’t leave her and she wouldn’t come with me.” He looked at Sir Michael intently. His blue eyes still blazed, but he looked weary. His mouth was set in a firm expression.

Sir Michael stood, and Tom slowly rose as well.

“I may never see you again.” said Tom. They embraced and clung together and
allowed the tears to wash down their cheeks unchecked for long moments.

Mr. O’Callahan gently pulled away, took an envelope from his pocket and
handed it to Tom. “Keep this safe. It could mean a lot to your son some day.”
With one last, brief hug, he turned and strode past George out into the night.

Tom stood there for a few minutes unmoving. His face worked and he brushed away his tears with the back of his hand. He shoved the envelope into his inside coat pocket without glancing at it. Like a sleep-walker, he moved towards the front door. He brushed past George and out the door. George tried to grab Tom’s coat, but Tom shrugged him off. The sound of rapid fire ripped the night apart.

The people in the bar streamed out the door and headed towards Tom O’Callahan, leader of the FreedomZone fighters and step-son to one of the wealthiest men on the planet as he lay there in the street in a pool of blood. He wasn’t moving.

“Oh, my God, Oh my God!” They said.

George was the first to get to the figure in the street, and knelt down
beside him. He hovered over Tom and hid his motions as he removed the
envelope and hid it in his own coat pocket. He looked around, but there was
no sign of the shooter.

“Jesus,” he said.

Mr. O’Callahan was nearly a block away when heard the shots. He stopped, and his body jerked as if he had been struck, then, head down, he ran towards the hole in the fence, ducked through and headed up the street towards the waiting car. His legs churned as fast as they could. His breath came in short bursts that burned his chest. He saw James running towards him, gun in hand.

“James, get back to the car!” he gasped.

They ran the short distance, and James helped Sir Michael into the backseat, slammed the door, and leaped into the front seat behind the wheel. In seconds the tires of the car screamed as they sped away.

“Where to, Sir?”

“Take me to the Sanctuary. Hurry, James.”

“Yes, Sir. Are you OK?”

“Yes, I’m just tired. Get us there the fastest way possible.”

“Do you want me to take you to the heliport? The ‘copter is there and I charged the power-pak. We could be there in an hour or so.”

No, I don’t want anyone to know where I have gone. The ‘copter is too easy to spot. In the car, we are just one of thousands. Besides, World Motors Headquarters is one of the most observed places in the city.” He met James’ gaze in the rearview mirror, and saw his brief nod of agreement.

Sir Michael sank back into the leather cushions of his limousine for a second. He picked up his phone from the console and dialed a number, and held it to his ear while he tapped one finger against the soft leather of the seat with his other hand. After a moment, his head moved towards the phone.

“Are you alone?” He changed the phone to his other hand and pressed it to his other ear. “Good. There were shots fired in the Zone just a few minutes ago near the Pub on the south side. Do you know the one?” He paused just long enough to hear the answer.
“Find out what happened. I’m concerned about Tom.”

He pressed the button and laid the phone on his lap. Within seconds, it rang. He grabbed it and jabbed at the button, and held it to his ear. He held his breath. Sir Michael’s face paled to the point of grayness, and his hand shook so hard he nearly dropped the phone, but his voice remained steady and strong.

“Get the copter over there and airlift him to the Sanctuary! Take the medics with you. Hurry!”

He jabbed the phone with one index finger, and dialed another number. When he heard the voice on the other end he leaned forward in his seat. “Get Mary over to the hospital and prepare for emergency surgery. Tom has been shot. The copter will be there as soon as possible. . . I know it is, but I can’t risk having him in a Government facility. He will be much safer at the Sanctuary. The medics will be on board and the copter is well equipped for emergencies. No time right now. I have to call Mrs. O’Callahan.” He clicked off, and dialed the number in Paris. He waited a long time with the phone at his ear, and then slowly pushed the button. He squeezed his eyes shut until the wrinkles around them spread out over his whole face.

It would be at least a couple of hours before they arrived. He looked out the window into the night for a long time. He rested his head against the smooth leather. He caught a whiff of cigarette smoke from the front compartment. It was somehow comforting. He trusted in James. He would know exactly what to do without being told.

He awoke when he became aware that the motion of the car had changed. He looked outside to see trees and fields and small farmhouses whizzing by. He knew they had left the interstate and were on one of the many country roads that would eventually take them to the sanctuary. He straightened up in the seat, rubbed his eyes, and reached for the phone. He tried the Paris number again, but no-one answered.

“James, do you know the number on board the jet?”

“Yes, I do.”

James called out the number to him from memory and Sir Michael dialed. His face changed when he heard her voice, the voice of Mrs. O’Callahan once Shannon Fitzgerald. He dropped his eyes and his voice softened. He looked down at his knees and his free hand reached inside his coat and rested over his heart.
+++

Mrs. O’Callahan needed to stay in Paris one more day to finish the arrangements for the opening of the Paris office of the new World Motors Foundation European branch. But, something was wrong. She kept hearing Tom’s voice calling her.

“Mom,” he called, “Mom.”

It was not the voice of the man Tom had become, it was the voice of the eight-year old boy, the one she held in her heart. She staggered a little, and nearly tripped over her assistant. He had to stoop to put his arm around her shoulders. She was barely five feet tall, but had the presence of someone much taller. She waved his arm away as he tried to steady her.

“Are you all right?”

“Something is wrong.”

She placed her palm over her temple and moved her head back and forth. Her mind had gone somewhere else leaving this empty shell to deal with the practicalities. For some reason she smelled marigolds where there were none. Her stomach churned, and her chest hurt. Something was wrong with Tom.

“I need to go home right now.”

Without further explanation, she gave her assistant his instructions for the following day’s tasks. She didn’t even go back to the hotel for her clothes. She got the Mercedes and drove directly to the small inn near the private airport just outside of Paris and pounded on the door to the room until the pilot opened it. His black hair was tousled, and he wore only his shorts. His eyes opened wide when he saw her.

“No time for explanations. Get dressed, and get that plane airborne. Take me home.”

In a few minutes the pilot and co-pilot hurried to her waiting car, pulling on their jackets as they ran. At the airport, they ran across the tarmac to the plane. They helped Mrs. O’Callahan up the stairs, pulled the door shut and were air born in record time. The jet had only gotten as far as the coastline when the phone rang. She sat upright in her seat. It was as if her body had taken on the task of flying home on its own.

“Hello, Darling.” She let the sounds bounce off her eardrums, but her mind refused to listen to them. She nodded forgetting that he could not see her nod, and then silently replaced the phone in its holder.

She raised her voice so the pilot could hear.

“How long before we can be at the Sanctuary?”

“About six hours.”

She sat back in her seat and stared out into the night. It would be too late.

Mr. O’Callahan slowly set the phone back on the console, and leaned forward.

“Hey, James, put on some music, will you? Maybe a little Mozart.”

James reached forward to make the selection. Even though Sir Michael had his own control panel in the rear seat, he had never taken the time to figure out how to operate it. The soothing tones of the Piano Concerto No. 15 in B-flat Major wafted through the speakers. Sir Michael leaned back and was soon asleep again. The next time he awoke, the car was bumping along a narrow lane with trees close on either side. James looked in the rear view mirror when Sir Michael straightened himself and stretched.

“We should be there in a few minutes, sir.”

“Good. What time is it?”

“About four o’clock.”

“Should be dawn soon. It would be good to see the sunrise. James, do you know where Mrs. O’Callahan is?”

“Last time I checked, the jet was somewhere over the East Coast. They should be here in about an hour.”

“Did the copter get there OK?”

“Yes, it’s there.”

Mr. O’Callahan paused while he absorbed the tone of this response.

“And Tom – how is Tom?”

James turned in the seat and placed one arm across the back seat and looked at Mr. O’Callahan before he replied softly.

“He didn’t make it, sir.”

Mr. O’Callahan collapsed against the backseat and sobbed out one heart-wrenching cry.

“Dammit all to hell!”

After a glance at his old friend, James turned his attention to the road. He drove slowly over the rough road. There was no hurry to get there now.

They rode in silence for awhile. Then, Mr. O’Callahan pulled himself up, and smoothed his hair with one hand. The sky was getting a dark blue as it became neither night nor day.

“Elizabeth will be . . .”

He couldn’t think of the right word. What would she be? Would she be angry? Would she be grief stricken and despondent? Would she rant and rave or would she get hysterical? He doubted it. She was a strong woman. He thought she would do just as he had always done – whatever needed doing and grieve in private. He cleared his throat.

“Has your wife moved to the Sanctuary yet, James?”

“No sir. There has been some trouble getting my boy out of school. She won’t leave without him. Besides, the house isn’t finished yet.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, we think we have it handled. There will be a break at Thanksgiving and the boy will come home for the holiday. We’ll have the house all ready and all our things here by then.”

Mr. O’Callahan could think of nothing else to say. His own wife would never see her son in this life again. He would never see his son, he always thought of Tom as his, even though he was almost seven years old when he and Elizabeth first met. He remembered the two of them – both with that special shade of dark red almost black hair they had. But, Tom had blue eyes, while Elizabeth’s were a deep rich brown. That blue was probably a legacy from the dead father, or perhaps some ancestor. Tom’s hair would never lay down obediently no matter how you combed it or wet it somehow it always managed to get unruly within minutes. For some reason, this memory made him feel like laughing even though it was perhaps the saddest day of his life. Maybe the feeling was because it recalled to him the happiest day- the day he realized that he loved her and wanted her – them - always in his life. Now part of them was gone.

“James, did anyone try to find Jenny? Do we know where she and the baby are?”

“I called headquarters and asked them to look as carefully as I could. This phone is not safe. I couldn’t call any of our operatives without blowing their cover. It would be fatal.”

“Yes, of course. As soon as we get there, pull up to the communications building. I need to get a search for them going.”

James nodded.

When the car turned off the lonely country road, there was a small featureless graveled parking lot. On the other side, tall ornate iron gates set into two stone towers connected by a massive stone archway barred their way. A high stone wall topped with ornate iron spikes stretched in both directions as far as one could see. There were carved wooden doors built into the pillars on either side of the gates. A small window on either side revealed a room encased in stone and equipped with remote cameras and microphones and speakers. James pulled the car to a stop under the arches formed by the stone towers, and spoke into a microphone. The cameras scanned the car from all sides. A complete circle of light scanned the car front to back and above and beneath, and a brief flash of neon green light touched his face. After a pause, Paul’s voice came over the speaker.

“Hi, James.”

“Hi, Paul.”

“Who’s in the backseat?”

Sir Michael said “It’s me, Paul.” The green light scanned the interior of the car and flashed briefly into Sir Michael’s eyes through the side window, and then the heavy iron gates swung slowly open. James drove into the Sanctuary.

The light from the headlights showed a fork in the road through dense woods. The way to the left disappeared into the darkness. The way to the right opened into a large graveled parking lot. At the far end was the communications building, a windowless concrete building with a tower atop it festooned with antennae. On one side of the communications building was a hangar with its large doors open, and on the other was a large warehouse. A helicopter sat just outside the hangar. Beyond that the area opened into an airstrip. The landing lights were all lit. Mrs. O’Callaghan’s plane would be arriving soon. There were several vehicles parked near the buildings. There was an ambulance, a jeep, a tow-truck, and a fire truck as well as a couple of pick-up trucks, and a semi trailer and truck. A single light shone above the door to the communications building. A very large black man stood in the pool of light watching their approach. James pulled up next to him, and he leaned down to open the door for Sir Michael. He wore a heavy leather belt with a gun in a holster. His leather jacket shone in the light. His teeth flashed very white against his smooth black face as he smiled in welcome. It was cool and there was a slight mist in the air. It had rained earlier as evidenced by pools of water on the ground. Now, the air was so moist, one could almost see it.

No-one spoke. What could they say? Thomas was dead, and it would be a sad homecoming for Mrs. O’Callahan. James and Paul stood outside near the car. Sir Michael went inside. He took off his long rain coat and draped it over the back of an empty chair in front of the communications console. At the other chair sat a young man with long dark curly hair that seemed to never have seen a comb or brush. He looked up from his monitor and pushed his glasses back onto his nose with one long index finger inquiringly.

“Take a walk, Billy.”

“Yes sir.” Billy stood up. It seemed to take a long time for him to unfold, and his rumpled clothes bagged over his frame.

When the door closed behind him, Sir Michael began to type on the keyboard. His fingers flew over the keys for several long minutes, and then he hit the “send” key. He sat back, lost in thought, going over every word and detail. Had he forgotten anything? He was tired. It wasn’t just the long day, and the anguish of Thomas’s death. The exhaustion went deep into his core. He knew his time was running short. There was so much to do. He thought of Elizabeth, and his heart lurched. It was going to be very hard to tell her that her son was dead. He sat slouched in his chair with his hand over his eyes for what seemed a very long time. Then the computer chimed as an email arrived in his inbox. He straightened, touched the keyboard, and read it.

It came from an obscure source known only as “CodeWord Haven”.

“All is in order.” was all it said.

Satisfied, he typed in a few words, and wiped all record of every keystroke using his own program. When he was finished, he powered the computer down, and restarted it, wiping everything from its memory. Paul opened the door.

“Sir, the plane is here.”

Sir Michael nodded, and rose slowly. When he stepped outside, the plane had taxied into position, and Paul and James were pushing the steps up to its side. First to step out was the co-pilot who held a hand out for Mrs. O’Callahan. She wore a long cream colored coat over the black business suit she had worn in Paris. Her red hair seemed almost black in the darkness, and flew around her in the wind. Her long legs flashed white as she stepped carefully in her high heels down the staircase behind the co-pilot. Sir Michael met her at the bottom, and she stepped into his arms. He was always surprised at how short she was. She always seemed to be six feet tall until you stood next to her. The top of her head barely came up to his shoulder. She stood back and looked into his eyes. He kept his hands on her shoulders as he shook his head. She sagged and he wound his arm around her waist. They leaned together as they stumbled to the car. James stood with the door open. In the car, she sobbed against his shoulder, and he clung to her with all his strength.

As the car’s headlights shone up the pathway to the main house, Elizabeth and Sir Michael were oblivious to anything around them. When the car came to a halt, Sir Michael pulled a clean linen handkerchief from his inside coat pocket and handed it to Elizabeth. She wiped her nose and sniffed loudly as she choked back her sobs. Sir Michael wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, and swallowed hard. When James swung the car door open, they ducked their heads, and hurried up the stone steps into the main house. Sir Michael kept one arm protectively across her shoulders. They disappeared into the ornate elevator and whooshed silently up to their third floor penthouse.

DragonSpell - Chapter One

David Finds a Solution

The day started off calmly enough. David and Marlini spent the morning bent over the crystal ball upstairs in the laboratory. Marlini was wont to tipple a little more than was wise for a wizard ever since David’s mother died. David could smell the sweet aroma of tobacco and brandy. He bore watching, but this seemed a harmless pursuit.

Marlini paused to drink from his chalice, and looked at it disgusted. “Empty,” he said.

David said “I’ll get some more,” and left the room.

He was only gone a few minutes, but when he returned Poof, the dragon of the moat, had stuck his head in the window, and Marlini was doing an incantation. He was at the part about

“. . . marshalling all the ethers of the willow” but he said with a slight slur to his voice “. . . marshmallow all the withers . . .”

David yelled “No!” but it was too late. Marlini struck Poof on the nose.

David took Marlini by the arm and locked him in his chamber. Poof now spewed Marshmallow crème instead of fire every time someone approached the castle.

“Oh, dis is just wunnerful. Cad I hab by code back?” said Poof through the marshmallow crème clinging to his snout.

Preparations for a victory dinner brought many wagons laden with beer, food, wine, musicians, and other sundries. Every time one approached, the dragon couldn’t help himself. He breathed out marshmallow crème. By afternoon, the moat was covered with a sticky white substance.

“Oh, boy, just wait until Princess Penelope gets home” thought David.

He dreaded what she might do. He scooped up a beaker of the stuff and took it up to his turret and put it on the table. He would think of something. He had to. He was Princess Penelope’s Prime Minister. It was his job to see that things ran smoothly. He paced the floor far into the night, but could not think of a solution. David heard the call of the stallion, Solarius, ring out across the meadow. The drawbridge was down, and the torches were lit. He heard the horse’s hooves thunder across the bridge and he ran to the courtyard. Princess Penelope in her armor, her helmet topped with a white plume sat there astride the golden stallion. David reached out to help her dismount. His hands trembled as they encircled her waist.

James, the groom, appeared. “Princess, it’s good to see you home. David was worried.”

He led the stallion away. Penelope removed her helmet and shook out her long, dark hair. Then she headed for the main hall. David stood still for a second, and then he followed matching strides with her. He put his arm across her shoulders.

“Penny, “He whispered into her ear. ‘I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too, David. I can’t wait to get out of these smelly clothes. All I want to do is take a nice hot bath. I'm starved. Do you suppose the cook has anything left in the kitchen? Those legionnaires will be home tomorrow. You had better tell Chef Murphy to roast a few beasts."

“It’s all under control” he said, feeling anything but under control.

He did not want to tell her about Marlini, but he knew if she found out on her own, it would be very bad, very bad, indeed.

“Penelope. . .”

She looked at him. “Yes?”

“Well . . .” He paused to take a breath. “Well, as you know, Poof has had a cold. He was having some difficulty getting his fire started, and was breathing out some very sulphurous smoke, stunk up the place pretty bad. So, Marlini. . . “

“He didn’t!” The Princess moaned.

“Yes, well I was out of the room and Poof stuck his head in Marlini’s window, and Marlini tried to do one of his spells, but he substituted marshmallow for marshal, and it seems Poof is now breathing great gobs of marshmallow crème every time anyone approaches the castle. The moat is - well, pretty sticky right now. I thought I would tell you before . . .”

The Princess pulled her sword from its scabbard and stomped towards the stairs to Marlini’s turret. David grasped her arm. “Really, Penelope, you’re tired. Maybe you should rest before you tackle Marlini.”

Princess Penelope shook off his arm, and continued up the staircase towards the turret, her sword in one hand, her steel helmet in the crook of the other. The white plume flounced behind her with every step. He couldn’t help but look at her rear end thus framed. David hurried after her.

"I've about had enough of this mindless wizard. I think I'll lop off his head." She swung her sword as she spoke. David ducked to avoid being smote.

"For heavens sake, Penelope, he can't help it. He's an old man."

"Well, that old man has caused enough havoc in Sunshine Castle."

"But, but . . ."

Penelope paused on the staircase, and turned towards David. "Look.” She pointed the sword at his chest. He backed down the steps to avoid being impaled. Penelope advanced jabbing at his chest which was fortunately clad in a thick leather vest, punctuating each sentence with its tip.

"I just rode a hundred miles to get home from a war. I spent the last month with one hundred and fifty legionnaires and General Bluenose. You’re right. I’m too tired for this”

She put her sword in its scabbard, pushed David aside, and marched past him down the stairs.

"Tell Hildy I want a bath." She said over her shoulder.

David followed. He knocked on the door next to Penelope’s room.

“Hildy, wake up. The Princess is home.”

Hildy opened the door. Her blonde hair flew in all directions. Through her nightgown her bosom, and more were plain to see but she seemed oblivious to David’s look.

“No need to wake the entire castle. I heard the horses screaming in the meadow. I figured it was her. I’ll be right there.”

She slammed the door in his face. She re-emerged a moment later wrapped in a robe. He helped her carry water to fill Penelope’s tub. He left when the two women began to talk. He hummed to himself as he walked down the hall to the kitchen. He returned carrying a tray with cold chicken and fruit, a mug of warm grog, and a bottle of wine, and Hildy left. Penelope was wrapped in a blue silk robe, her dark hair cascading down her back. He set the tray on the white bear rug in front of the fire and they sat there together their heads inches apart. Penelope told him of her travels.

“. . . and so the war went well. I and the legionnaires drove the Earl of Hermitville and all his troops out of the Land of Sunshine.” After a pause she said “what will we do about Marlini?”

David held her to his chest and stroked her hair. “I don’t know” he said.

After he tucked her into bed and kissed her forehead, he headed straight for his private turret. Immediately he checked the beaker. The marshmallow crème had dried and formed a crust. Underneath was a golden liquid. Also, the marshmallow was reduced to half its former volume. He removed the skin and was greeted with an alcohol aroma. He took a small sip of the brew. He raised his eyebrows. Potent, he realized. Of course, this must be full of sugars. That would make for some very strong drink, he thought. He took a larger drink and smacked his lips.
He grabbed a bucket, and went down to the draw bridge. By now, the morning sun gleamed off the sticky white foam on the moat. As he lowered the bucket into it, he heard the dragon groan.

“Poof. How are you, my friend?”

“Ohhhhh, my head hurts.” Poof was covered in marshmallow crème. His pink scales were plastered against his sides. His long slender neck sagged in the middle, and he carried his head very low. “How will I ever get this stuff off if the moat is polluted? The fishes and crabs and crocodiles are suffering. They have all gathered on the other side near the dam. I fear it will not be long until the marshmallow suffocates them all. The ducks have flown to the lake.”

David said “I’ve got an idea. We’ll open the dam so they can escape into the lake, and then close it fast. If I do it right, it should work. Poof, can you tell them? I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

He put one finger on his chin. “Let’s see, one hundred fifty legionnaires . . . they will be thirsty. How long would it take them to drink all the marshmallow liquor in the moat?”
Poof shook his head and oozed off to the other side of the moat.

Going Out

Last night for the first time in weeks, I went out. I’ve been laid low by a nasty virus. I have been dragging myself each day to work, and home back to bed. (It’s not contagious.) I was tired of staying home and in need of some laughter. I decided to check out the new kitchen at the local watering hole which was closed for a very long time in bankruptcy due to incompetent management. The kitchen was opened last Thursday for the first time, and I wanted to sample the eats. Recently, some people from the neighborhood formed a consortium, bought the place, renovated it, rebuilt the defunct kitchen and hired many of the old staff members. It’s a bluesy sort of neighborhood bistro (The Northfield Roadhouse) with overtones of Cajun influences compliments of Chef Chris and the Nairobi Trio as well as the Witch Doctors, Mango pie, and several other local bands who play muted blues. The volume is deliberately turned down on their amplifiers so we can do what we came there for - to talk. The manager was wearing a black fedora, as were several other staff members. They looked so cool in their black shirts – like gangsters from the twenties with a modern flair. The main host, St. Pauli Tom (named after his favorite beer) is a 60’s kind of guy who has a perpetual grin on his face as if he has just played the most hilarious joke on life (which he has). Tom is famous for his parties, and the goal was to re-create the old place with new flavors. I think they have accomplished their goal. It is starting to be a “happening” place.


Murphy drove, and I was sitting next to him at the bar, sipping some gumbo when Murphy’s friend came in. I moved out of the way, and let him sit next to Murphy. I heard him say he was waiting for a long-haired blonde. Funny, I figured him for that kind of guy from the stories Murphy tells me of their drinking and womanizing together. He’s a confirmed bachelor, a gambler, a womanizer, and definitely not my sort of guy. The friend mumbled something about hating it when they’re late, and then grinned because, he obviously was going to wait. The games people play, I muttered back. The blond finally showed up. She’s a former friend of one of my good buddies, so I know about her a little. My good buddy is a very strong, funny, beautiful, smart woman married to a guy that I adore, and would immediately go for if he wasn’t already committed. The friend’s choice of women confirmed my impression of him. Murphy says the blond isn’t too bright, which suits his friend just fine. I already knew that about her, and the friend fell a few more notches on my respect-o-meter. Murphy wandered off.

Musicians from all over the area drop in to play. One came to sit next to me. He played some blues on his harmonica for a while. An interesting man, he’s about my age, but he’s pretty down at the heels. He’s a database designer who programs the old mainframes, and the work is drying up. He has to drive all the way to Cleveland to work, and comes home on week-ends. Perhaps I’ll see him again, perhaps not. I think you have to keep current, keep learning or else, you will get obsolete. Other friends came to fill Murphy’s empty stool one–by-one until I was surrounded. Rumors about a favorite bartender’s return next week were flying.

One of my favorite men came to sit with me and we talked about my writing. He’s one of my fans, and we think a lot alike. I’m plotting a book that has been lurking for a while that is based on the concept of time as spirals, not a flat line, and it plays with reality big-time. My character exists in the present and the past simultaneously since she is evolving into a shaman who exists in all times and places at once. In the transition, there is, of course, a love interest in his own spiral, and he is having trouble connecting with her. In their past spirals they are intertwined, but in the present one, their spirals only intersect tangentially. It’s complicated, and has a lot of imagery in it. I know where I want to go, but the danger is to fly too far too fast, and leave my readers behind. So, I welcomed a chance to talk about it with a mind that is as sharp as or sharper than mine, who could follow where I wanted to go without getting freaked out.

My lady friend, his wife, as always, wonders why a woman like me is alone, and I tell her, all the good men are taken after all, she has him. I tell her to take good care of him. I have eaten some Cajun gumbo, and some crab stuffed mushrooms, drank my two drinks – one before dinner, and one after. I am getting tired, and I want to go home. I go to look for Murphy who is being treated to a free beer by two cops who are winding down from their day, and who love Murphy because he has fixed them so many breakfasts, and told them so many bad jokes. It takes me a while to work my way across the room, because people along the way are friends, and each one has to hug me and ask me where have I been, and how I am and tell me their story. Murphy introduces me to the cops, one of whom was there the day Eddie died. Murphy goes out to warm up his car, comes back in, finishes his beer, and then we leave. It was a pleasant evening.

The only thing that nags a little at me is that the dumb blonde didn’t go home alone, and I did. I would not have chosen Murphy’s friend to go home with. I would have chosen a man like my friend’s husband, a man like my Eddie was who has loyalty, commitment, caring, tenderness, a smart man who would choose a strong, smart woman for his mate. I don’t know where to meet such men who aren’t already committed to someone. They are a prize, and their wives tend to hang on to them.