While Im still doing massive rewrites on Conspiracy Of Birds I wanted to put up a chapter, maybe get a little feedback, see what you discerning fiends and fiendettes think. Enjoy! Or don't, I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life. One note for clarity; the story takes place in a city outside of time, like a pocket universe, where time means nothing, so parts of this city are ancient, but as new as the modern parts. Or something.
Emily was sitting alone as usual in the
back of the café, fretting over some scraps of paper and tea. She never looked
up to see who was walking through the door, and rarely spoke to anyone. She
would sit there for hours, sipping tea and wringing her hands. She bit her lip
a lot and closed her eyes for long periods of time. I imagine she was praying
in those moments. I never saw anyone make an attempt to talk to her and that
bothered me. No one here seemed half as lonely and no one seemed half as
avoided.
Lenny said he tried to talk to her
once, decades ago, but she was a "cold fish."
I stopped in the café once a day to get
coffee and while I waited I'd always watch her out of the corner of my eye. How
did she get so far from home?
I decided when I woke up that afternoon
I'd talk to her that day. I told Lenny as he helped me tie off and shoot up. He
shrugged and told me good luck, then stuck the needle in. We nodded for a
while, listening to a Charlie Parker record, like good junkies should.
I woke up in the recliner that came
with the room. It was uncomfortable and slightly older than Christ. Lenny was
gone, so was the rest of the dope. That was ok, I hadn't developed a habit yet.
I took a swig of whiskey and went into the bathroom to shave and shower.
While I shaved I kept getting confused
by my eyes in the mirror, because they seemed to be looking some place else and
not right back at me.
The late morning was hot and sticky.
The air thick with bugs. Street vendors were hawking their wares and the street
kids were hawking themselves. A street prophet was dropping spiritual bombs
like a B-52 from Heaven.
Outside the café representatives from
every religion, earthly and alien, had a flyer or tract to give me. I collected
the ones that seemed the farthest out and tucked them into the messenger bag I
rescued from the trash a few days ago. I had taken to collecting religious
pamphlets years ago when I was in high school and had amassed an impressive
collection. I could have a PhD in religion with what I've learned from those
things.
There were only a few people in the
café. It was dark and cool. The low hum of Indian music filled the air like a
shorting fluorescent bulb. I ordered a large coffee with two ice cubes, and
carried it to the back.
Emily was stirring her tea nervously,
muttering to herself. I walked over slowly, checking out the paintings on the
wall. I stopped at the Beckman that hung over her table.
"Pretty amazing, huh?"
She looked up, surprised and confused.
"The painting. It's a Beckman.
He's my favorite painter."
She turned to the painting. She'd never
noticed it before. The blues and black lines, the distorted faces pushed her
away.
"I prefer Edward Hopper," she
said.
"I like Hopper too."
"Do you want to sit?" She
blurted out.
"Yeah, thank you." I told her
my name and she told me hers. She kept stirring her tea, looking around me, trying
to make conversation about the heat, the bugs, the quality of the tea here...I
tried to ask her about herself, but she couldn't muster much in the way of
answers, just half sentences, nervous giggles, wringing her hands. I felt like
all she needed was something to loosen her up, so I asked her if she'd have a
drink with me.
"I-I really don't drink...Maybe a
glass of wine at night, if I'm having trouble sleeping, but that's..."
"Have one with me anyway. I hate
to drink alone."
She nodded weakly and I went up to the
counter. I ordered two bourbons on ice with a splash of soda in hers. When I
returned to her she wasn't wringing her hands or stirring her tea. She was
perfectly still looking out the window. When I sat down she looked back to the
painting and scrunched up her nose for a brief second and looked away with a
brief shudder.
I set her drink down in front of her
and she looked at it like I'd just handed her a glass of piss.
"There's a little coke in yours.
It'll go down easier."
She absently touched the glass, rubbing
her forefinger up and down in the condensation. Without looking at me she
raised her eyebrows and picked up the drink.
"Why?"
"I'm sorry, why what?"
"Why do you insist on me having
this?"
"I don't-"
"I told you I drink an occasional
glass of wine. Nothing more. I turned this down, but you insisted. And here I
sit with it."
"I'm sorry-"
"No, you're not. You need me to
drink this. You need to sully me. You need to bring me down to the level you
perceive yourself to be."
I looked down at my drink, praying for
the right words to come.
She knocked the drink back in one gulp
and glared at me.
"It's even cheap. Why didn't you
just bring me a bottle of Thunderbird in a paper bag? You look like you have
something to say. Let me guess, it's something along the lines of 'C'mon,
bitch, I wanna screw!' Am I close?"
She stood with stone cold sober
stability and fixed me with an ice stare.
"This is why I never wanted to go
anywhere. Because you're all the same."
She left the café with angelic grace,
gliding through the mob outside. The bourbon was bitter in my mouth and made my
stomach turn. I looked up at the painting and cursed under my breath. She'd be
going back to the hotel. I needed to avoid her for a while so I sat a little
longer before I got up and stepped into the heat.
Copyright 2011 Tim Murr/St Rooster Books
