Chapter Twenty: Silence

Silence: create space, peace, and time to rest and recuperate from the noises and chattering outside…and inside your head.

Sam Killian enjoys the hard work of staying sober for the second extended time in his long career as a professional sot. Thirty days at a gentrified treatment center and he’s ready to change careers; he daydreams of becoming a lay preacher to the sick and weak, although he doesn’t hold The Gospel or The King James Version in high esteem. His Bible is The Blue Book, and Sam is a disciple. He also digs The Oxford Dictionary and Thesaurus, American Edition. His goal: memorize three new words each day. Crapulent, pixilated, and dipsomaniac are among the new words he passionately chooses to describe the old Sam, the Sam who lived on the outside, but was dead on the inside. The newly aware model burns with the fire of a resurrected alcoholic, but he knows the territory, knows the danger of viewing clouds behind rose-tinted glasses. Dark smoke covers pink clouds, as paper covers rock.
Playboy Magazine and the Moral Majority move on to hotter topics, but at least Sam receives a mention in Esquire’s Dubious Achievement Awards. Insurance covers the cost of reconstructing the beloved Firefly Restaurant, but Sam has no interest in maintaining ownership. Financially speaking, Sam knows a downtown restaurant owned by a chef of his caliber can’t survive without holding a liquor license, but he refuses to allow the demon lying dormant inside him to play in the Devil’s arena. The refurbished Firefly goes on the block. After much consideration and thoughtful meditation, Sam picks up the phone. “Mimi, hi this is Sam; how are you?”
Mimi considers hanging up, but curiosity gets the better of her. “Why are you calling?” Her tone is flat, her clear head suddenly full of static. Sam knows he can’t waste any time, and quickly breaks it down. “Mimi, I’m sober; I’ve been sober for one hundred forty-seven days.”
Mimi smiles, and Sam feels it through the phone. “Ah, Sam, that’s the best news I’ve heard lately. Congratulations!”
“Do you have time to meet me at the restaurant for a cup of coffee? I have a topic to discuss that may be of interest to you.” Mimi pauses. “Sam, I don’t think my attorney would consider that a smart move.”
“I understand, but I have a compromise that may put this entire lawsuit behind us; at least that’s my intention.” Fool me once, Mimi thinks. “Can you just tell me over the phone?”
“I’d rather see you in person; I owe you a lot, and I want to look at you when I tell you what I’m thinking. Please, I won’t keep you long.” Sam pauses long enough to give Mimi time to sort through her emotions, and hears her sigh before answering. “Will you make me a pot of decaf, and breakfast? Shrimp and grits?”
“Sure,” Sam says, laughing. “Some things never change, do they, old partner? Can you come now?” Mimi hears a renewed sense of purpose in Sam’s voice, and it enthralls her. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes, how’s that?”
“Perfect. I’ll be in the kitchen, so come to the front door.”

The Firefly and The Phoenix sell for $465,000, including the entire inventory except the road weary, battery-powered Velvet Elvis clock that has traveled with Sam from town to town, restaurant to restaurant, for fourteen years; the deal seals an hour before Sam calls Mimi. After cleaning up borrower’s debt and turning over a liability-free operation to the new owners, effective one week from today, Sam’s take is a guaranteed $378,000 and change. And he wants to share. “Mimi, I know your half from me won’t amount to $250,000, but if you continue with this lawsuit you won’t get that anyway because your attorney gets, what, half of that or more?”
Mimi cautiously protects her hand. “It may be close enough if we can work this out,” she says.
“I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make it fair for you. If I could buy Planet Earth and serve it up to you on a silver platter, woman, I’d do it; you deserve the best for putting up with all the shit I dished out.” Mimi looks around at her memories – pictures of past employees hanging on the wall near the kitchen, the unique hand-painted wine cabinets, art framed by her own hand. The place looks clean and cozy, and filled with old, bittersweet love. She is overwhelmed and can’t speak. “It’s true, Mimi,” Sam says quietly from across the table. “I apologize, but that’s not enough. What I’d like to do is give you half of the revenue from the sale of The Firefly, free and clear. Now, I know your attorney will expect something. I talked to Drew this morning and he thinks I’m crazy, but I want to pay your attorney fee. Drew will call Jim Morris as soon as I have your blessing, and I’ll cut Jim a check next week.”
Mimi raises her coffee cup halfway to her lips, but her trembling hand doesn’t make a connection; she slowly puts it down and looks at Sam’s smiling face. Mimi is confused, and not for the first time; repetitive experience with confusion does not an expert make. Mimi doesn’t smile back. “I don’t know what to say, Sam. I’m flabbergasted.”
“How does $189,000 sound to you? Can you live with that?”
“Is this a joke? If this is a joke, Sam, it’s a really bad one.”
“This is the truest thing I’ve said to you since the first day I told you I love you. That, by the way, hasn’t changed,” Sam says to a still-doubting Mimi. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to take me back; I know you’ve moved on. But, this is the one way I can show you what your love meant to me.” Sam leans back in his chair and studies the ceiling before beginning again. “I want to make it right between us, to do something I’m proud of, for you. I know you don’t trust Drew, but he’ll draw up an agreement and all you have to do is sign it. And he’ll make sure that Jim Morris signs it, too. Then, the money’s yours, without any holds or stipulations. Will you agree to that?”
“Oh, Sam. Sam Sam Sam Sam.” Mimi’s head bobs and shakes – first no, then yes. But there is only one right answer. She looks straight into Sam’s clear eyes, and sees his heart expanding. “Yes, yes, Sam, I’ll agree to that.” Sam grins and pounds his fist on the table. “Well, good; I was beginning to worry about you. Eat your breakfast now before it gets cold. I’ll call Drew and we’ll get the ball rolling.” Sam takes Mimi’s free hand and kisses it. “See, Mimi, sometimes even a crapulent drunkard is lucky enough to have an angel with a sober head for business sitting on his shoulder.”
At Mimi’s direction, Jim Morris begrudgingly drops the lawsuit against Sam Killian and accepts a $50,000 payout, but rewrites his future contracts to state that, if a case of this nature is dropped, regardless of circumstance, the disappointing client with whom he wasted so much precious time must pay him a minimum of one half the original agreed upon value of the suit. Crap shooting is not Jim’s idea of a good investment, but presenting $10,000 to his wife on her fiftieth birthday buys Jim three weeks of uninterrupted playtime with his new thirty-year-old secretary while his lovely, but somewhat chubby and clueless missus enjoys an extended-stay, all-inclusive trip to an Arizona health spa. Jim, a moderate conservative, always chooses the sure bet.
The media stalkers quickly tire of all things Sam and Mimi; there’s no story left. It’s just another partnership gone wrong, and there are plenty of other couples with more dysfunctional profundities to follow. Old news, Mimi and Sam. Only the former employees of The Firefly speak of them with occasional sentimentality, and Melvin writes a blues tune in Sam’s honor that receives a few weeks of local airplay before falling into obscurity; he calls it Fire Starter Blues.

My woman was a hot firestorm
My woman was a hot firestorm
The world caught fire when she was born

Lightning is her middle name
Lightning is her middle name
She strikes the ground and causes pain

Buried deep within my soul
Yeah, buried deep within my soul
A black heart roams, can find no home

Whiskey is my lightning rod
Whiskey is my lightning rod
When lightning strikes, my heart turns cold

Jake plays his last local gig at The Phoenix during a driving rainstorm; Odessa is the featured vocalist, and just before Midnight she announces to the standing room only crowd that she and Jake leave in two weeks for a second European tour together. “Wish us luck,” she says, “we’ll be recording live shows from Amsterdam to the Black Sea Jazz Festival. But, we’ll be back in six months and believe me, we’ll make The Phoenix our first stop - this place is home base. Hit it, guys!” Odessa shouts, and the crowd goes wild as the band kicks into Watermelon Man.
But the fourth set bookmarks the last time Jake ever plays at The Phoenix. New owners believe a karaoke machine is a less expensive investment than a live quartet, and a DJ spinning beach music on weekends draws a mighty thirsty and hungry crowd. Thank you, goodnight, and God bless.
Mimi’s bank account gestates a big wad of cash, money round and pregnant with opportunity. Soon, she buys the little cottage with the deep front porch at the end of Jenkins Bottom Road and twenty adjoining acres, including a small, old growth apple orchard and a six acre pasture bordered by a meandering stream. Big hardwood trees and clean forest surround her cozy hideaway on all sides, and in the early evening, in the pink light of the setting sun, whitetail deer munch their way through the orchard and stop to drink peacefully, watchfully, before bedding down in the lush safety of tall grass. Every night before bedtime, Ben, dog of Buddha nature, barks to the east of him, to the north of him, to the west of him, to the south of him, offering up a late night lunar salutation and prayer for Mimi’s protection, for the continued companionship of his beautiful redheaded girlfriend, and for the safety of the deer. Ben is otherworldly; even the shy deer recognize him as a totem guide and have no fear as he patrols the perimeter.
Mimi and Jake spend hours walking the farm, naming the trees, talking. Not always though, sometimes eavesdropping instead on the conversations of wind and hawks, of flowing streams and shifting sand. On this particular day, Mimi and Jake remember the past and envision the future, with feet firmly grounded in the present. They sit in the orchard under a favorite tree, shoulder to shoulder, and Jake feels Mimi’s vibration. He must speak these words to her out loud before the moment passes. “Mimi, I love you; there is no other person in my life who has ever given me so much of themselves. You are one hundred percent love and truth – sometimes so much it scares me. I can never match you, nobody can.”
Mimi turns to Jake with questions in her eyes; she is on point. “Where is this going, Jake? You’re scaring me.” She turns her head to the ground and traces a tree root with her brown leather Redwing boots, then lifts a little wood spider from her pants and places it in the grass beside her.
Jake smiles; that simple gesture explains so much about Mimi. With his gentle hand, he palms her chin and turns her face to his. “No, listen to me. You were born special and the rest of us pale in your light. I think that’s why Sam tried so hard to take you down. You intimidated him without even knowing it, just like you intimidate me sometimes.” Mimi takes a deep breath and centers herself; she waits for something, but she doesn’t know what it is. She remains quiet for once while Jake gathers his strength to continue. “Stick with me here,” he says. “I’m not suggesting you change one silly millimeter of yourself. It’s just, well; all that honesty is very hard to match regardless of how hard the rest of us try.” Jake pauses before making his next statement. He looks away, sighs, and turns back to meet Mimi’s liquid hazel eyes. “You know, I never told you about the woman I slept with in Barcelona.”
“You didn’t have to, Jake.” Mimi stands up, stretches, and extends both hands to Jake. Sitting down through this conversation begins to feel way too heavy; he grabs them and she leans back, using his rising weight as ballast. They are a balancing act now, walking an emotional tightrope with the deftness and grace of the Flying Wallendas. “But you knew, didn’t you?” Jake asks, knowing the answer.
“Sure I knew,” Mimi says. Jake shakes his head. “See, how in the hell do you do that? How do women know these things?”
“We’re born with built-in shit detectors.” Mimi laughs and releases Jake’s hands. They turn toward the mossy path and slowly head toward home. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t know these things, and many times I’ve ignored the obvious, especially with Sam. I’ve had many opportunities to really open my eyes and view the truth up close, but sometimes I choose to shut them. With you, it’s different.”
Mimi stills her mind and lifts her eyes to the blue sky. She searches for the right words in the white mottled clouds overhead; clouds sometimes hold messages for her. Retaining a childlike fascination for messages in clouds has always helped soften Mimi’s hard-edged words. She speaks slowly, with kindness. “I see you clearly, and what I see is a man who loves me, but loves his music more. My eyes are open this time.” She takes Jake’s hand as they negotiate the flat creek rocks. Safely on the other side, she urges him to be patient while she gathers her thoughts. “Your music is the most precious thing about you. You are music; without it, you’d be dead. I’ll never be a jealous mistress to your muse. But, I’m also familiar with the lifestyle of single, handsome and sexy piano players. I watched you for five years, watched you interact with hundreds of women who would gladly have given up a body part just to have you fondle them one time.”
“Yeah, but I had my eyes on you, dear.” Jake’s dimples are deep enough to swim in; Mimi takes a dive. “The heck you say! You hid it very well.”
“Sam’s bigger than me, Mimi; he would have crushed me like a bug. You know, Julie had it figured out long before I did. She used to throw your name around every single time we had a fight.”
“I’m so sorry about that; I had no idea.” Jake extends his hand and helps Mimi climb over the split rail fence separating the deer pasture from the cottage. They are silent in their approach to the front porch, allowing space for Jake’s next thought to form. “Julie and I had a great run, or so I thought, for about four years. Double those years, you’ll have the sum total of the time we were a miserable duo. She was jealous, and couldn’t stand that music came first for me. She loved the doctor and hated the musician. That was my fault; I’ll never be a good husband to any woman.”
“I don’t want to marry you.” Mimi says this in the sweetest of ways; her words taste of freedom and commitment, all baked into one beautiful tart. Jake throws back his head and guffaws as he opens the front door. “Whew, glad that’s out of the way. You sure about that?”
“I’m sure. Sitting around wondering who you’re wrapping your legs around in Barcelona is not my idea of a healthy way to live.”
“You can always go with me,” Jake says, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a pitcher of hummingbird tea. Mimi grabs two artful glasses from her cabinet, fills them with crushed ice, and Jake fills them with the bright red liquid. “What do you think of that?” Mimi smiles at Jake’s question; he already knows. “My focus is building a nice little barn and round pen so I can bring Cajun here and find a buddy for him. I’m happy staying on the farm with Ben and Molly. But maybe when you and Odessa pick up a few days of rest, I’ll meet you at the big sand castle, or maybe Amsterdam.” Thinking of Jake’s travels reminds her of a certain gift he mailed. “Hey, what about that toothpaste? Should we brush our teeth with your special anti-cavity solution? No, wait. We can’t do that; it’s two o’clock in the afternoon. Can we?” Jake grins and heads to the sock drawer to retrieve his illicit goods. “It’s dark somewhere, and believe me, it doesn’t have to be dark in Amsterdam for the coffeehouses to be filled with smokers. Let’s do it!” Tube in hand, Jake digs in his shaving kit for a scalpel, then deftly performs delicate surgery as Mimi stands by, engrossed in the operation. She’s not quite sure what Jake’s holding, but it looks like a straw. “How’d that get in the toothpaste?”
“My friend Peter taught me a trick,” Jake says as he wipes the cylinder clean and carefully opens one end. “That’s some gooey toothpaste you have there, Doctor,” Mimi says. “Is it hash?”
“Yep,” says Jake. “And this, my dear, is a hash pipe. Got a light?” Mimi takes a small and gentle toke, holding it for a split second before releasing. She coughs a little, and her head immediately begins to buzz in a most delightful way. “Well, Jake, this is a fine treat,” she says, and moving to her CD collection, chooses Mozart. “It came from the Bluebird,” Jake says, “my favorite of all coffeehouses. I’ll bring home a menu next trip; you won’t believe it. Plus, they serve the best apple pie and ice cream I’ve ever tasted.” Jake fills his lungs with a generous hit of the sweet-smelling smoke, and hands the pipe back to Mimi, who studies it before carefully drawing once more. “Jake, guess what?”
“What?” Jake takes one more rolling hit before placing the pipe back in its hidey hole, along with the illicit black tar. Mimi giggles. “I’m really high; wait a minute. What did I just say?”
“I’m guessing something.” Jake closes his eyes and grooves on his altered brainwaves. “What are we talking about?” The Dance of the Mad Hatter begins in earnest. “Apple pie and ice cream,” answers Mimi. “Oh yeah, I made a treat for us, but you’ll have to wait a minute because my brain tickles and it feels so good.” She floats to the kitchen, laughing so hard she has to stop at the kitchen’s threshold and find her breath. Jake’s brain is dinging with happiness. “Mimi, you’re spizak to the mizzu. Dang, woman, you’re a cheap date.” Jake laughs deeply and his brain hums like a banjo frog.
“Apple pie and ice cream would be good, but we don’t have any.” Mimi makes her way to the oven, and as she opens it, the aroma of late summer wafts across the room. Jake’s prone on the heart pine floor, watching the ceiling fan circling, circling, circling; his stomach does a back flip as the scent of blackberry cobbler sneaks through the doorway. Mimi finds two spoons, secures a carton of French vanilla ice cream from the freezer, and slides to the kitchen floor with a pan of warm cobbler cradled on her lap. “If you want some of this, you’ll have to crawl on over here; I’m not moving.” Time stands still and time marches on, but Jake and Mimi are lost in the moment. The cobbler is warm and the ice cream melts, and then the cobbler is gone, all gone, even the crust around the edges is gone.
Molly and Ben share the vanilla puddle and lick the last of the goo from the sticky faces of their giggling, satiated masters. Jake and Mimi eventually make their way to the bathroom, wash up while kneeling by the tub because it just makes sense, then fall into a down-covered bed and dream in color until the deer bed down as Ben salutes the moon.

…

While music is not his passion, Sam, ever the savvy businessman, buys an established family restaurant down a dusty dirt road, a great-grandfathered farmhouse offering one unisex bathroom on the porch, a small but acoustically sound opera room, and two rusted out 1941 Chevy trucks in the front yard. Petunias grow in whitewashed tractor tires, and a granny butt directs traffic to the graveled parking lot near a small, but well stocked fishing pond. Thursday through Saturday, the Red Clay Ramblers play bluegrass as throngs emerge from a fifty mile radius to eat catfish, barbeque chicken and tender ribs accompanied by plenty of red cabbage slaw, cornbread or biscuits and ice tea thick with sugar, served family style for eight dollars a person, children under five free. The experience isn’t complete for the wait staff unless a city customer hears the call of nature, and asks, somewhat hurriedly, the following question: “Ma’am, where’s the bathroom?”
“Honey, go down this hallway here, turn right at the side door, and follow the porch to the end. Just hold the handle down for a count of three when you flush; our water pressure’s a bit low during the summer. That old hound dog down there? He don’t bite. Here,” she says, reaching into her apron pouch, “take him a piece a’ this here meat. His name’s Johnny; that’s because he showed up one day thinkin’ we needed a guard at the bathroom, and he never left. Just make sure the door closes behind you when you leave because Johnny likes to drink from the bowl.”
In the kitchen, working and sweating at Sam’s side, are two apt cooks: a boyish-looking man with a deformed ear, and a hippie who speaks in two word sentences. Watching over the three amigos is the one and only Velvet Elvis wearing a smile of understanding, a look of holy redemption, quietly ticking away the hours, then the minutes, until closing. After the band breaks down at ten p.m. on Saturday night, after all sated guests have flat-footed to the car and followed granny’s butt to the main road, Johnny leaves his perch by the bathroom and escorts Sam, Warren and the Hippie to the fishing pond, anxiously awaiting his treat of two fried bologna sandwiches thick with greasy mayonnaise. Even Johnny knows that catfish sometimes strike best when offered slick bait in the silence of a still moonlit night.

A short hour’s drive away in an apple orchard off Jenkins Bottom Road, Jake and Mimi view the same full moon. “I’m missing you already, Jake. Tomorrow comes too soon, doesn’t it?”
“Tomorrow is today, Mimi; can you believe it? I’ll miss you, dear woman; you are my heart.” Mimi settles into the crook of Jake’s neck. “What are you going to miss the most?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Jake says. “Everything. The way you spread mayonnaise on a tomato sandwich, with wild abandon, all the way to the corners. Or maybe the way you brush your teeth and dance at the same time. No, I’ll miss you in the mornings the most, that time before you’re completely awake, when you tell me your dreams. You have the most vivid dreams of anyone I know.” Jake hugs Mimi closer. “Look up; look at the stars. Now is the time we write a song from a star chart. How does the sky sound to you tonight? Do you see a pattern of notes?” Mimi gazes for a moment, then hums a few bars. “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. That’s what it looks like to me.”
“That’s because you were raised Baptist.”
“Sing me a song, Jake. Vocalize the sky for me.” The purest gift of love pours from the stars into Jake’s heart, and his heart is flush with music, not created by the dust from the stars, but from the essence, the birth, the beginning, the very moment of heavenly star creation, and it fills him. As he sings he watches the stars turn from white to red and he knows Julie guides his voice, but Mimi is the open vessel receiving all the stars she can capture and release; she is bathing in a galactic downpour of star energy, naked but for star essence, visible to all souls eternally born and reborn. A star shower rains pure love from the fourth dimension. The apples glow with star essence, and the coyotes’ eyes beam red across the meadow as if mesmerized by a heavenly cadence.
The silence is deafening.

THE END
PL Byrd, March 15, 2010

Chapter Nineteen: Identification

Identification: one has a tendency to move toward that which one identifies, regardless of the positive or negative nature…sometimes it’s better to sit still.

Jake’s plane arrives late, but nobody is expecting him. He takes the shuttle to a downtown hotel and check in for the night, first floor room, no stairs, and no elevator. A hot shower first, then room service, then, considering his next move – it’s close to Midnight, but what the hell – he calls Mimi and gets her answering machine. “Hello, my favorite farm girl. Sure would like to hear your real voice; you walking the dogs, or sleeping?”
Mimi isn’t inclined to welcome another surprise today, regardless of the magnificent award hidden behind Door Number One. But Jake’s voice is soothing balm to her raw nerves; she picks up the receiver in mid-message. “Jake! Where are you?” Jake relaxes into the familiar voice, but intuits an edge. “Marriott, downtown.”
Mimi gapes and runs her hand through her already tousled hair, forcing it to stand on end. “What town? This town?”
“Yep,” says Jake. “I’m home. Well, actually, I’m homeless, remember?” Mimi pauses, and grins. “Oh, yeah, that’s right; dogless, too. I’m sorry to break it to you over the phone, “she states, “but Molly and Ben are married; she’s part of the family now.”
Jake loves the easy banter and smiles into the phone. His light shines through the wire and infuses Mimi’s weary spirit. “Didn’t she miss me at all?”
“Nope.”
“What about the old adage, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder?'”
“Absence makes the heart forget, Jake.” Mimi sighs into the phone.
“Did you forget about me too, Mimi?”
“Yes, as soon as the chocolates were gone.”
“What if I told you that I have a box of Zen orange peels in my suitcase?”
“I’d think you were bribing me to come downtown and pick you up.”
“Are you extending an invitation?”
“Are you looking for one?” They pause, and consider their options. Jake speaks first. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you pack a little bag and come spend the night with me?” Well, it’s out there, Jake thinks. “But, only if you want to.” Mimi and Jake stop breathing at the same time. After some quick pondering, Mimi hurries to the bathroom and throws toiletries into an overnight bag. “Oh, I want to; you have Zen treats.”
“How long will it take you to get here?” Mimi shifts the phone to her shoulder, freeing both hands to struggle with the bag’s stuck zipper. “Give me forty-five minutes, unless you don’t mind me strolling through the lobby in my pajamas.”
Jake laughs. “I’m sure you can pull that off.”
“Listen, I’m wound a little tight right now. Have you been home long enough to see the news? Probably not.” Mimi’s used to answering her own questions. “I’ll explain when I see you. Can we go for a little walk downtown tonight? There’s something we might want to check out.” Ooh, that was selfish, Mimi thinks, and quickly adds a disclaimer. “We can wait until tomorrow if you’re too tired.”
“A walk would be great,” responds Jake. “The spring in my back needs to be sprung. I’ll throw on some shoes and meet you in the bar. Just come on, woman; you’re wasting time.”
Mimi secures the dogs, and closes and locks the gate at the end of the driveway, something she’s never felt the need to do before tonight.

Like old friends, Mimi and Jake hug, then carry the play to first base; hold the kiss, release the kiss, laugh, and then kiss again and again until the bartender blushes. He picks up Jake’s room key and dangles it in front of his face as the octogenarian couple in the corner bursts into applause. Now it’s Mimi’s turn to blush.
It’s a short walk, only four blocks, from the Marriott to The Firefly. Vans bearing the call letters from every local and regional television station, a posse of talking heads jockeying for position, and Sam Killian, his red nose shining brightly for the cameras, overtake the street as policemen direct slow-moving gawkers away from the blackened building. Jake is stunned. “Damn, when did this happen? What the heck?” Mimi takes Jake’s hand and abruptly turns around. “Let’s not get any closer; I don’t want to be seen here.” She spins with the agility of a gazelle avoiding a pride of hungry lions. Jake matches her stride. “I have an idea,” he says. “Where’s your car?”
“In the deck across the street from the hotel. Yeah, yeah,” she says, reading Jake’s mind in mid-thought. “The top of the parking deck! Bet the view’s spectacular from there; I even have binoculars!” Mimi and Jake stand at the precipice and watch the loud, miasmic catastrophe as it unfolds below them; it looks like a scene straight out of El Bosco’s Hell. “What’s with the cross? Look, there’s a group carrying Bibles. There’s the John 3:16 guy! This is big-time, Mimi; apparently I’ve missed something almost as mind-blowing as Sam’s ego.”
As they view the scene from the safety of a six story buffer, Mimi tells Jake the story; rife with tension, flush with humor, she speaks for a solid hour, leaving nothing out, and Jake is riveted until she is empty of words. They silently walk back to the hotel where a hot, steamy shower relaxes the spring from two tightly wound bodies. And after that, Mimi and Jake gently coax each other into oblivion, eyes locked.
The drama on the street, however, boils in a pressure cooker, in scalding steam, in hellfire and brimstone. Sam, dressed in chef pants and a stained Firefly tee-shirt, smiles for the cameras as six microphones are shoved toward his calm, vodka-sodden lips. “Sam, Sam! Do you know the young man who did this?” Sam shrugs nonchalantly for the crowd. “Yeah, I know him. His name’s Warren Hanover, and he used to work for me.”
“What was his motive? Will you press charges?”
Sam looks directly at the camera and winks. “That’s between me and Warren. I’m not sure he acted alone. At this point, he’s under heavy sedation at the hospital because of a gunshot wound to the head. I haven’t had a chance to talk to the young man.”
Reporters jockey for position. “Any idea who else may have been involved?” Sam puffs up and, serious about his air time, turns in profile. “Yeah, I have ideas, but my attorney has advised me not to discuss that publicly at this time. However, I will say that my ex-wife was with Warren right before he was shot.” More jockeying – a bit of shoving – it’s a rather big story, and competition is stiff. “Do you think she shot him, Sam?”
“All will be known in due time, folks. She’s a loose cannon, so it’s not out of the question.” Sam practically bows as he bids his farewell. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day.”
“Just one more question, Sam, please.”
“Okay, young lady, for you, gladly.”
“When do you expect to reopen The Firefly? You have quite a following here.”
“The damage was mostly in the front lobby and dining areas. We’ll take stock of that damage tomorrow and keep you apprised of the situation. Now, goodnight, and thank you.”
“A tough situation for the happy hour crowd,” reports the young lady with the microphone. “Now, let’s go back to the studio where Angie will give us an update on tomorrow’s weather.” Cut.

After an unusually pickup-free weekend watching younger, thinner women dance with her regular partners, after smoking the better part of two packs of cigarettes while standing at the bar with Betsy for four hours, after drinking six very rich and creamy Nutty Monkeys, and after eating two heaping platefuls of gravy, biscuits, bacon and eggs, Julie’s heart skips one too many beats. Betsy rides in the ambulance as Julie is transported from the Pelican to the emergency department of Sisters of Mercy Hospital, where Julie is not immediately recognized as an employee. “Are you a relative of the patient?”
“No, I’m her best friend.”
“Do you know how to reach her next of kin?”
Betsy is alarmed. “Is she out of the woods?”
The busy ED nurse shakes her head sympathetically at Betsy. “If she has any living relatives, they should be notified immediately.”
“Let me see what I can do,” Betsy says. “In the meantime, I’m right here; I’m not leaving her side, so consider me her next of kin, alright?”

Mimi, an early riser, retrieves a complimentary local paper from under the hotel room door. She stares at the headline in disbelief.

Local Restaurant Burns; Who to Blame?
Former Employee Faces Charges, Estranged Spouse Involved

The Firefly Restaurant, located at 462 South Hamilton Boulevard, was deliberately set on fire early yesterday morning, authorities determined. Jimmy Smith, Criminal Investigator for the Manassas County Police Department, stated that a homemade weapon of destruction known as a Molotov cocktail was thrown through the front window of the Firefly and spread flaming gasoline throughout the lobby and bar area. Sam Killian, owner, believes he is the victim of a conspiracy involving a former disgruntled employee, Warren Hanover, and Killian’s ex-wife, Mimi Lewis Killian. “The details are shaky at this point,” Mr. Killian admitted. “The authorities say they got a confession from Warren. I know for a fact that Mimi and Warren were in close proximity yesterday shortly after the fire. I haven’t spoken with either of them personally. Warren was shot and my ex-wife was there and was questioned by the police.”
Local 911 received a distress call at 9:07am yesterday morning from a woman later identified as Mimi Killian who said that someone had just been shot at Double Tree Farm located off of Jenkins Bottom Road, where Ms. Killian is currently employed. The police report states that Hanover, scared and confused, accidentally shot himself in the ear after confessing his act of arson to Ms. Killian. A source close to Ms. Killian said that Hanover was distraught when Ms. Killian refused to cover up his criminal act.
“Remember, Warren was unconscious and on his way to the hospital while the police interviewed Mimi,” cautioned Sam Killian. “I want to hear his side of the story before I jump to any conclusions.”
Killian gained national notoriety after being touted in major publications such as Playboy, Esquire, and Rolling Stone magazines as “The Vodka King.” His daily happy hours featuring discount vodka shots to alcoholics and his unique marketing techniques have drawn the wrath of the Moral Majority, as well as other religious groups. Killian’s first instinct was to place blame on a “Bible-waving fanatic who needed a drink.” However, no evidence has been found to support that theory.
Jim Morris, Ms. Killian’s attorney, issued this short statement: “Ms. Killian will be exonerated of all suspicion regarding this matter in short order. She was simply an innocent bystander who helped break the case. Sam Killian owes her a public apology, at the very least, and believe me, he may owe her more.”
Ms. Killian was unavailable for comment.

...

Mimi gently awakens Jake with a kiss on the nose and a gentle head massage. He stirs, sits up, and yawns, then pulls her on top of him. She playfully tweaks his nose and shoves the newspaper in his face. “Look at this, Jake. Look at this, can you believe it?”
“Wait a minute, let me wake up,” Jake says as he rolls Mimi to the floor. “Call room service and let’s get some coffee up here.”
“It’s on the way. Read!” Mimi drops the paper on Jake’s chest and begins pacing. “Unreal!” Mimi is unplugged and borderline manic. “I owe Jim Morris a call; he just saved me a heap of trouble.” Jake stretches, picks up the paper, and looks at Mimi quizzically. “Who’s Jim Morris again?”
“My divorce attorney, remember? I thought he was a schmuck, but I was wrong. Read the article while I get the door; coffee’s here.”
“My God! This headline! Shit, Mimi.” Jake jumps out of bed, pulls on his boxer, and heads to the bathroom. “Get on the phone with Jim now; we need to figure this out. You might need to go to the police station; they might be looking for you.”
“I guess Jim saw the news last night, to my benefit. He may have tried to call me at home; I better check my messages. We need to get back to the farm soon anyway and take care of the dogs.” Jake throws water on his face and starts dressing in last night’s clothes. “Okay, let’s do this,” he commands as Mimi hands him a cup of coffee with heavy cream. “I’ll check out while you bring the car around, then we’ll go to the farm and regroup.” Mimi shakes her head. “I don’t want you involved in this.”
Jake won’t hear of it. “I’ll fly under the radar; you need me because I have friends at the hospital, and you’ll need access to Warren.” Jake plays an ace.
“I really do want to check on him,” says Mimi, pulling a black tee-shirt over her braless torso. She ties her hair into a knot and pushes it through the back of a well-worn Life is Good baseball cap, and grabs her overnight bag.
“You’ll need a wing-man for a few days; do you mind a house guest?”
“Jake, of course not; please stay with me.” Mimi drops her bag and closes her eyes in thought. “Oh, shoot; I need to call David. What’s today? Monday? Yeah, it’s Monday.” She doesn’t need an answer from Jake which is good because he’s jet-lagging; she sorts out her thoughts without help. “I don’t work on Mondays.” She picks up her rough brown suede bag and swings it over her shoulder. “But I need to talk to David as soon as possible. Do you mind going to the barn with me today? You can meet my pal Cajun.”
“The four-legged man in your life?” David is important, Jake is more important, but Cajun is Mimi’s soul shine; Jake is smart enough to understand her passion. “Hey, he needs me,” says Mimi, smiling for the first time all morning. Her demeanor changes at the thought of Cajun; the stress leaves her face, and Jake sees a different level of beauty in her soft composure. He can’t help but tease her. “And I don’t?” Mimi tilts her head and looks Jake up and down. “You do for a minute; otherwise you’d be out on the streets playing a cheesy little keyboard for chump change.” They gulp the last ounce of lukewarm coffee and head for the lobby. “There’s an idea,” Jake says. “I’ll set up in front of The Firefly; it’ll be my last gig there. All my songs will have fire themes. I’ll open with You Light Up My Life.”
Mimi spins in the hall and grins. “Yeah, come on baby Light My Fire.”
“Serpentine Fire.” Jake and Mimi dance down around the corner into the lobby.
“Ring of Fire.” The laughter propels Mimi to the front door as Jake lobs another fast one in her direction. “Great Balls of Fire!” Mimi is laughing so hard she can barely see. “You’re funny, Jake.”
“Not as funny as you, Mimi.” Hotel employees and patrons miss the meaning of the inside joke, but catch the joyful spirit of the exchange. The early morning lobbyists look up and smile. “It’s a beautiful day,” Jake says as he joins the crowd at check-out.

A large sign is posted on the locked farm gate: Mimi Killian Press Conference, 10a.m., Double Tree Farm. “David’s been here," says Mimi. They gratefully unlock and enter the farm road without notice.
A ninety pound, four-legged redhead sprints to Jake as soon as she hears his deep, smoky voice. Molly’s massive black bodyguard barks once and joins in the high-spirited love fest after a moment of hesitation. “Ah, Molly, I didn’t desert you, girl,” Jake says as he scratches behind her ears. “Mimi says you didn’t miss me, but you missed me, didn’t you girl? I missed you. You sure you like that black boogieman better than me? I think Mimi lies.” Jake’s eyes fill with shameless, joyful tears and Molly and Ben take turns licking the salty treat from Jake’s happy face. It is in Jake’s nature to cry, and it's been a long time.
The phone is ringing incessantly; Mimi hears its infernally loud screech as she leaves the car, and two more calls come in before she enters the back door to the kitchen and picks up the receiver. It’s Jim Morris, Attorney. “Jim! I’m so glad it’s you! Thanks so much for watching my back. Whatever I owe you, I’m good for it. Just tell me how much.”
“Mimi, you owe me nothing. It’s gratis up to this point; that’s the least I can do for you. Sam spoke out of turn last night against his attorney’s advice, and I think you have a good case against him now.” Mimi’s brow furrows. “What kind of case, Jim?”
Jim takes a bite of a sausage biscuit and groans as mustard drips onto his pressed oxford shirt. He pours a diet Cheerwine on the stain, blots it with a paper napkin, and watches as it miraculously disappears. “We can start with slander and harassment and move on to emotional distress. Any judge will rule in your favor. How does $250,000 sound to you? I’ll take forty percent of that as my fee and you’ll get your nest egg back. We win, Sam loses.”
Mimi listens. “Well, it’s worth considering. That’s a huge wad of cash, and I could sure use it.”
“Why don’t you take a day to think about it? In the meantime, Mimi, don’t pick up the phone again, unless you have caller ID. Just let it ring, okay? Every reporter in the state is looking for an exclusive with you, and so is USA Today. Remember, you are not a suspect in this case, and as far as you’re concerned, it’s over until we take Sam to court. Really, the best thing you can do is make yourself unavailable. Go out of town for a few days.”
“I can’t do that, Jim. I have responsibilities; a job for one. Animals. A house guest. Not an option. But, I’ll lay low.”
Jim takes a sip of sugar, and his morning breakfast causes his gut to rumble. He puts his hand over the receiver and belches with the force of a geyser. “Mimi, listen. Reporters are going to swarm your house; I’m surprised they haven’t yet. If you can stand the hassle, stay home; if it gets to be too much, go on vacation, or hire a security guard to turn them away. Just let me know what you decide and I’ll get the ball rolling on your case.”
“I want to go to the hospital and see Warren, is that okay?” Jim narrows his eyes and lowers his voice. “Mimi, I advise against it. The press will be all over the place. And don’t call him, either. Look, just stay out of sight; that’s all you have to do right now besides promise to call me tomorrow morning.” Mimi is quiet for a moment as she ponders Jim’s advice before relenting. “What you’re saying makes sense,” she finally responds. Jim is relieved; this case is cake if Mimi follows his advice to the letter. “Promise you’ll call tomorrow?”
“Yes, I promise.”

Mimi listens to twenty-eight messages, five of which are from Sam.

10:45 p.m., Sunday: Mimi, if you had anything to do with this fire I swear I’ll have you thrown in jail quicker than you can find a hiding place. I know where you live, remember? You better stay in town because you’re in deep shit.

11:48p.m., Sunday: Mimi, I hope you watched the news tonight because I mentioned your name. Best of luck, bitch. You’re going down.

2:17a.m., Monday: Mimi? I’m shorry, I din’un mean taa, aaaah upshet ya.

2:18a.m., Monday: Mimi, aaah, pig up the phone. I godda talk to ya now. Mimi? Oh well, this ish Sam.

9:23a.m., Monday: Mimi, my attorney says I screwed up last night, and I want to apologize to you. I’ll make it right, just please understand how upset I am. I think I’ve finally reached bottom, and am heading to a meeting right now. Please, if you can, forgive me. I know how hard that might be. I know you didn’t have anything to do with the fire, and I know you didn’t shoot Warren. I’m just sorry you chose to have an affair instead of working things out with me, but that’s the way it goes sometimes. Say a prayer for me. I’ll be in touch, although Drew says for me not to contact you at all. If you can find it in your heart, please call me.

Three from David:

11:02p.m., Sunday: Mimi, are you watching the news? I’ll call back.

11:12p.m., Sunday: Mimi, are you there? I’m calling the paper right now. Your ex-husband is in serious trouble. But don’t worry because you aren’t.

7:03a.m., Monday: For the love of God, don’t come to the barn today. Your place was swarming with idiots when I woke up this morning. I threatened to have them all arrested for trespassing, but now they’re filming trees and horse shit here and waiting for your press conference. Just stay home, and don’t worry about Cajun. I’ll take good care of him. Call when you can.

Six from Jim, and fourteen messages from various reporters and producers representing local news station, Playboy Magazine, Jerry Springer, and one from a woman who says she is Warren Hanover’s mother, please call, he’s awake and asking to speak with Mimi. He’s in room 1412, Eastern General Hospital. Mimi picks up the phone, but Jake takes the receiver from Mimi’s hand, hangs it up, and puts his hand on her heart, a sweet move that stops her from getting mad, an old doctor trick that works every time. “Mimi, listen to Jim,” implores Jake. “He’s right; you can’t go to the hospital, but I can. Let me check on Warren for you. And unless Sam’s there, I doubt anyone will recognize me, except maybe Warren. I’m simply a doctor who needs to check on a patient. It’ll work; I know the nurses on his floor. They’ll be happy to grant me access to his chart and run interference so I can talk with him alone.” Makes sense, Mimi thinks. “Alright, yeah, that works for me.”
“In the meantime, stay in the house. Let the dogs out, but you stay put, you hear?”
Mimi taps her foot and adopts a slouchy posture. “Yes, Paw Paw, I’ll stay put. I’ll peel us some taters for supper and scrub some floors until you git back. Jess leave the shotgun loaded.” Her minor irritation at Jake’s edict passes in a blink. Jake makes the most of the fast-moving tension. “Bake me a cake while you’re at it, Mee Maw. I gotta button missin’ on my work britches, too, that needs sewin’.” Mimi laughs and relaxes. “That’s not the only thing that’ll be missing if you keep talking like that.” Jake kisses Mimi lightly on the lips, and touches her face. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, and I’ll call you from Warren’s room if he’s in any shape to talk to you. Don’t hold your breath, though; I’m not overly optimistic.”
Mimi hears a ruckus outside, peers out the window, and runs for the kitchen. “Jake, somebody’s on the porch!” Ben and Molly bolt out the door, barking ferociously. At Jake’s command, the hi-fi barking stops and changes to a lo-fi threatening growl. Four brown eyes watch every move as a frenzied reporter and cameraman freeze in mid-stride. Jake moves outside and shuts the door behind him. “They bite, be very still,” he says. “Bet you’re looking for Mimi Killian. Too bad you missed her; she left last night for Italy. I took her to the airport late yesterday afternoon, but she’ll be back in three weeks. I’m her house sitter. She planned this trip many weeks ago. I don’t know what she’s doing in Italy, working a wine apprenticeship or something like that, I think. As you read in the paper this morning, Ms. Killian’s attorney Jim Morris issued a statement on her behalf. That’s all I know. Ah, sorry about your pants, man. Luckily, dog urine doesn’t leave much of a stain.”
The two trespassers back away toward the parked TV van, carefully, quietly, slowly, as Ben’s yellow stream squishes a rhythmic escort in time with the cameraman’s alternate footfall.

The former Doctor Jake Reston walks confidently into Eastern General’s Employee entrance, purposefully avoiding extended conversation with ex-coworkers until he reaches the Recovery Unit of ICU. “Hey, my favorite Nurse Ratched. Give me a hug, you gorgeous broad! How are you, Cathy?”
“Better now that I’ve seen you, Dr. Reston. But, are you okay? I was so sorry to hear about Julie. How’s she doing? I hope she’ll be alright.” Jake freezes. “What about Julie?”
“Uh-oh, you don’t know?” Nurse Cathy grimaces at her mistake.
“I just got back in town last night. I’ve been in Europe for over three months; I don’t even know where Julie is.”
“Yeah, I heard you guys separated. She’s living near the coast somewhere, and had a heart attack a few days ago. They about lost her on the table.”
Jake is stunned. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“A friend is with her, somebody named Betsy, maybe? I think she called here looking for you. But, that’s all I know. No, wait a minute. Julie works at Sisters of Mercy; I bet we can find the number.”
“Track it down for me, will you? Do you mind? I have to see a patient, Warren Hanover in Room 1412.”
Cathy shakes her head. “That’s one lucky son of a gun, no pun intended; another skinny millimeter, and he would have checked out before he checked in.”
Jake can’t help but worry about Julie. “Cathy, will you look up Mercy’s number for me now? I’ll feel better when it’s in my hand.”
“Sure, hang on; I’m really sorry to spring this on you. I didn’t know you two hadn’t been in touch.”
“It’s alright, Cathy, you’re a baby doll.” Jake pauses to appraise Cathy’s new curves. “How much weight have you lost since I’ve been gone?”
“Eighteen pounds, Doc!” Chubby Nurse Cathy strikes a model’s pose and grins. Losing weight and gaining it back keeps Cathy busy in her spare time. “I leave and you go on a starvation diet,” Jake says as he pats her ample waistline. “You really look great. Good for you!”
“We stopped bringing homemade cookies to work when you left. The other doctors can eat the store-bought stuff, but you, Doctor Reston, well, you know we’re all in love with you. We bummed out when you resigned from this hellhole and deserted us; we’ve been too depressed to eat.”
“Cathy, you’re such a good bullshitter; no wonder the patients ask for you.”
“Learned it from the master,” says Cathy with a wink and a smile.
“Yeah, who might that be?”
“I’m looking at him.” Cathy hands Jake a slip of paper. “I found Betsy’s cell number, too. Let me know what else I can do.”
“You can keep a close eye on the kid, Cathy; he needs some of your TLC.” Jake nods to the guard posted outside room 1412. Warren, tanked on morphine, talks a delusional string of incoherent garble while Jake takes a look at his chart, and then turns his attention to the young patient. Warren looks small – Jake doesn’t remember him being so small. “Young brother, you are one lucky bastard, you know that?”

…

Melvin revs Jake’s car up and drops it at Mimi’s house, and within an hour after speaking with Betsy, Jake heads east northeast toward Mercy. Nothing surprises Mimi anymore; the man in the moon could ride a cow through Mimi’s front yard in broad daylight and she would process the vision as just another day in the life.
This day turns short for Julie Reston, however. Fifteen minutes before Jake walks into Sisters of Mercy Hospital, Julie wills her heart to shut down for business without giving final notice – but not before borrowing Betsy’s lipstick. It’s important for Julie to always look her best, and although the odds of losing twenty pounds in fifteen minutes are against her, you can bet by God that her face will be somewhat on. And while the surgical team cannot save her, they are amazed by the miniscule size of her heart, by the heaviness of something so small, by the lack of room in its tiny caverns. Julie’s heart is made of black ice and only death has the power to melt it. “Hey, check this out! Have you ever seen such a hypoplastic heart in an adult? And it’s black, like a piece of coal. But feel this thing; it has some heft to it. Oh shit, it’s melting! It’s going Wizard of Oz on me. Grab a camera, quick! Did you get it? Nobody’s gonna believe this. Hearts don’t really melt, do they? Astounding!”
Julie’s body is cremated, and Betsy, her only friend, her truest friend, and Jake, her estranged husband and unaccepted truest love, deliver her ashes – seven pounds of cold, chunky, heartless dust – to Julie’s grieving and confused parents, Mildred and Frank. Mildred wipes her red and swollen eyes with her cheery gingham apron. “What should we do with her ashes, Frank?”
“I don’t know, Mildred.” Frank wears the pants, but he doesn’t make decisions. Stoically, he pats his wife on the back – the only comfort he can offer – and turns to Jake for advice. “Son, what do you think?”
“Frank, really, Julie would have preferred me to not be involved in this decision; I’m so sorry. She was a wonderful wife and partner for many years.” Jake firmly grasps Frank’s shoulder. His patented hand on the heart move is reserved for ladies only. “I’ll miss her.”
Mildred turns to Betsy, who fumbles through her tote bag for a tissue. “Betsy, what do you think?”
“Dang, Mildred.” Betsy blows her nose. “I think they could have put her in a better looking box.” Mildred nods her head in agreement. “I’ll find something pretty to put her in. Let’s just store her in the desk drawer for now.” Mildred turns her attention to Jake and kindly extends her former son-in-law a final courtesy. “Jake, thank you so much for being here; it means the world to Frank and me. Can you stay for dinner?”
“Thank you Mildred, but I better go. I’ll call you soon though, okay?”
“Okay, dear, we understand. “Jake is blessedly dismissed with a distant hug. “You take good care now; Betsy, did you happen to bring home any of Julie’s things? I know she loved that mirror we gave her, and I’d like to have it back.” Betsy crosses her fingers to ward off the lie she’s about to tell. “I couldn’t fit the mirror into the car, so we donated it to the plastic surgery wing at Mercy Hospital in Julie’s honor.” Mildred nods. “That’s okay, then; Julie would have liked that.”
Julie rests in a nondescript box tucked inside a desk, a lovely solid walnut antique, simply appointed with a telephone and fresh flowers. The drawer is dark, and remains closed; but sometimes an aroma of bananas and cigarettes emanates from that drawer when it mysteriously opens just a crack, mystifying Frank and Mildred. This juju aroma ends on the day Julie’s mother mixes her daughter’s ashes with rich soil – the humus mixing with the ashes in the Spring – and plants a Bleeding Heart which grows slowly and rarely blooms. That is, until the day Betsy introduces the Bleeding Heart to Greek Valerian, also known as Jacob’s Ladder, and both species recognize they are meant to share the same dirt. They grow like teenage wrestlers on steroids, take deep root, and create a most stunning visual backdrop for caterwauling cats mating wildly in the otherwise quiet, cool heat of the night.

Chapter Eighteen: Enthusiasm

Enthusiasm: expression is our highest calling, but those who use enthusiasm for destructive purposes create a whirlwind of devastation…try explaining this one to your dog.

Mimi finishes her barn detail, takes a drink of water from the pump, and, cooing sweetly, quietly walks to Cajun’s stall. Cajun lifts his noble head from his fresh timothy hay and spins to turn his good eye toward Mimi, then stretches like a cat and meets her at the wide stall door. Mimi reaches in her pocket for a mint, and her best friend nuzzles her hand, accepting the treat with soft, velveteen rabbit lips. Then he snorts, and shies violently; something disturbs him. Mimi freezes as someone behind her shouts, “Boo!” She quickly turns around, barely able to control her anger. She softens slightly when she sees Warren, but immediately lets him know she’s displeased. “Warren, what are you thinking? That wasn’t cool.”
“Well, damn, it’s good to see you, too, Mimi.” Warren’s talk has a swagger, but his body language doesn’t; he’s uncomfortable in his skin. As Mimi calms Cajun, Warren lights a cigarette, chalking up another wrong move. “Good Lord, man, where’s your brain? Take that outside, you can’t smoke in a barn. If David catches you, it’ll be both our asses!”
“Is David your new boyfriend?”
“No, Warren, David owns this barn; he’s my boss. Go on now, and pick up your butt, too; stick it in your pocket.” Mimi shifts her attention back to her scattered horse. “Easy, Cajun. It’s okay, babe.” After a few more seconds, Cajun eases to the stall door and loudly sighs. “When you come back in the barn, Warren, start talking to me, okay? It’ll help him settle if he hears you; he’s blind in one eye and a little freakish because of it.”
“Maybe I should just stay here instead, then.” Warren’s feeling freakish, too.
“Nope, come on in; just be smart this time. The more Cajun’s exposed to new things, the more desensitized he becomes; he’ll calm down. See? He already has. Here, give him this.” Mimi hands Warren a peppermint.
“No way am I putting my hand in there. Horses and I don’t get along that well.”
Mimi grins at Warren, cuffs him on the shoulder, and pulls him in for a hug. “That’s because you smell funny. How did you find me?”
“I called Dee last week, and she told me you were mucking stalls for a living somewhere near your house, so I drove around until I saw this barn.” Warren’s voice changes to a lower register, and his face loses its boyish vulnerability. “Listen, Mimi, something’s happened.”
“What? Are you alright?” Mimi turns her attention away from Cajun, who is calmly munching hay. She and Warren walk out of the barn and onto the wide gravel driveway. They lean against the aged fence amidst a thick border of pink cosmos; the old farm, functional and worn, wears its new party clothes to lovely effect. “Yeah, yeah,” Warren answers, but nervously shifts his weight from left to right, never meeting Mimi’s gaze. “It’s just that I think I made a big mistake and I need to tell you about it.” He stops, takes a breath, and looks at the ground before continuing. “Do you know Sam’s restaurant caught on fire this morning?”
Mimi is stunned. “No, but now you’re scaring me. Does this have anything to do with your mistake?” Mimi sniffs Warren’s shirt. “Or the fact that you smell like gasoline?” Warren shuffles, but he tells the truth; lying has never been his strong suit, and he looks up to meet her stare. “Mimi, you know I used to love Sam to death; he was like a father to me. But he really embarrassed me that night I tried to talk to him about drinking.”
“Yeah,” Mimi says, “I know he did. But you helped me figure some things out, and good came from it; you need to know that.” Warren shakes his head, unwilling to accept Mimi’s affirmation. “I saw Sam the other day, and he did it again, Mimi. I was walking by the restaurant and Jesse was outside sweeping the front steps, so I stopped to say hello.”
“What made you go down there, Warren? You shouldn’t have done that.” Unable to tap into goodness anywhere, the young man droops like a wilting wildflower dying from domesticity. “I know, but I walk by there all the time.”
“You can go another way, Warren.” Mimi is gentle with the broken child; he has a lot of heart and the passion of a warrior, but his brain doesn’t connect the dots when it comes to learning self-preservation survival skills. She watches Warren’s face contort as he fails to dam a river of hot tears. “Sam made fun of me in front of Jesse. He thinks he’s Jesus Christ Superstar now that he’s been in Playboy Magazine; he made me mad, and I couldn’t help myself.”
Mimi’s heart sinks with the weight of her next question; she already knows the answer. “Did you start the fire?” Warren kicks at the dirt and reaches in his pocket for another cigarette. “I filled up a bottle with gasoline, stuffed a rag in it, lit it, and slammed it through the front window. It felt good for a minute, but now I’m afraid I’ll get caught. I need you to help me.” Mimi knocks the cigarette from Warren’s hand before the match reaches its intended target. “You ought to be afraid! That was a really dumb thing to do. Dangerous. You’ve committed a felony, Warren. Damn it, why did you tell me this?”
“I don’t know, I needed to tell somebody and you were the first person I thought of. You can keep a secret,” he says, begging for understanding. “You know how Sam is, he treated you like shit!”
“Yeah, I do know how Sam is; he’s a sick man. But that doesn’t mean I want to set his restaurant on fire! You shouldn’t have told me.” Mimi shakes her head, trying to dislodge the unwelcome information Warren shares. It sticks, though; she can’t move it.
“Why not?” Warren gapes; he’s surprised by Mimi’s reaction.
“Who do you think the police will call first, Warren? Probably me. And if they don’t call me first, they’ll call me second, or third, and they’ll question me, and they’ll ask me if I did it, and I’ll say no, and then they’ll ask me if I know who did.”
“And what will you say?”
Mimi looks Warren hard. “Well, I’m not going to lie about it; I’m not a good liar, and even if I did lie, and they found out I lied, I’d be sitting in the cell right next to you! I’d be an accomplice; do you get that?”
“No, Mimi, you can’t rat me out. Please don’t do that.” Dust devils filled with Warren’s agitation swirl around them. He paces away from Mimi and reaches for a cigarette. This time Mimi lets him light it, grabs the pack from him, and lights one herself. “I need a place to stay, Mimi, will you let me stay with you? You can’t tell anyone. Oh, shit, I shouldn’t have come here. You don’t understand.” Mimi takes a deep draw, and then another before answering. “Oh, I understand, Warren; you’re in a boatload of trouble. Best thing you can do is turn yourself in. God, how did I ever smoke these things?” She tears the cigarette apart in frustration – frustration for smoking, frustration for playing a part in Warren’s drama.
“Turn yourself in for what?” Mimi jumps at the sound of her boss’s gruff voice. “What’s going on here? Who is this?”
“David, damn it! What’s with all you people creeping around scaring me? Am I deaf?” David’s weather face turns rock-hard. Without taking an eye off Warren, he demands Mimi’s attention. “Mimi, answer me! What’s going on?”
“David, this is Warren; he used to work for me. And he’s in some serious trouble.”
“Trouble’s the last thing we need around here, son. Keep moving.” Warren puts out his cigarette, and remembering Mimi’s earlier request, picks up the butt, puts it in his pocket, and looks at Mimi. “Sounds like a good idea to me,” he says. “Thanks for nothing, Mimi.” He walks a few yards down the driveway, then turns right and jumps the pasture fence.
“David, you don’t know what’s going on.” Mimi looks from one to the other so fast her head hurts. “Wait a minute, everybody, just hang on.” Warren looks dejectedly at Mimi. “I can’t believe this, Mimi. You’re going to rat me out.” He continues walking through the pasture toward the woods.”
“Warren! Come back here! David, the kid just set Sam’s restaurant on fire – threw a gas bomb or something through the window; we can’t let him go!” David’s response surprises her. “Yes we can; he’ll get caught.” David looks at Mimi, shrugs his shoulders, and walks toward the barn; Mimi intercepts him. “Of course he’ll get caught; he just told me about it, and I can’t lie for him. But that’s not the point right now.” David’s male perspective brings out Mimi’s indignant mother gene – all women have it, regardless of the number of children they choose not to bear. “I can’t let him go like this, he’s a basket case. Oh, no, what was that?” Mimi looks hard at David. “What was that noise, David?”
“Stay here,” says David, as he breaks into a bad imitation of a fast run – best he can do with a bum knee and a bad back. “Call 911!” Mimi wastes no time ignoring David’s first order and fulfilling his second as she runs like a track star to the barn’s dusty black wall phone. She dials, and breathes for the first time in what seems like hours, only she’s on the verge of hyperventilation.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“I think someone just shot himself.”
“What’s your location, ma’am?”
“900 Double Tree Lane, Double Tree Farm, off Jenkin’s Bottom Road. Please hurry!”
“An ambulance is on its way now; stay calm, stay with me. What’s your name?”
“Please send a police officer, too; the young man’s in trouble.”
“Ma’am, don’t hang up; stay with me.” Mimi hangs up the phone, collapses by Cajun’s stall, and begins to softly keen…until she sees David dragging Warren back to the barn by his arm and yelling like he’s in a hollering contest. “What were you going to do with this gun, punk? Hold Mimi hostage? Kill yourself?” David looks at Mimi and shakes his head. “This idiot can’t even kill himself. You damn dumbass,” he shouts at Warren. “Stop being a baby.”
“But it hurts!” Warren is crying hard. “Oh, damn, my ear, my ear.”
“It should hurt, dummy; you ought to be dead right now, and you would be if Mimi wasn’t here. I’d kill you just for the fun of it.” Mimi moves in for a closer look, and is relieved to see only a profuse amount of blood dripping from Warren’s head, but no brain matter. “God, what happened, David?”
“Dumb kid says he shot the no trespassing sign and the bullet ricocheted and hit him in the head. Just grazed his ear by my measure. How close were you standing to the sign, you stupid piece of shit? I ought to shoot you myself for scaring the horses. I think I will. Stand back, Mimi, I’m gonna shoot this kid between the eyes and put him out of my misery.”
“David! Leave him alone. Warren, sit down; the ambulance is on its way. David, can you get a clean towel or something? He’s bleeding all over himself.”
“Aw, Mimi, go back to the barn, please. I’m not gonna shoot this coward, the cops will do that! Stop crying, you big sissy. Look at you; you’re a fucking mess, bleeding all over my gravel. Now every raccoon on this property will be coming around looking for a snack. I ought to tie you to the tree and leave you for ‘coon bait.”
“Warren, sit still,” Mimi instructs. “I’ll be right back; David’s not going to hurt you. Just breathe, baby. Help is on the way.”
“He can’t hear you,” David says, sitting on the ground and tenderly cradling Warren’s head in his lap. “He just passed out, but he’ll be alright.” And he is, although he will never again hear out of his deformed right ear. But he makes the paper, his picture beside Sam’s on the front page above the fold. Mimi, refusing all interviews as advised by attorney Jim Morris, is exonerated, but not before viewing Sam’s slick underbelly one more time.

Chapter Seventeen: Tolerance

Tolerance: recognize the divinity in others even when it’s hidden behind the walls of apparent ignorance and stupidity, or residing in the bowels of lust, greed, and power…pontificators are people, too.

Sam Killian flies in a pink cloud fueled by high-octane notoriety. His bravado, triglycerides, and vodka infusions are also peaking, pegging, diming. Soon enough there will be no room at the top for Sam, but for the moment, the only thing low about Sam is his tolerance for his housekeeper, a fellow Friend of Bill, for waking him up. “Damn it, Margaret, you’re not supposed to be here! What the hell day is this? It’s not Wednesday, it’s Monday!”
Margaret is a chubby, sweet ex-lush who used to like bowling, but preferred to participate drunk and naked. Now that she’s four years, three months, and six days sober, her extracurricular activities lean toward your garden variety entertainment – WWF wrestling and tractor pulls, you know, family sports. She powers her way past a tile floor’s grungiest grout better than Mr. Clean. “Don’t you remember I asked last week if it would be okay for me to change your day and time? I’m going to the beach tomorrow.”
“Nope,” Sam says. “I wouldn’t have agreed to that.”
Margaret used to be a pushover; not anymore. “Well, you did, and we’re here.” She takes a look around and is disgusted. Sam’s bedroom looks and smells like a bus terminal bathroom after twenty-four hour’s hard use by drunks and junkies who can’t shoot straight. “You might want to put that bag of pot away; it’s sitting on the table by the back door for the whole world to see. My God, this place is a wreck.” She turns to Sam and studies him before continuing. “Have you been sick?”
“Yeah, sick with the flu.” Sam drops his head and looks away; Margaret looks right through him, and it’s embarrassing. “Yeah, right,” she whispers. “Sweetie, you’re back on the bottle hard, aren’t you? Look, get dressed, and you and I’ll go to a meeting right now. Nancy can start cleaning while we’re gone. Then, I’ll come back and help her while you have lunch or something.” Margaret takes another look around and quickly assesses Sam’s environmental wasteland. “It’ll take us at least four hours to deal with this mess.”
Sam quickly recovers his misplaced pride. “Fuck, no! I’m not going anywhere. And speaking of pot, a bag was stolen the last time you were here. I’m missing some other things, too. Like money.” Margaret is used to Sam’s paranoia; she gives him the same old song and dance each week. “Sam, we’re bonded; we’re not stealing from you.”
“Get out of my house and take that skinny-assed skank Nancy with you. I don’t want you back in here, you bunch of drug addicts. Give me back my key.” Margaret moves in to touch Sam carefully on the arm. “Sam, wait,” she gently cajoles. “I know you, remember? Come on, let’s go to a meeting. Let me help, or let me call your sponsor.”
Sam pulls away as if her touch burns. “I fired my sponsor, and I’m firing you, too! Go run your scam on somebody else. Now get the fuck out of my house!” Venomous white spittle forms at the corners of Sam’s mouth, and, for the first time, Margaret is afraid of him; his actions are far heavier than her experience. Hell, she was always a nice drunk; slutty, but sweet. She quickly walks out of Sam’s bedroom and into the kitchen, where Nancy’s busy eating leftover chicken she lifted out of the refrigerator. “Lord, Nancy, stop eating the poor man’s food. Let’s get out of here.”
“Did that asshole call me a skank?” Nancy throws a leg bone in the kitchen sink. Her world is simple: she believes in the Bible, by only in the “call to action” verses; she likes the eye for an eye-type verses best. “Forget it, Nancy, the man is sick. Let’s go, we can’t be around him right now.” Margaret turns around and yells. “Good luck, Sam, you’re gonna need it. Call me when you’re ready, and I’ll help you anyway I can. We’re leaving now.”
“Here, smell this.” Nancy’s face is buried in Sam’s bag of pot. “Now, that’s some serious skank,” she says as she tucks it into her bra and walks out the door. “Much better than the last batch.”

Sam moves into the large, sunny, and well-appointed den because his bedroom, smelling like four Boer goats in rut, is trashed. He sleeps on the overstuffed, newly stained cream tapestry Victorian sofa, Mimi’s old reading spot – good call there, Mimi, Sam thinks – rather than in his king-sized bed; the bed is only for company, only for those weekly Saturday night special performances, compliments of Jesse. The sheets need to be washed, but Margaret hasn’t been around for, I don’t know, Sam thinks. Where’s my housekeeper, Sam wonders? I’m gonna have to fire her ass.
Within a week Sam’s new room is one big garbage dump filled with vodka bottles, used tissues, dead flowers rotting in murky green water, hard porn movies, soft porn magazines, and, as of last night, a puddle of urine in the threshold between the den and the kitchen; Sam forgets the bathroom is to the right. As Sam steps into his own void, he looks to the ceiling in search of a leak.
But, the kitchen is clean; the kitchen is a shrine, a grapefruit-scented paradise, and as Sam makes his Vitamin V breakfast on Sunday morning, the phone rings. “Speak,” Sam barks. Hello is too gentile a word for Sam.
“Sam Killian, please.”
“You got him.”
“Mr. Killian, this is Vanguard Security; the alarm just sounded at 462 South Hamilton. Is that your business address?”
“Stupid question, of course it is.”
“The police have been dispatched, sir.”
“Damn it, on my way,” Sam retorts, and hangs up abruptly. Just another Sunday morning aggravation, Sam thinks. Everything aggravates Sam. It takes him two minutes to drink breakfast, brush his teeth, gargle with cool mint Listerine, don a clean but permanently stained tee-shirt, and shove a Firefly baseball cap over his crusty head. Ten minutes after receiving the call, he arrives downtown just in time to watch the Fire Department soaking down his lobby; someone has thrown a Molotov cocktail through The Firefly’s front window and his restaurant is on fire. Sam bypasses two policemen standing on the corner watching the action and heads straight for the smoldering front door. “You, stop! You can’t go in there!”
“I own this place, get the hell out of my way!”
“I don’t care who you are, you’re not going in!”
“The hell I can’t! Shit, get off of me,” Sam whimpers under the weight of a large cop’s body slam. “Okay, okay, I won’t go in. Let me up.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Sam Killian.” Sam checks himself for cuts and bruises as he awkwardly picks his body out of the street gutter. He finds one bloody scraped elbow and a severely bruised ego; could have been worse, he thinks. That brute flattened me like an aluminum beer can run over by a diesel four by, and looks like he’d enjoy doing it again. The cop isn’t smiling. “You know I could arrest you for endangering the life of an officer, don’t you?”
“Look, I’m sorry, uh, Officer Dunwoody. It’s just that I have a payroll deposit in there, and I have to get it. It looks like our hardworking civil servants have the fire under control.” Sam makes another move toward the door.
“Stand down, sir!” Dunwoody breathes heavily with anticipation; physical exertion is his aphrodisiac. “Look, man, the fire’s about out!” Sam whines, but backs away, taking a closer look at Dunwoody’s three-story body; getting whipped by a uniformed man half my age and double my weight, Sam determines, is not in my best interest – a sobering and accurate judgment for a man on the brink of disaster. He stands down as Officer Dunwoody’s partner steps in; Officer Smith is half his partner’s size and twice his age, and prefers playing the role of nice cop. “You can’t just walk into a crime scene, Mr. Killian; somebody deliberately tried to burn your restaurant down.”
Sam looks hard at the older man and grimaces. “Well, that doesn’t surprise me, Officer Smith. Make note of that – I’m not surprised. Now, I’ll just go through the back door and get out of your way.”
“Go ahead, but only if you want Junior over there to throw you in the street again before I arrest you. Do you want that?” Smith smiles coldly, and Sam knows he’s bested. “Because if that’s the route you want to go, I can make that happen for you, and you can spend the day in jail.” Dunwoody closes in again. “I advise you to stay right here, Mr. Killian.” Sam quickly apologizes for his bad temper. “I’m sorry, Officers; I’m a little stressed right now.”
“Officer Smith motions Dunwoody to back off. He lowers his voice. “I know you’re upset, but you need to pay attention to me now; I need to ask you some questions.” Smith holds a cheap pen and an official-looking clipboard. Sam’s wary of anything official, especially when it holds a triplicate form. Salesmen carry something similar, he thinks, and all they ever want is money.
“What kind of questions?”
“Well, let’s start with the obvious. Who might want to burn down your restaurant?” Sam doesn’t hesitate. “My ex-wife Mimi,” Sam snarls.
“Why?” Officer Smith looks up from his notes.
“Because she’s a crazy bitch.”
Smith hesitantly writes this down, and much to Sam’s entertainment, demands that he watch his language. “Has she threatened you in any manner?”
Sam sighs. “No, forget it; it’s probably not her.”
“Okay, who else?”
“Do you watch the news? Read the paper, or maybe Playboy Magazine?”
Smith’s mouth widens with recognition, forming a smirk rather than a smile. “Oh, yeah, now I know where I’ve seen you; you’re the Vodka guy, right?”
“Right. That’s me.” Sam preens briefly, but catches himself; he needs another breakfast cocktail before he can become truly obnoxious. “Well, Mister Killian, you have a lot of enemies.” Smith isn’t impressed by Sam’s notoriety.
“Most of them Baptist, I think. The Moral Majority crawls up my ass all the time. Oh, I’m sorry Officer, did I offend you?” A red-faced Smith turns back to his notebook and takes a deep breath. “I doubt anyone truly affiliated with the Lord would do such a thing; in my church, we pray for you.” Smith silently prays for strength to refrain from cold-cocking this arrogant sum-bitch as Sam turns up the volume on his rant. “Not a day goes by without a dozen people waving Bibles in my face and yelling at my customers. ‘Burn in Hell,’ they scream, over and over, like it’s a fucking, uh, freaking football game and they’re the cheerleaders. You’d think they’d be over it by now; I’ve even heard a few obscenities fly from their side, but that’s usually after I offer them discount shots.”
A controlled but seething Smith looks up from his clipboard. “Anyone else you can think of?”
“No, but on second thought, question Mimi; she probably hired someone to do it.”
“Do you know how to get in touch with her?”
“Yeah, and if you let me in, I’ll get her number and address for you. We can go through the back entrance and not disturb a thing.” Smith observes Sam cautiously before acquiescing. “Dunwoody, come over here; escort Mr. Killian inside through the back, and make it quick. Mr. Killian, it looks like you’ll have to close for a couple of months or so, but your insurance will cover the damage. You’ll be back in the headlines before you know it.”
Sam smirks. “There’ll be some happy Christians celebrating my misfortune; what does Jesus think of that? Think he’s kicked back to a glass of red wine about right now, high-fiving the Father and the Holy Ghost? Think I should blame this fire on Jesus?”
Officer Smith’s jaw and fists clench and release. “Mr. Killian, you really shouldn’t talk about Jesus that way; it’s sacrilegious.”
“Jesus Set Me on Fire – my new theme song.” Sam laughs maniacally. “Maybe I’ll put that slogan on a tee-shirt and sell them. Or, how about this one: Jesus Burnt My Bar Down – Holy Smoke!” Dunwoody steps in between the two men, saving his boss’s job and Sam from the fast track through a black hole.

…

Julie purchases a condominium in a large singles complex, home to three thousand residents and The Pelican, a local member’s only shag club. Finally, she thinks; music and dancing I can move to. Finally, people who appreciate beach music. Late at night, when Julie sends her latest Mr. Right Now home, she paces and smokes, smokes restlessly, lighting one from the end of the other. The hole in her heart is so profoundly and invisibly deep that even sixty-minute men are incapable of finding and filling it, regardless of the size and shape and precision of their smoothest moves.
Julie works, but not with passion. She makes no friends at the hospital and is unattached from eight until five. But, on five of seven nights, Julie drinks, smokes, and dances to a one-and-two, three-and-four, five-six beat; and on weekends, she soaks up multiple Nutty Monkey banana drinks and chases them with a Midnight breakfast buffet of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and the Pelican’s artery-shocking chipped beef gravy on biscuits. Julie gains twenty-two pounds in three months. Unable to wear her designer clothes, Julie shops off the rack at a local department store, but as long as the lipstick matches her nails and the shoes remain polished and the men continue to move the right foot at the right time, she is satisfied. Julie’s hairstyle doesn’t change, but many of its strands go AWOL and make a run for the shower drain.

Chapter Sixteen: Patience

Patience: all things have their time and season; patience can’t be rushed, or practiced enough…be patient, starting now!

Mimi, broke, unemployed, and optimistic, has never felt more alive. She is physically fit from running with Molly and Ben; her garden is home to four varieties of basil, a party pack of zinnias, and colorful nonpoisonous writing spiders. Mimi is happy in the moment, and reeling from Jake’s latest letter.

Dear Mimi,
Finally, I’m discovering what it takes to play professionally. Musically, I have the right stuff! The only thing missing is that you are there and I am here. When I get home, and if you’re willing, let’s take our friendship up a notch and see if we have what it takes to mesh our lives together. I am consumed with my own ego stroking right now, but the real quality hours are the ones in which I allow myself to be consumed by thoughts of you. I hope you like the compass – all girl scouts need a homing device. I am East Northeast of you and separated by a couple of oceans and some dirt. Dial me in and remember: we look at the same moon, only my moon is six hours older than yours.
Love, Jake

Dear Jake,
I am awake and think that you are, too, although the moon has gone to bed in your town and is beaming in mine. I walked to the apple orchard today, ran my hands down warm wooden limbs, and an apple tree talked to me; it said you want to make love to me here. So, I climbed the tree and listened closely and, sure enough, the tree spoke again. I am the love apple tree, it said. Climb my branches without worry of falling. The ground under me is soft and even if you fall, it will only hurt for a minute. Then I ran home and ate the chocolate icing off of four brownies for dinner. Trees are talking to me, Jake. I’m on a sugar high. Come home and save me from insulin shock and schizophrenia.
Love, Mimi

Mimi discovers a barn across Jenkin’s Creek and through the woods, a barn full of cobwebs, black snakes, twelve happy horses; David, the crusty old barn owner, is looking for a reliable hand. “Are you sure you want this job? I can’t pay you what you’re used to making; I can’t even come close; eight dollars an hour, no raises. But see that big bay Thoroughbred over there? His owner died four months ago – he needs his own person. Name’s Cajun. He’s only eight, and he’s in good shape, but he’s blind in one eye. A little crazy, maybe, and he scares most people, but he’s totally harmless, sound as a C-note, and a sweet ride once you gain his trust.”
Mimi pulls on the bill of her baseball cap and extends her hand to David. “When do I start?”

Odessa and her band hop the fast train to Amsterdam’s Centraal Station, the main terminal located in the heart of the city. Upon debarking, Jake closes his eyes and makes a slow, complete circle, moving with the grace of a guru meditating to the four corners of the world. Accordian to the East of me; percussion to the North of me; trumpet to the West of me; guitar to the South of me. Jake’s prayer ends and he opens his eyes; he’s surrounded by the music of street performers, surrounded by the Zen of Dam Square.
The concierge at The American Hotel immediately recognizes Odessa, breezes her through check-in, and upgrades her to a large, elegantly decorated private room. The band shares a huge suite recently occupied by Prince. They know this because the bellboy tells them so, tells them that Prince is a really good tipper. Jake tips the bellboy Dfl 120, over fifty American dollars, and the bellboy grins and tells Jake he is a better tipper than Prince. “If there’s anything you need, you ask for Werner,” the stocky blonde bellboy says. “I am your man. I am also a sound technician at the Bimhuis and am available to help move your equipment as you have a lot of equipment to move,” Werner continues. “I will be your roadie. I know all of the clubs and am affordable.” The band adopts Werner as its very own runner and personal assistant. Everyone is very kind to Werner; he is maybe eighteen, certainly no older, and they all remember being eighteen. Even twenty-seven year old Marc feels like a father to Werner.
Jake takes a hot shower while March and Peter peruse the gift shop and pick out trinkets for their mothers. Franz orders room service, orders enough food to feed the entire band and a hungry audience. Odessa keeps to herself and writes a love letter to her husband. A couple of hours later Werner knocks on the door and offers a guided tour of the Red Light District, but nobody’s interested; they’ve been on the Reeperbahn. Werner’s face drops, but only momentarily. Jake tosses him a bone. “Let’s go, young man, just not there. Take me anywhere else.”
“Okay, Jake!” Werner’s enthusiasm reminds Jake of a happy puppy – he’s all but jumping on the furniture. “What would you like to see?”
Jake grabs a bottle of water on the way out. “Lead on, Scout. I will follow you; just take it easy on me. I’m a little tired and don’t want to stay out too late. Tomorrow will be fairly intense.”
“Do you smoke, Jake?”
Jake pauses. “Smoke what?”
“Hashish.”
“I take an occasional toke of high-grade marijuana, but it’s been awhile since I’ve smoked hash.” A hint of nostalgia creeps into Jake’s voice.
Werner shrugs. “What’s the difference?”
Jake’s eyes smile. “Oh, about one-hundred-eighty degrees of buzz.” Remembering he’s talking to a kid, Jake addresses Werner in his best parental voice. “Are you old enough to legally smoke hash, young man?”
Werner grins. “Yeah, I just don’t because it makes me sleepy. Do you want to go to a smoke house? I’ll go with you and make sure you get back here safely.”
Jake thinks about the negative consequence of taking that action, and finding none, says, “Okay, I’d like to check out that scene. Yeah, yeah, take me to a smoke house, Werner. Peter, you wanna go?”
Peter hunkers down on the sofa, remote in hand. “No way, man. I made the mistake of buying off the street last year and got into some trouble. But, will you bring some back for me?” Peter scootches onto his left side, and, striking an impressive plank-like yoga pose, deftly frees a thick wallet from his right hip pocket. Noticing Jake’s hesitation, Peter explains. “You can legally possess up to thirty grams, but you can only buy five grams at a time. Here, Werner,” says Peter as he shoves some bills in the boy’s hand, “buy whatever’s best.”
Even Jake knows better than to buy on the street. He’s heard about the dubious quality of street hash from other musicians, knows that local authorities frown on drug activity on public sidewalks. Why would Peter take a chance on having a bad experience when he can walk right in, order legally, and smoke as much as he can stand? “Yeah, you’re the textbook example of crazy musician,” Jake says as he punches Peter on the arm. “Stupidity should be painful, man.”

Of the smoking coffee houses, The Bulldog is the most prolific with branches scattered around the city. But Werner takes Jake to Blue Bird, which serves fewer people at night than the others, although it appears as if some of its patrons haven’t moved from their overstuffed chairs in several days.
Jake walks into the Blue Bird, and, captivated by the atmosphere, is immediately at ease. Hand painted murals cover the interior walls; the vibe is happy and friendly. Two large menu books displaying samples of each variety of marijuana scream for Jake’s attention until he spies “The Book of Dreams.” My God, Jake thinks, am I in Wonderland? Slap my fanny and call me Alice. “We Pride Ourselves on Exceptional Hashish at Attractive Prices!” Jake gets a contact high by simply reading that line from the Dreambook out loud, a little drool forming in the corner of his mouth as he studies the twenty varieties of hashish available for purchase. Jake buys black hash, the stickiest, skankiest, and most potent hash on the menu, a five gram bag of soft black hash for around eleven American dollars, and Werner buys five grams for Peter.
Jake loads a water pipe, inhales carefully the first time and deeply the second. “Be careful, Jake; I mean no offense, but you are an old man,” warns Werner. Jake chuckles as he leans back in his chair. “And you are an old soul, Werner.” Werner orders two coffees and two slices of apple pie with ice cream and observes as Jake melts into an altered state; first, silent relaxation, but within minutes, he’s talkative, and hungry for the pie. Mimi appears as a smiling apparition in the pie crust, prompting Jake to close his eyes and croon. “Werner, I have a friend back home who is taking care of my dog. I’m falling in love with her.”
“Does she love you back?”
“I don’t know…I hope so.” Jake opens his eyes and smiles at Werner. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Yes, I have a baby.”
“Babies having babies,” Jake tenderly says with no judgment. “Are you in love with the mother?”
“No,” Werner states, “I’m only in love with the baby. Nika and I never married. She lives next door with her family. We have been friends since we were children; she is like a sister to me.” Jake considers this unlikely detail of Werner’s life, and thinks he may have underestimated his youthful friend’s adult status. “This is enough for you?” Werner nods emphatically. “More than enough. It works out well – lots of babysitters! But, I want to hear more about your friend.” Jake tries to sit up straight, but finding the effort fruitless, settles back into the people-eating, scarred leathered chair. “Ah, Werner, Mimi’s beautiful. She has long brown hair and hazel eyes that are expressive of a kind and passionate nature. She’s sassy, too.”
“How did you meet her?”
“At a club she owned. With her husband.”
Werner is shocked. “She is married?”
“No, no, not anymore. We are both separated.”
“Do you intend to marry this Mimi person?”
Jake grins with his eyes closed. “I intend to fuck this Mimi person.”
“Tell me more, Jake. What does she like?”
“She likes dogs, and spiders. She grows flowers like Jack grows beanstalks. And she loves music, pure music. As long as it’s pure, she says. It doesn’t matter if it’s jazz or rock or country or classical. She has a great ear and perfect pitch. And she dances; the woman can’t stand still; she’s intense that way.” Jake bobs slightly in his chair; looking rather pale, he stands tenuously. “Where’s the bathroom in this joint, Werner? I need to splash some water on my face.” Mobility requires coordination and Jake doesn’t have any; he feels like a Sit and Spin. “No, just get me back to the hotel. I’d be better off in a room where I can’t hurt myself.” Jake smiles weakly at Werner, who tries unsuccessfully to cover up his perpetual grin. “Are you going to throw up, Jake? If you throw up, you’ll feel better.”
“Damn, Werner, and waste that pie? I feel really good, but would prefer to take my shoes off in my own room. Don’t want to be the old man in the club, you know,” Jake says with a nod to his perceived senior status. Werner offers Jake his arm, and without embarrassment, Jake gloms to it like an old woman clings to a lost son. Werner keeps Jake cognizant by talking about music. “Okay, Jake, you’re playing the Bimhuis tomorrow night, right?”
Jake’s gait is slow but steady, and he answers in a strong voice. “And for the next three nights. Can I leave my equipment set up there?”
“Oh yes. Nobody will bother your stuff. You will love it – it’s very secure. I’ll go with you for sound check, will that be good for you?” Jake laughs. “Yes, Werner, that will be good for me. Are we almost home?”
“We’re there, Jake. Can you find your room?” Jake slowly spins around the lobby one full rotation. “No, do you know where my room is?’
“I will take you there and you will remember next time.” Werner is a patient young man, and treats Jake gently, as he would treat a child afraid of the dark.
“Werner, you are a good man and you must be an excellent father. Kiss your baby for me. And here, take this,” says Jake, reaching for his wallet. “Buy your mother something nice.” Werner declines. “Oh no, Jake, no money for tonight,” he says. “It was my pleasure. No tip, please; this was as a friend.” Werner hands Jake a small package. “Here, give this to Peter. I’ll knock at three tomorrow and we’ll go to the Bimhuis.”
“Godspeed, man,” says Jake; safely in the door, he tosses Peter his five grams before dipping his face into a slick marble bathroom sink; nothing like a cold water revival, thinks Jake, feeling centered once again. “Come here, man,” says Peter. “I want to show you a trick; if you want to get a little black gold home, do this.” Peter reaches for a drinking straw from the room service tray. He unpeels the paper cover, then packs the hash into the plastic straw. He melts both ends of the straw with his lighter, creating a tight seal. Peter retrieves an unopened tube of toothpaste from his shaving kit and gently plants the hash into the center of the tube. “See? Simple. The straw displaces the areas formerly taken up by the paste, creating a tube that returns to the appearance of being full.”
Jake is interested. “And nothing much to clean up,” he says.

Dear Mimi,
The items in this package are not a statement regarding your personal hygiene. Ignore the toothpaste – put both tubes in a secret place for now. RE: Belgium chocolate: the Zen truffles will make you crave sex with me - at least that’s what I’m told. You can get these treasures at some fancy stores in the US, but why fly to NYC when I can play middleman and save you the trauma of breathing stale air in a stuffy deathtrap with wings? The shopkeeper insisted I pay extra to get these to you within two days or suffer a decrease in quality, but he says that you do not, I repeat, do not, have to eat them all in one sitting. Strange logic…he also insisted that you not refrigerate these chocolates. Upon my return, I will show you a trick I learned in Amsterdam. We will go to the highest pasture and write music together, chart a love song based on the stars and revisit a little café called the Blue Bird, my favorite smoking coffee shop. Great apple pie there!
Love, Jake

Dear Jake,
Why would I crave sex with you when I can rub a Zen truffle on my inner thigh and immediately reach orgasm? The experience is even more gratifying when I suck on a little Zen Orangette. A ménage a trois, Jake, a Trifecta! You stay right there and send me a package of Zen every week for the rest of my life. You are a romantic warrior at heart – I know for sure. Love songs and star charts and high pastures. Count me in. Toothpaste’s hidden in top right drawer under socks, in case I am attacked by a rabid cow before your return. Until then…
Love, Mimi

Load-in at the Bimhuis is a breeze, thanks to Werner. The staff knows him, loves him, and gives him free rein. Odessa and the guys set up and practice for about two hours, getting in gear for three nights of good gigging. First night, good; second night, better – bigger crowd, more energy. The Bimhuis is a fairly large venue compared to the small clubs Jake’s used to, and the buzzing crowd is at capacity. He emits a low whistle. “Wow, Odessa, are you really that well known over here? I know this crowd’s never heard of me. Look at all these people, happy people getting ready to dig our music.”
“Yeah, Jake, that’s it. It’s all me!” Odessa grins. “Welcome to Amsterdam. The Bimhuis is always at least half packed regardless of who’s here to hear. It’s a jazz town, remember?”
“Yeah, Odessa, but this is amazing.”
“And they’ve never heard anybody take it out quite so far as you do, Jake. Look at the faces out there; I guarantee you that at least a third of these people were here last night and will be back tomorrow. They will definitely know who you are when you come back here. They’ll call you by name on the street, like they do me.” Jake studies his audience and within thirty seconds, makes eye contact with five people, all who acknowledge him with a smile. “It’s really gratifying, getting the props and respect we don’t even get in our hometown,” continues Odessa. “That old adage about jazz being a local scene is bullshit. It’s global, Jake. We’re riding the rainbow across oceans and landing in cultural pots of gold; now, ain’t that great, South’ren boy?”
Jake shakes his head in wonder. “I swear, Odessa, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“And you never will unless you come back.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Next year, Jake, or later this year if I can pull it together. You’ve made an impression over here. Don’t be surprised if you’re asked back without me. And you better take them up on it, too.”

All is well until load-out on the third night when Jake makes the mistake of talking to the tall blonde woman who leans against the stage and tracks his every move with eagle eyes. “Watch her, Jake,” Werner says as he passes behind him. “She is bad news.” But Jake is flying high on the love of his new tribe. He doesn’t feel her pick his pocket, but knows the timing of it. As he poses for a picture with her, she leans in for a hug, and with one hand on his crotch and another inside his jacket, she lifts Jakes wallet out of its inside secret pocket at the very same time she slips her tongue into his mouth; she’s gone before the blush overtakes Jake’s face. Werner’s hackles are up. “Jake, check your pockets.”
“Why, Werner?”
“You just got ripped off.”
Jake, laughing, says,” No, I just got sexually molested, but ripped off? No way.”
Werner is animated. “Where’s your wallet? Where do you keep it?”
“Shit,” says Jake. “How did she do that?”
Werner is at a dead run and halfway out the door before Jake can level his jaw and check his pocket one more time. He yells to Werner, “Where are you going?”
“I know her!” Werner returns in twenty minutes with Jake’s wallet, but there’s nothing in it except Mimi’s address; identification, money, business cards – all gone. Werner is confused when Jake shrugs and smiles. The loss is temporary and minimal; Jake’s hip to a street scene played out with the same script everywhere. He even packs on some gigs back home, those late night gigs requiring load-out in dark alleys early in the morning when the addicted cats prowl. Jake’s wallet carries nothing of value except Mimi’s address and it’s still there. He has more money, more identification at the hotel. Jake just wants to get back to The American and brush his teeth, get the woman’s scent off his face.

The band says goodbye to Werner at the train station the next afternoon. Werner hugs each of them warmly and cries when he receives Dfl 1000, almost five hundred dollars American. “Even Prince doesn’t tip as well as you do,” Werner says. “And he is a good tipper. Hurry back! I miss you already. Goodbye! Good gigging in Barcelona!” And back at The American, Werner helps another band to their suite. “Prince stayed here right before you,” Werner says. “He just left this morning – he’s a very good tipper.”

It is 346 miles from Amsterdam to Paris, a rail trip that takes about four hours on the Thalys Direct. Spacious, reclining seats in a first-class compartment soothe Jake into the sleep of the dead. Jake dreams of Molly; she’s stalking a skunk in downtown Amsterdam. The skunk waddles into the Blue Bird and Molly follows it inside. A child feeds Molly a treat, but the treat is hash. Molly lies down and turns into a rug. The skunk moves in on Jake and begins to speak, but before Jake can learn skunk language, Odessa yells him out of his dream. “Peter, what the hell are you doing? You can’t smoke that in here!”
“Chill, Odessa, we’re the only ones on this car, babe.”
“We won’t be for long; put it up before you get us all busted!”
“Anybody want a hit first?” Peter grins as Odessa thumps his head like she’s testing for ripeness. But Odessa’s not playing. “Peter, you put that away now or I’ll leave your ass on this train! I’m not kidding. Good drummers are cheap in Barcelona. Christ, man, you about got us all busted last year. If I see you doing anything to jeopardize this tour one more time, I’m serious, you’re gone.”
Peter puts his pocket pipe away. “I’m sorry, Odessa. You’re right, I’m sorry.” Odessa makes a face at Peter and strikes a match. “Anybody got incense?”
“Only the kind that smells like hash,” answers Marc. Odessa can’t help herself; she cracks up and the band joins in. “Smart asses, all of you. Just shut up.” The momentary tension dissipates with the smoke; all is well on the Thalys.

A three-hour layover in Paris gives the band a comfort zone as they make the transfer between Gare du Nord, their terminus from Amsterdam, and Paris Austerlitz, their destination station for Barcelona. Jake and Peter have eight well-packed pieces of luggage between them, but it’s easily distributed to the five band members and survives the transfer without a hitch. Musicians are responsible that way. Fuck the clothes, they can always buy more. But, God forbid a Wah-Wah peddle or a single cable should go missing. Just the mere thought of losing equipment, big or small – size has nothing to do with importance – sends most musicians into the depths of despair for at least three hours and could make a man contemplate suicide if a synthesizer goes missing. “But, that one can’t be replaced. Chick Corea touched it before I bought it…oh, man, that cable’s been with me since the beginning, man…I can’t play shit without my bag of sticks, man; yeah, I can buy more, but they won’t sound the same, I guarantee it.” Mother hens counting biddies aren’t as careful as musicians counting equipment.

The Talgo Night train is filled with night travelers – sexy young feminine night hawks who love musicians. Jake and Peter share a compartment with a shower, a sink, and a private toilet. Marc and Franz are next door, Odessa next to them. They dine in the restaurant car and drink in the bar car and play cards until eleven p.m., eventually hibernating until seven; they don’t quite capture the sleep they lost in Amsterdam, but decrease the deficit before hitting Barcelona. Jake, a night owl by nature, is just beginning to feel alive when a lovely raptor moves in on his perch. “Excuse me,” she says, “I can’t seem to make my way to the bar. Will you order something for me, please?” She flashes Jake a one-hundred-watt smile, a smile that brightly snaps of intelligent smugness and worldly knowledge. Blatantly sexual. Unconsciously sensual. Anima rising. Jake feels it; she captures his spirit quickly, and his lust is begging for a snare. He’s as good as dead. She is beautiful, Jake thinks while appraising the hunter. Petite, long blonde hair, tight body. “I’ll be glad to. What would you like?”
“How about a B & B, heated?”
“Sure,” Jake says casually. “Where can I find you?” What’s your name, little girl? Hello, hard-on. Damn, Jake thinks. She’s gorgeous. “Oh, I’ll stay right here. I’m Lucinda.”
“Jake. Nice to meet you, Lucinda; are you from the States, too?”
“New York. You?”
“Virginia. Are you going to Barcelona?”
Lucinda smiles. “Aren’t we all? I’m checking out the art museums. Working on my Master’s thesis, so this trip’s part of my research. Jake, right? I like that name.”
Good morning little schoolgirl. “So keeping your nose in the books, huh?”
“More like keeping my nose on the street. What are you doing here? No wait, let me guess. You’re a musician.”
Jake is pleased. “How can you tell?”
“You’re wearing all black. You’re too cool for school. Is this your first time to Barcelona?” Lucinda squeezes her arms together and her high perched bosoms push against her tight white halter top. Jake’s south pole is facing due north; he has an almost uncontrollable urge to rub himself on her leg. “Uh huh.” He’s reduced to caveman responses. “It’s my third,” Lucinda replies. “I love B-town. Need a guide?”
“Mmm, now, that’s a thought. Here you go, B & B, heated glass.” Lucinda flashes big blue eyes at her prey as she reaches into her little black purse. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. I bet you’ll buy me a drink before we day goodnight.”
“Don’t count on it; I’m a student. Where are you staying?”
“La Terrassa.”
“No shit! Me, too – sharing a room with three other students.”
“That sounds like a tough gig.”
“It’s a financial issue. Not my preferred accommodations, but a hungry student must survive.” Lucinda runs her fingers through her hair and moves closer to Jake. “I bet you have a lot of luggage. I know how you musicians travel because I used to date one. No such thing as packing light unless you’re the string or horn man. I bet you play keys.”
Now Jake is impressed. “How could you tell that?”
“Other than the vibe, your hands. Look at your hands, they’re gorgeous. Show me your spread, Jake.” Jake grins. “Not on the first date,” he says. Lucinda picks up his right hand and places it just above her cleavage. “Here, right here, on my chest. Spread ‘em, Cowboy, let’s see what you’re made of. See? Your reach is almost as wide as my shoulders. Do you have a gig tomorrow night?”
Jake’s tongue wants to touch Lucinda’s tonsils, but he plays it cool. This child could be dangerous, he thinks. “No. Night after.”
“Do you have plans for tomorrow?”
Jake shakes his head. “Just acclimation, food, and sleep.”
“Would you like to hang out and see some really cool architecture, go to the museums, grab a bite to eat, have a drink or something?” I’ll take the or something, Jake thinks. “I’m not much of a planner, Lucinda. Maybe, I don’t know.” Jake’s response sets Lucinda back a bit; she’s not used to rejection. “Tell you what,” she says, shifting slightly away from him. “I’ll be in the lobby at eleven sharp. I’ll wait for five minutes, then I’m leaving. If you’re interested in a private tour of the best spots in Barcelona, meet me. If not, it’s no big deal. Gotta run! Thanks for the drink.” Lucinda is ready to move on to another perch. This bird, Jake thinks, is cute, but lacks spontaneity. Jake reaches out and gently takes hold of her arm. “Wait a minute; where will you take me?” Lucinda turns her head and looks at Jake. “Ah, you must show up to find out.”
“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jake says, suddenly wishing he had said yes.
“No worries. If you’re there, you’re there. If you’re not, you’re not.” And she flies away, just like that. Jake thinks eleven a.m. is a perfect time for a tour.

Dear Mimi,
Paris flyby; I see train stations. Inside of eyelids. Postcards. Spitting Man gargoyle my fave. He’s not a fan of progress. Spits at Eiffel Tower. Let’s go together. We’ll see them up close and personal. No time to explore this trip. Love, Jake

Dear Jake, writing postcard style. Fits mood. Finally found worthy work. Have fallen in love with a Cajun who fills up day, but still too much time to think. Latest and most negative brain drain: married to man who lied. Lied again. Truth finally spurted from his lips like blood from severed artery. Had plan; plan fell through; planned some more. Signed papers; lost financial security. Moved to country, found peace. Then, you. Friendship. Flirtation. Love letters. Reeling here. Thinking too much. No peace. Missing you. What next? Do you know truth? Truth beautifully unique, but ugly same everywhere. Damn you better know truth. Signed, Saint Maniac, Patron of all Gargoyles ps – high tension in small-minded US of A. I walk familiar streets and am carrier of contagious disease, something worse than leprosy. Something embarrassing. Nobody looks me in the eye. Goat herder, they whisper in grocery stores. They spit on me like gargoyles. And you? Having a good time? Good. Good for you. Have a good day. Good bye. Yeah, love. Mimi pps – Cajun is a horse.

Jake and Lucinda make eye contact as they leave the train and speak volumes without saying a word. Lucinda smugly throws her duffel over her shoulder while Jake and the ban distribute multiple bags between them, organizing keys and drums and balancing the load between five people before hopping aboard their reserved mini-bus to Hotel La Terassa. Lucinda beats Jake to the hotel by thirty minutes, but Odessa has the fast track to check-in and Jake is ensconced in his room before Lucinda signs her name on the dotted line. Bye-bye, nubile one, Jake thinks as he returns the smugness to its slightly humbled and envious owner. Age has its benefits, don’t you know? No, you don’t know. Score one for the old guy.
Jake unpacks, quickly cleans up and considers making a donation in the shower drain, but withholds the deposit because he spies a better bank down the road; he walks into the lobby on the stroke of eleven. Lucinda looks absolutely grand in her clothes. Hip to the ninth of Siberia, this girl, this sexy intelligent girl, this young woman who holds Jake’s spirit captive behind the lens of her ice blue eyes. No anima rising in Jake now; no feminine spirit. Only a surge of testosterone that makes Jake feels six feet tall in his socks. His sex drive is at half-mast, a perpetual reminder of his staying power; Jake runs that flag up the pole. He is not thinking about Mimi, no, not at all. If home is where the heart is, then Jake’s heart is on vacation.

Ah, Barcelona! From Frommer’s: “If you took the all-out party power of Parliament’s George Clinton and mixed in equal parts of the more refined tastes of Sting, then shook them up and poured them over ice, you’d get pretty close to the trippy, wild, and refined flavors that make Barcelona such a delicious drink.” B-town is designed for musicians. Forget the bars; forget the museums and the architecture and the food and the beach. It’s the vibe, man. It’s the 1,500 years of tourist and travel industry experience. It’s the international spirit and the language of Catalan and the regional pride and the whole unique gig played out every day on every street. Barcelona is one hip flip city. And Lucinda has her finger on the city’s pulse. Jake is forty-seven years old, but ageless. His body doesn’t hurt much today; he can go all night. Dance? No, Jake doesn’t like to dance, but he will subtly grind you against the wall with the best of the droopy eye-lidded older, but wiser players. Watch him later on; you’ll get the picture. You’ve seen it before if a subtle level of eroticism moves you. The scene is obvious to those who fly beneath the radar, to those who pace themselves with Jake, to those who breathe like turtles. Lucinda will reintroduce Jake to an old companion, the afternoon fast-paced heat race, and Jake will, in turn, introduce Lucinda to the more sensual side of sex, to late night restraint, to the reserve tank. Lucinda understands the concept although she has never fully experienced that brand of erotic pleasure. But, that is before Jake. After Midnight, she will learn what making love looks like, and she will be terrified.

Lucinda and Jake go on a walking cruise through Barcelona, spend hours in the Ciutat Vella, traverse El Raval and Barri Gotic, and gawk at the best of modern art in the Museu d’Art Contemporani de Barcelona. They spend a few short minutes in the Centre de Cultura for history, then grab a quick lunch and an even quicker photo opp at Catedral de Barcelona by mid-afternoon; finally, a postcard purchasing frenzy at Museu Picasso before they trace each other’s scent back to Hotel Terrassa, before culminating the adventure with intense sexual gratification, quick release, and a long nap. Jake’s hand intertwines in Lucinda’s long hair; her head is on his belly, hair stuck to his juice. But, that was playtime, daytime, familiar territory to Lucinda. Her education begins at Midnight. Lucinda has never known a man to look her in the eye while climaxing, but Jake does. Jake growls while he looks her in the eye, while he peaks front and center, withholding nothing. Jake is present; Lucinda is afraid at first, then accepts Jake’s primal twist and shout as an anthropological phenomenon, as part of her artistic research, accepting the research component without fully acknowledging the intensity of Jake’s hunger. She is embarrassed by his nakedness. Lucinda experiences – but does not embrace – the difference between fucking a boy and making love with a man. It is one of the most valuable lessons of her life, a lesson that doesn’t require a Master’s degree, but instead requires recognition and release, raw release; she recognizes passion, but Jake’s style is unrelated to her definition of love. Lucinda is overwhelmed and confuses, from this moment on and for the rest of her life, good sex and true love, never trusting her instincts in combining the two Universal elements. She is always surprised, always off her game, afraid of the fast ball. She’s a minor league bench player; too bad for Lucinda.
Jake, of course, recognizes nothing and attributes Lucinda’s rookie status to pro league nerves. Lucinda blames her lack of sexual release on absinthe, too much absinthe, she says, and the late hour, too late for a catch and release. There’s always an excuse for Lucinda’s lack of power hitting. Unfortunately, this never changes. Wise women all over the world may lament her lack of sexual fulfillment, but recognize and love Jake for looking a woman in the eye, dead on in the eye. It isn’t Lucinda who is chosen to represent all women on the planet who wish for a man to look at them, to give the snapshot meaning, to feed the spirit back into the soul, to stoke the home fire rather than to vainly attempt ignition of a vacation spark robbed of oxygen after the first and only deeply satisfying breath.

Jake rolls out of bed and into the shared living space to find Peter staring at him, grinning. “Your company gone, man?”
“Yeah, thank God.”
“Really? Send her my way, she’s my kind of groupie.”
Jake shakes his head. “Hands off, man, she’s not a groupie. She’s a student.” Jake walks to the kitchen and makes a cup of Earl Gray with a splash of cream. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten-thirty; for the record, new guy, all students are groupies.” Jake ignores Peter’s attempt at banter. “I’m supposed to meet her in the lobby at eleven. She’s taking me to some church somewhere; something I have to see, she says.”
“La Sagrada Familia?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Jake takes a sip of his delicious elixir and pauses. “I think I might blow her off.”
No, man. You will flip out! It’s the coolest thing ever. The architecture will blow your mind, dude. It’s Gaudi’s finest work, although he died before it was completed. The structure looks like molten lava, like something out of Doctor Seuss’s The Grinch, maybe where The Grinch would live, only hipper. I’ve always wanted to play there. That’s all I can say; you have to see it to believe it. Get a move on, man, you don’t want to miss it.”

Dear Mimi,
Visited museums yesterday. Picasso museum the best. Met interesting people, including art student who gives good tours. Went to La Sagrada Familia this morning and picked up this postcard. Check out the towers. From down looking up it’s like being in the desert surrounded by world’s tallest palm trees. Gaudi’s finest work. First gig tonight at Jamboree. Home soon. Hope you are well. Give my love to Molly. XO Jake

Dear Jake,
Visited the downtown art galleries last night. Stepped purposely on the cracks in the sidewalk to cut myself some slack, not to break my mother’s back. Changing the rhyme from guilt-ridden to guilt-free. You’re not a southern girl, so you may not dig. Hope you are well, too. World’s Largest Sand Castle? Will visit in my dreams and sing inside the cavern. In my dream ocean meets dry land. I melt at the point of contact and disappear into the steps of the tower, becoming part of Gaudi’s eternal vision. Molly is doing just fine without your love. She has Ben. Go XO yourself. Mimi

Mimi feels the heat from Jake’s latest postcard, feels the heat that radiates from another woman’s fingerprints. She traces Lucinda’s invisible touch with the accuracy of a blind woman reading Braille. It takes Mimi less than a minute to apply emotional SPF Thirty and block out what could be, if she isn’t careful, severe heartburn. Jake owes me nothing, Mimi says out loud. Mimi sits in her hammock, avoids the sun, and waits patiently for a cooling cloud cover to protect her from bursting into hot tears. Jake owes Mimi nothing.

The Jamboree is a small, smart venue with a cave-like atmosphere and a history of hosting some of the world’s top performers. The vibe of earlier musical top cats dangles invisibly from ancient interior cobwebs. Of all the clubs to date, the Jamboree feeds Jake’s identity, pours Jake a straight shot of sacred tonic, an emotional infusion that goes straight to his heart. Jake silently acknowledges the players who have performed before him. This is the spirit of a good musician, always mindful of the great ones who opened the door before he was out of diapers.
Odessa and the band set up one time in Barcelona, one time for a week’s gig at Jamboree Jazz Club, the A ticket for a musician hauling heavy equipment. The Jamboree pays good money and is Mecca for most musicians. Jake is thankful from the moment his perfect hands touch the keys on the first night until after the final song is played at the end of the week-long gig. Lucinda? Lucinda who? “Hey, Jake.”
“How’s it going, Lucinda?” Jake can’t help but notice her beauty, but her power is gone. “We have to change hotels,” she says. “We’re moving to the Pension Vitorio tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah?” Jake concentrates on the spiraling cable in his hand, making seven perfect and equal loops before packing it in the bottom of a well-worn black canvas bag.
“Yeah, bummer, but I was thinking I could stay with you until you leave.”
“That’s not a good idea, Lucinda.”
“Why not?”
“Because Peter and I share a room.”
Lucinda shrugs. “Oh, well, just a thought. It’s okay. I’ll still be close enough to you. I really enjoyed your show last night.”
“Thanks.” Wrap it up, Jake thinks.
“Where did you go after? I waited around thinking we would get together.”
“The band went to the London Bar for a drink, grabbed some food, and headed back to the hotel.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to join you?”
Jake sighs and turns to Lucinda; he sees a little girl. “Look, Lucinda, I’m really tired. These gigs are kicking my ass. We have rehearsal this afternoon with Odessa, new songs to learn for tonight. I’m really busy.”
“Can I come to rehearsal with you? Then maybe we can get something to eat later, or get together, you know, if you want to.”
Jake kindly looks at her. “I don’t think so, Lucinda. Look, you’re a baby doll, but I’m really busy. I’m sorry, but I need to be done with this.”
Lucinda’s true naiveté is hard to watch; Jake manages one more sympathetic smile before turning his attention back to his tear-down. “Yeah, thanks old man,” she says. “Go home to your boring life and rock on your boring porch or whatever you bumpkins do in Virginia. I like guys who can dance anyway. What the hell. You aren’t contagious, are you?”
Jake wrinkles his nose. “That’s distasteful, Lucinda.”
“Look, Jake, we slept together twice. We had unprotected sex, and I’m never going to see you again in about two minutes. Do you know what I mean?”
“No gifts that keep on giving, Lucinda.”
“Good. Me either, just so you know. You got lucky, Jake. You’re old enough to know better; be more careful next time.”
“There won’t be a next time, Lucinda.” Jake picks up his bag and nods goodbye.
Lucinda bitterly laughs. “Sure there will be, Jake. There’s always a next time for men like you. Wait a minute, I’m not through.” Jake has a momentary flashback, and subconsciously looks for a nurse’s station. “I am, Lucinda,” he says. “Be careful out there; you’re a very special young woman.”
“And you’re just another special musician, Jake, special in your own mind. You don’t even know my last name.”
“No, I don’t. But let’s leave it like that. Take care.”
Lucinda has one more request. “Hey, your roommate Peter…he’s the drummer, right? Will you introduce me?”
“Goodbye, Lucinda.”
And it’s over. The tour is over. Jake wins. Jake wins. Jake wins. The big bird brings the brother home.

Dear Mimi, I will be at your house before you get this postcard. I am happy and tired and full of great stories, all of which I will gladly share with you. Know this: your doorstep is my destination. Seeking a compassionate and understanding welcome home. I will look into your soulful eyes and find comfort in your open heart.
Love, Jake