July 11th, 2008 at 11:27 am
(Character Sketch, Unfinished)
Just the intro on a longer piece I’m working on, because I haven’t posted anything since just before the wedding.
Darling didn’t particularly care. The detective looked for work like a man scanned his sink for loose hairs. It was a defect, an ominous sign, his profession necessary as an inevitable series of mistakes. He tied loose ends, tried to at least.
“C’mon God-damnit bar opens at noon!” goes the shakeup, “Christ Tommy, like you don’t know anything.”
“I don’t, shit.” Tommy met indifference, blinking down the barrel of a .45, “like last time, like the time before that.”
Darling should have known better, would have if he bothered to. He knew the tells, the lies, the creases of a forehead. Darling knew calculus, never used it.
“You’re a scumbag Tommy, we both know this” They did, point of fact, “you are therefore fucking privy to a number of things I might find fucking significant.”
It wasn’t a particularly heated exchange. Though their voices were raised, there was little venom. It was rage, to a point, anger and violence, certainly, but only in moderation. They were men going through the motions, doing familiar tasks in familiar ways. Change was pointless, change was hard, better to take a stiff shot to the jaw than worry about where it was all going to end up.
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March 4th, 2008 at 9:46 pm
(Character Sketch, Scene)
Danger Dan the Danger Man dances so that he won’t get his ass kicked. DD dances with a beast of a fellow, a real gorilla mother fucker, decorated head to toe with hair. Unusual coloring, however, a disconcerting human silverback covered with coarse blonde locks.
The unnamed fellow drank like a maniac, which did not recommend his character. A real gem, the chap matched personality with appearance, mammoth and scary right to the core. DD wondered what to say to the guy pounding Appletinis on the edge of the bar. It was his stool, afterall.
‘my seat, man, my chair’
DD joined the man beneath the shade of a novelty umbrella, watching the wind stir his wheat-covered arm, watching for traces of tattoos, veins in blue and red. A number of thoughts occur here, wide ranges of questions, but DD forgets them all.
‘my seat, man, my chair. all my action’
Danger Dan intended to reclaim his place. Danger Dan got asked to dance instead. What’s a man to say? Which objections to raise, which to shelve, how to figure the format of the debate? Danger Dan doesn’t do the expected, however. Yes is your answer, DD, if you know what’s good for you.
‘yes. I do, I’m no hero’
Danger Dan spins round the floor in a lovely tango, caught up in a quick-stepping number which seemed a much better course than the abuse discretion might incur. The beat was fast, the bar mocking, but DD could not avoid the feel of the thing.
‘should I be settled? should they be soft?’
Danger Dan dances with a man, and is put at east by platinum mitts placed upon either shoulder. He sighs as he spins, and glances along the faces lining the edge of the floor. DD knows the damage done, knows who’s going home alone. A quick look tells him that much.
‘this is strange. that much is clear.’
Danger Dan disengages from the man, adjusts tie and coat and the buttons of his shirt. Returns to the bar in haste. Snapped fingers summon another round and DD begins to drown. The silverback begins to wander, prowling the bar and is gone.
‘a strange night.’
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January 2nd, 2008 at 10:57 pm
(Character Sketch)
Ojedo Acevedo liked to think of the world as a particularly well shaped box. He liked borders, adored walls and threw himself soullessly into little tasks with clear and simple goals. He loved beginnings; he loved endings and felt safe whenever the two existed within sight of one another. Ojedo was simple of mind, but devout in purpose and dedicated himself to the small assortment of tasks his modest copy-shop demanded.
Oh-Hey, as coworkers had quickly taken to calling him, walked to work, barring rain, and did so by the same streets every day. He’d started counting steps once, under particularly inviting springtime clouds, but had given the task up, intimidated by its scope, not trusting his uncertain steps.
Oh-Hey liked to write his address on little slips of paper. He ran them off at work, so many footsteps, wadded up and discarded wherever he happened to go. Each slip was a little thrill, a tingle and the suggestion of life beyond the confines of his delightful little box. Ojedo left traces of himself on the outside and lived in fear. He worked to keep his phone clean and uncovered, resting atop a single unoccupied table even as garbage began to accumulate in his little apartment.
Oh-Hey feared the phone might ring, might disturb him during dinner or his programs. It would be an obvious intrusion, as he seldom kept his television particularly loud. Ojedo could see himself turning, amazed at the sudden piercing intrusion. There would be a pause, two rings at least to properly gauge the situation, before he would fold his napkin, reorder his silver and pad quickly across his small apartment. Oh-Hey would feel his heart begin to race, note the rising tension in his thick frame and how it crawled beneath his skin. A strange ritual, Oh-Hey would wait, listen and wait to see who had found him.
No-one ever called.
Ojedo Acevedo sent letters as well. Boarding schools, correspondence programs and correctional institutions. Pen-pals and prisons, long-flowing prose, chopped up personal scribbling or whatever else seemed appropriate. His hand was open, affable and Oh-Hey seldom used phrases beyond his own below-average intelligence. He said hello to relatives, inquired after class schedules and vowed his friendship constant for the duration of punishment. Oh-Hey told tales. He listened to soft-jazz and thought of things he’d rather be doing, wrote them down and said in conclusion: “I sincerely wish to find my way into your acquaintance; I should hope to hear from you again soon, Mr. Ojedo Acevedo.”
Oh-Hey never checked is mailbox.
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