Spider

    They speak to me in twitter blasts, sounds reminiscent of tiny baby fingernails scraping across wooden highchair tray. Those tiny little hairy legs scurry in perfect synchronicity carrying that violin shaped body across the wall in sporadic moments of haste; only stopping to test the air with those extra-long front legs that are more like pole arms than legs. While the spider is in mid-scurry I raise my towards it to see if it will stop, hoping maybe to halt its forward progress. And it seems to work or did it? As I stare longer I see that it is intensely focused, not on me, but on a patch of the wall, like a hungry person focuses on a single favorite item of a salad bar. Just like me to think I was significant to a spider. The spider’s front legs move back and forth from the wall to its mouth; I think he is snacking on something or does he have a taste for paint chips?

        I wave my hand again and it seems to ignore me then in a flash it flies off the wall, suspended on an invisible gossamer strand, until it reaches a point at the wall and it suddenly stops as if by a glass boundary. “Did I make him do that?” I wonder. The spider becomes intensely focused on another patch and the feeding frenzy begins again. Those long oversized front arms are black and hairy are like a mountain gorilla’s arms; they seem to be exceedingly huge for such a small creature. “My God is this spider on steroids or maybe it lifts weights on its off hours”, I think, “Damn, if I had arms like that I could have been a basketball star. Christ, God is cruel.” I begin to wonder if the spider’s arm size is an indicator as to the size of its penis. That fucking thing would have to be huge, then I remember the National Geographic special I saw awhile back mentioned something about the spiders’ arms being their penis.

    I start fantasizing about that one girl I met at ‘The Basement’ in 77 and how she compared my jock to a small baby’s arm, fuck she was tight. I wonder if female spiders make the same comparison about their male counterparts. “Don’t all women?” I say aloud and my female spider stirs next to me, softly breathing. Cuddling close and smelling of after-sex, she gets a rise out of me. I will the master back down. “Listen you little bastard, you’re the reason I have five kids, two insatiable wives, weak knees, a bad back and chaffing” I whisper at my crotch, “Go back to sleep, three hours is more than enough time to get your nut”.

    Looking up to the spot where the spider was and there is nothing but white wall and unseen spider tracks. My eyes wander over to the television and are met with the imposing image of Jay Leno’s chin; my fingers dash across the remote next to me and in a flash Letterman is on the screen. Madonna is sitting next to him; she looks like she’s becoming bored with his quirky bull shit. I can’t believe I turned that down thrity-five years ago, but then I am glad Sean has the scars of her love bites instead of me. The Master stirs again as the fantasy continues, some night in Greenwich Village at that shithole club and some cute little thing with just a slight amount of hair on her upper lip hung all over me and I reveled in every second of it. We rewarded each other with a four hour fuck on her roommate's couch; The smell her perfume and the old pot smoke stench of that couch still permeates my memory like a shotgun blast. Wonder if she remembers?
    My she-spider stirs next to me, her arm strays from my chest to my crotch, “Seems like you’re ready for an encore”, she says eagerly, “Is that for me or for her?” as she motions with her head to the television. “It’s all for you baby”, as we embrace. I hope the spider is getting some.

GTO

           Old man Greeley stood on the porch of his country home gazing out over the vast wheat covered expanse; green fields against blue skies reminded him of how lucky he was to be here, now, at this very moment. He placed the opening of the longneck bottle in his hand to his dry mouth; the cold end felt good against his chapped lips. He guzzled the iced brew until his throat burned, and then drew in one more ample amount in his mouth; the sweet hoppy and bitter malt flavors mixing over his tongue. Glancing to his right he saw that the barn door was open and a big naked patch of floor where his car use to sit.

            “Carrie …” he yelled at the top of his lungs, “Carrie Ann Louise” each word said like they were a curse upon someone’s head. He jumped off the porch and headed towards the barn as fast as his fifty year old legs could carry him. Just as he reached the open door he heard a rumble from around the back of the house, the distinct successive firing of a perfectly tuned three-eighty-nine. The sound grew louder and with it a deep throbbing sensation grew within him as the air began to vibrate; its very molecular structure being excited by the timed blasts of eight cylinders firing in perfect synchronization. He spun around to see a cloud of dust billow from behind the porch.

            He clenched his teeth in anger, promising himself swift retribution upon the head of the person responsible for moving his baby from her place of honor. He threw the bottle of beer down upon the ground, the force leaving a dent in the dirt, the bottle spinning in place; its liquid contents filled the indentation as it dribbled out. Before he could take a step forward, his baby came around the corner, barely missing the huge oak tree that had shaded the house since the day it was built. Greeley winced as he witnessed the near disaster; a look of anxiety replaced the anger that had engraved itself upon his face when he discovered the theft.

           He watched as the Candy-Apple-Green chariot fished tailed slightly then raced towards the spot he was standing; his determination to halt this affront to his metal alter made him stand his ground, there was now force on the planet that was going to make him move. This was his baby, his prize, his reward for years of determined existence; he wasn't going to let some heretic defile her. The roar of the engine grew increasingly intense and he felt as if his eardrums were going to explode from it, except at the same time the melodic thrumming seemed to encase him; it perfectly pitched resonance making the muscles of his aging frame relax. He loved this sensation, it was the same feeling he got when he would cruise the long highways that encompassed his farm.

           He awoke from an almost euphoric stupor to see the magnificent beast slide sideways to a stop; the passenger door right at his fingertips. He coughed a little from the dust as it blew past him then looked up to see the beaming face of his daughter joyfully staring at him. It took every ounce of love and control to keep him from leaping over the door and pouncing upon her for such an outrage. Carrie saw the look on his face and her smile faded slightly.

           “Don’t you remember what day it is?” she said gleefully.

           His mind raced for a moment, trying to fill in the gap where the answer should have been, “Christ, what day is this?” the answer eluded him then just as he was about to speak up, Carrie finished it for him.

            “Remember our bet? Remember how you said that you would bet your eighteenth birthday present against my college fund if I got straight A’s? Well here it is, Mr. Jenkins dropped it in the mailbox this morning. ”, waving a report card in front of his face.

             The anger left his mind, his shoulders slumped forward, he leaned against the car door for support as the picture of that moment in his life that he thought would never come enveloped his mind. He had made that bet, but only because he never thought she would do it. He made the bet four years earlier when she had brought her last report card from junior high home; three D’s and three C’s, barely passing. He mentally slugged himself then looked up towards his baby girl almost ready to plead his case; until he saw the look in her eyes. He remembered that look, it was the same look he had when his father drove up in the car; brand new off the showroom floor. A gift, a reward for graduating at the top of his class of 1965 and a going away present since he had enlisted in the Army. He cherished that thought, since it was at that moment that he and his father had truly came to terms and he realized that the stiff old man really had a heart and was immensely proud of his son.

            “You’re right baby, you are absolutely, positively correct,” a smile crossing over his face, you earned it fair and square. But you could have at least let me tune it up before you took her out.”

            “Already did it, did it when you were in fields.” she said with pride, “I pulled it out while you were showering. Couldn't you hear it?”

            He remembered the sound from earlier and nodded his head, “You did a great job baby. Now let’s go in and have some lunch.” He waved her toward the house.

            “Lunch is on me, grandma sent me some birthday money, get in.” as she dropped back into the driver seat, “Come on pop, times a wasting.”

            As much as he wanted to protest he had to come to terms that his baby was all grown up, she proved her worth, she beat him at his game; now he had to let her have her just rewards. He leapt over the door and dropped in the passenger seat, it seemed alien to him as he realized he had never sat in that spot before. He slid his hand into his back pocket and drew out an envelope and handed it towards his driver.

            “Here is your birthday card, I got it last week while we were in town, there’s a little something inside for you.”

            Carrie tore open the envelope to find the pink slip for the car with a hundred dollar bill stapled to it, his signature and information already filled in. She looked at him puzzled, “When did you do this? I just found out today about my grades.”

            He smiled confidently and reached up to comb the blonde strands from her face, “Have you ever known me not to be prepared for the inevitable? I filled that out a week ago. Now let’s go get some food.”

              Carrie buckled up and looked over to her father as if to indicate he should do the same. He smiled, pulled the belt across his lap. “Punch it baby” he blurted, as he planted his feet firmly on floorboard and grabbed the hand rest above the glove compartment; fully prepared for what was to come. Carrie turned the knob on the radio and the 60’s tune blared from the eight speakers that surrounded them. She pulled the gearshift into first, dropped the clutch and pressed the gas pedal towards the floor. A rooster tail of dirt flew back from the rear wheels as the car pushed out towards the black tar driveway that led to the main road.

           He grabbed a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and placed them over his eyes as Carrie pulled hers down from the pocket of the sun visor. She tossed her hair back and placed hers on her face and started laughing as a new song came over the radio. Greeley smiled as he heard Ronnie and the Daytonas sing the praises of his baby’s new baby. 

Comforts

    

The day started out fairly plain, more so than any of the other days he had been stuck in some podunk town and Waukegan was no exception. Most other days had been graced with brisk winds, clouds, some rain, even a few lightning storms passing to the north or south of his modest motel, described as a mild summer by the motel night clerk that had checked him in.

He preferred spending evenings outside of his room so he wandered out to the grassy areas by the room window, taking a chair with him. He spent the time decompressing, maybe he’d write a bit while chewing on the Havana cigar that he was given his last birthday and sip on some single-malted scotch he had ordered online from the brewers website. In all it was his way of changing his mood and preparing for the next day.

It was his last evening in Illinois and he was looking forward to getting back home to California, returning to his own comforts, his perfect space, to a bed he could sleep in without worrying about who had occupied it previously; he liked home. The sky was painted with a minimal amount of clouds, not enough to obscure his view of the stars. These were the partners of his dreams, the only constant he could count on and each day more and more of them disappeared, painted over by the city lights that these urbanites needed to feel safe and secure in their little bedroom communities.

            “Christ, get a gun.”

The cigar became more bitter in his mouth, the tip having been chewed for too long. He pulled the cutter from his shirt pocket and removed a half inch off the end then dipped the cut end into his glass of scotch. The bold woody flavored filled his mouth and he rolled his tongue about to experience as much of that as he could. While his mouth was still full he took a bit of scotch into it, careful to keep the cigar smoke from seeping out, he swished it about and let it trickle down the back of his throat as he leaned his head back to continue his survey of the night sky.

            The slight noise of a door being unlatched disturbed his Zen moment and the light from the open door obscured his view; an invasion into his calm. A soft voice spoke out from behind him.

            “Oh hello,” the sound of the door closing hard followed, “Do you have a light?” said a very feminine voice from behind him.

            “Sure, here,” he reached back over his shoulder with the old Zippo he had fished out of his shirt pocket, flipped open the cover and struck the flint wheel. He felt the heat of the flame on his thumb then the soft warmth of her hands as she wrapped them around his to steady the lighter causing the hairs on his arm to rise.

            “Thank you,” she said as she pulled up a plastic chair and sat next to him.

            “I’ve been jonesing for a smoke since I came on.” There was a pause as she took a drag on her cigarette and he let out his mouthful of smoke, thoroughly satisfied that he had expunged the sum total of all the flavor from it he could; it drifted off towards the starlit sky.

            “Mmmmmmmm, that smells nice, what kind of cigar?”

            “Returning the lighter to his pocket; the residual heat seeped through his shirt and warmed his chest, “It a Cuban … Robusto”.

            “I thought those were illegal?” she seemed puzzled.

            “Only if you get caught,” he said with a hint of sarcasm in his tone, “I have a friend that works for the diplomatic corps in Costa Rica, he ships me a few boxes each year for my birthday and Christmas, under the radar.”

            “You have friends in Costa Rica?” her tone was almost gleeful.

            “Yup.”

            “Lucky you, I don’t have any friends outside of Waukegan and most of them have never been outside their own front door let alone the country,” the dismay and resentment oozed from her words, “I wish I could get the hell out of this town. Where do you live?”

            “Shit more small talk,” he thought as he took a long draw from the cigar and completed the ritual with the scotch. “Huntington Beach, California,” was his reply as he expelled the smoke.

            "Surf City USA" they softly chimed in unison.

            "I always wanted to visit there", saying as she exhaled, "that and Hawaii."

            The assaulting smell of burnt cigarette paper filled his nostrils and he felt warmth across his neck as if someone was leaning in from behind. He tilted his head back, trying to return to his Zen in an effort to get the obnoxious smell from his nose. He took another long draw on his Cuban and returned his gaze to the sky. He felt a hand on his shoulder and soft breath in his ear.

            “Mind if I try?” she whispered into his ear. A tingling sensation caused the hair on his neck to rise; it had been awhile since a girl had been that close to him. He wasn't sure whether to be agitated or intrigued.

            “Really?”, he thought as he turned to confront intruder. His attitude changed when he came face to face with that of an angel and she had a name tag that read ‘Annette’ and attached to that was a smile that beamed like a supernova. He stammered his replied, “Sure what the hell.”

             As he leaned forward to share the tools of his meditation with her, he collected himself, realizing that he needed to glance up about a foot to keep from looking the fool. He was a bit surprised by what he saw; he had stayed at more dive motels than he cared to remember and never came across a lovelier creature as the one he was almost leering at now. A thousand different pickup lines came to his head and his mind raced through the list, he backed off the tacky inclination.

            “Do you like scotch as well?” he questioned, hoping those full ruby red lips would grace the edge of his glass so he could sample her lipstick as part of his ritual.

            “Don’t know, it’s my first time at this” she beamed as she approached him, “My name is Annette” pointing to tag on her sheer white blouse.

            “Mine’s Tim,” pointing to an empty space just below the polo rider and horse on his shirt.

             Annette giggled at his futile attempt at comedy as he handing over the cigar. He continued, “Well, since you are a cigarette smoker then you will need to understand that you do not want to inhale the cigar smoke into your lungs …” his mind danced with visions of her, on his boat, in his jag and any other such menageries he could conjure as he continued to instruct her on the individual steps of his nightly ritual; he found himself becoming less irritated and more entranced with her by the minute.

             She was a quick learner and it had the process down in no time but no time was all she had.

             “Got to get back to work, but I’m off at eleven, do you mind if I look in on you if you are still awake?” there was a level of earnest in her request or could it be his mind playing wishful thinking. It enticed him none-the-less so they made plans to get together.  He gave her his cell phone number so she could call before she came.

            After she left he leapt into action. First he raced through the room to tidy up a bit then took a quick shower and a super close shave. He also bopped over to the liquor store next door to the motel to get another bottle of scotch and found that the owner had a twenty-five year old Glenmorangie in his reserves.

            “It’s a scotch made for the taste of a woman, she’ll think you've brought home heaven in a bottle” he said with a Cheshire Cat like grin upon his face.

             He came back with a little more than just a bottle of liquor, just because the evening seemed to have that air of spontaneity. He dressed up the room a bit with some incense candles, turned off the lights and then settled down on the divan with the cell phone next to him to wait for her call.

****

            There was a klaxon going off, warning that another aircraft had locked on to his. He tried desperately to find the control to turn it off. The shrill voice of the prerecorded warning sound bite ate into his brain through his auditory nerves causing him to clench his jaw so tight that it made the muscles ache. Yet he still managed to look about him for the bogey spotting it on his seven low, then he swore at himself as he spotted another at his five low.

            “Tango Base this is Tango One, I got two, repeat two bogies on my six and they have tone. Requesting permission to engage”

He wasn't going to wait but he made the request just to keep the brass happy. He banked hard to port and pulled up on the stick, hoping that the two enemy craft would fly by; which they did. He then dropped back in behind them as the replies from flight command came through.

            “Tango one, you are go to engage, repeat you are go to engage.”

He targeted the wingman of the two bogies and locked on, “Tango command lock one and fox one” he blurted as he sent his first missile on its way. He locked onto the second aircraft when the warning klaxon sounded that he had another boggy on his six. He turned his head hard around to see where the intruder was.

****

A gentle voice came out of the night, “Tim? Tim? Are you ok?”

            “Aye Aye Tango Command,” he blurted as he came out of his sleep with a start. Her face had an angelic glow from the candle light and there was a hint of lavender oil about her as she leaned over him, “Are you sure?” there was also a look of concern on her face.

            “Yeah sure, just fell asleep, was having a dream. I thought you were going to call? How did you get in?”

            “You didn’t answer your phone” she said as he pulled himself up grabbed his cell and check to see if he had it on; her call showed on the missed list, “besides I have a master key card. I am really not supposed to use it except in emergencies, but …” she said, her tone becoming playful, “I figured since you didn’t answer the door … and you said to come by … and I could really use a drink,” gesturing towards the bottle of scotch on the table, “that I would let myself in. You don't mind do you?”

            “No, No, actually on the contrary I am very pleased that you decided to stop by” as he arose and walked over the sink to throw water on his face, he pointed to the table where the scotch and cigars were laid out, “Help yourself, I found this great scotch that was recommended by the owner to the liquor store. He was especially adamant about its appeal to the ladies. I think you might like it,” as he watched her in the mirror pouring the amber liquid into two short tumblers; stopping at about the halfway mark.

            He grabbed a cigar from the ones laid out on the table and pulled his cutter out from his pocket. It was custom made in Hong Kong, of silver and gold and had the emblem of his unit etched into the medallion that hung from the chain attached to it.

            “Pretty,” said Annette as she moved up quietly alongside of him purposefully brushing against his arm with her chest as she reached for the cigar he had finished cutting. She placed the cigar into her mouth and reached into the pocket of his shirt where she saw the bulge of his Zippo lighter. She took his hand and placed the lighter into it and raised both to her mouth.

            “Light me,” she said with a breathy tone.

            Tim fumbled with the lighter for what seemed to be an eternity before it came alive with a small orange-blue flame. Annette leaned into his hand and puffed on the cigar repeatedly while slowly turning it in her fingers; the end glowed cherry red. She glanced up through her luxuriously long eyelashes and stared into his. Her eyes shone blue with a green hue around the outer edge and they reflected the light of the candles to a point of becoming hypnotic. He blinked and pulled himself back a bit and placed his cigar in his mouth to light it.

            “Here let me,” said Annette as she took the lighter from his hand, allowing hers to linger for a bit. “My dad showed me this special trick,” she giggled as she used two fingers and her thumb to flip open and strike the flint wheel in one smooth stroke; the lighter came alive again.

This time Tim took the opportunity to hold her hand in his as she lit his cigar in the same manner, placing his about her wrist, where his thumb could stroke the soft, sensitive area where her forearm met her hand; she didn’t pull away.

“Shall we adjourn to the patio to meditate?” handing her a glass of Glenmorangie, “I think you'll appreciate this, it has been aged for twenty-five years.”

Annette laughed, “That makes two of us.”

He set down his glass and grabbed two chairs to haul them out to the patio then a small table to put the drink glasses on. He placed the table between the chairs and Annette stayed on the patio as he went into the room to retrieve his glass and a candle. When he returned he found that Annette had moved the two chairs together and the table to the front and was relaxing with her feet up on it. Her head was laid back over the chair, her long hair streaming over the back of the chair.

“I brought the candle out for ambience,” he said idly.

“Sweet.”, she dipped the cigar into her glass and took a long draw on it, held it for a moment before taking a sip of the scotch. He sat down next to her and she turned her head and smiled as well as she could, with her cheeks puffed from the cigar smoke and scotch. He could see her tongue run against the sides of her mouth as she savored the flavors mixed together; a wisp of smoke came from her nostrils as she swallowed the concoction. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth, rounding it into a large ‘O’ and release small rings of smoke into the air.

“Funny,” Tim said as he sat down next to her, “I took you for a virgin cigar smoker; you do that like a pro.”

“Oh my dad was a cigar man from way back and I use to sneak out one or two of his Churchills a month just for myself and the boys I was trying to impress. I thought he didn’t know until one day, on my twenty-first birthday, he took me to a cigar bar in Chicago. Told me to pick any box of cigars I wanted. Then we went drinking downtown. I know he probably would have taken my brother out for the ritual, had he lived; but he never let on. We had a great time, he took me to dinner, dancing and carried me home on his shoulder when I passed out. When I woke up the next morning he was sitting there in a chair next to my bed sleeping”, her voice trailed off slightly as she became somewhat lost in the memory of which she spoke.

Tim spoke up, “Sounds like you have the perfect Dad.”

She nodded, “Yeah, he’s a real champ. He raised my brother and I after my mom passed, then after my brother was killed in Fallujah. And the whole time he never once gave in, never broke down and believe me, as a teenager I was no picnic.”

Tim took a puff on his cigar, a sip of scotch and went into his meditative routine, Annette followed suit, keenly aware that the conversation was getting a bit on the heavy side. Tim broke the silence, “Yeah my mom was like that with my brothers and I after my dad passed in the seventies, my gramps tried to help the best as he could, but he had ancient ways of thinking about things and my brothers couldn’t deal with it. I guess being the eldest made it easier for me.”

Tim spoke of his grandfather a bit, how he had fought in World War II as a tail gunner on a Marine torpedo-bomber at Guadalcanal and his family’s long tradition of service in the United States Navy and Marine Corps and how he was disappointed when Tim didn’t stay the service after his time in the Persian Gulf. He talked about what he knew of his father, who had died after the Vietnam War from cancer. Annette spoke of her own father’s experiences in Vietnam and how he had continued in the Army despite suffering several wounds in combat and how he served out the rest of his career as a sergeant in the Medical records office.

“Not much a man with one eye and hearing loss in one ear can do in the military” she said, “but he retired with full bennies and is living comfortable.”

Tim raised his glass, “A toast! To all the men who never came back”

Annette brought her glass up and the moon light shown through the medium amber liquid and chimed in, “And all the women that loved them.”

Their glasses met in the air with a distinct crystal clink, Tim tossed his head back and swallowed the rest of the glass. Annette followed his lead then grabbed up the bottle and poured them some more. She started feeling the effects of the libation and took a few breaths to clear her head. Standing over Tim she raised her glass again.

“And to all the women that didn’t come back,” she said trying to keep a stern face.

“And to all the men that should have loved them” Tim added.

            They both gulped down the entire contents of their glasses. Tim’s head swam as he raised himself up to pour some more scotch into their empty glasses.

“This is some damn good liquid candy you got their mister Tim. One would think you were planning on getting me drunk” Annette said with a chuckle, “but then again I would have been disappointed if you hadn't.”

Annette slowly eased herself into the chair after she put her cigar in her mouth, “Damn it’s out,” gesturing with her eyes at the tip of the cigar.

 “My sincerest apologies” said Tim as he fished about his shirt pocket for the lighter, “Here you are mademoiselle” he said as he bowed and flipped open the lighter, “Allow me to light that for you.” He wobbled a bit but managed to complete the task and sit down heavily before he fell.

Tim drank from his left hand and smoked from his right, she did the opposite so that she could lay her arm over his as they sat together enjoying the pitch black sky, dotted with bright diamond like stars.

A small streak flashed across the sky from a falling star and Tim raised his glass to it, “Here’s to all the comforts in life and to the ones we get to share it with.”

            “Here, here,” Annette replied. Reaching over with her drinking arm she added, “And here is to all the people that find comfort in each other.”

Tim brought his glass over and they clinked them together, “Ya damn skippy!” was his riposte. Then thoughtfully he said, “Are you going to make a wish on that star?”

            Annette paused for a moment and then replied, “What would you wish for?”

            Without hesitation he said “I would wish for more moments like this one.” Then with a short pause, “And you?”

 “The same, just as long as it’s with someone like you.”

 “Ditto” he said with a smile.

Tim hesitated for a moment, wondering how his next comment would be construed by her; the moment was good, his Zen was back and he didn’t want to blow it by seeming too eager.

            “So Annette, are you working tonight? I just thought maybe we could go …” she interrupted before he could complete his thought.

            “Not working but I have plans” she said.

A feeling of disappointment swept over him and he wasn't sure what to say next. He took a sip of scotch, swished it around in his mouth, swallowed then spoke.

“Anything special?” he choked a bit on some leftover scotch but didn’t let on.

“Yeah, cooking a birthday dinner my father,” again she paused, “Would you like to come over?”

He was almost floored.

“I don't want to intrude,” he replied, “he might not feel comfortable with a stranger around.”

“Oh I don’t think he’ll mind too much, especially if you bring a bottle of this,” raising her glass, “and couple of these” raising the cigar. “I think he would feel comfortable around a guy like you” she continued as she looked over to him “someone laid back like him.”

He wasn't sure how to respond so he just nodded as he took a draw on the cigar and went through his ritual.

            “So what are you doing for breakfast” he said playfully.

            Annette paused a bit, gulped down the last of the scotch in her glass, and then looking over to him with a come-hither smile, “Watching the sunrise with you.”

            That sunrise would be more glorious than any he'd experienced in his thirty-five years.