Time for a Change

“This went a lot more smoothly than I imagined, and it was built with little room for error.  It fit perfectly, though, and that’s not easy to do. Handmade casings are always a tossup.” The horologist closed his bag and wound the clock in synchronicity with his phone. “It’s quite the unusual setup, but it runs exceptionally well. It kept up with my clocking with little to no loss. You also did well to listen to my suggestion of felt foot pads. You’ve leveled it out perfectly.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Has the quote changed, or is it something different?” He sat back a moment to admire his grandfather’s handiwork. The brass tones glittered in the light of his new chandelier, the fixture he had toiled and cursed to set up. Most of the house was sewn together with his profanity and toil. It made for a reliable suture.

“It’s the same. Man, check out how well it matches your table. You couldn’t have planned that better if you tried.” The horologist stood back to look at the drop leaf table in total. Indeed it matched. It also matched the floor and the walls. All of this came together with only a bare minimum of forethought, a series of independent choices tying themselves together without any effort.

“Yes, that’s always a bonus.” He broke the check neatly along the perforations close to the spine. It was a healthy sum. A sum from sacrifice and sweat, but he’d be OK. He was a survivor. He knew that it would be a can of beans here, a stay-at-home weekend there, and he would have recouped his savings after a while. He wasn’t sure how long “a while” was specifically, but it did exist in some quantity.

The deed was now done. The help was paid in full, and the clock was functional again for the first time in more than three decades. He sat down at the kitchen table again and stared at the finished project. It chimed with soft Westminster tones he could only translate into gratitude. Like the gasp of a patient brought back from dead, it was alive again.

Sitting in front of him, the phone became a reminder of the finishing touch. Thumbing through the address book he called his mother. A drowsy voice took the call.

“Hey mom, the clock’s working again. It chimes perfectly.”

“That’s great, honey.”

“The guy who worked on it was really impressed. He said he was worried it might not fit it was so tight, but the movement gave him no hassle. It was as if the case was custom built for the clockworks, and that’s machine-quality milling.”

A sniffle was the only reply, but he immediately knew it wasn’t from an early onset of the flu season. He knew the story. She lost he father before he was born. It wasn’t a seamless account, as he had to glue the pieces together like a broken vase, but he knew enough. The details weren’t important anyway.

“We had no money. He worked so hard. He was so good at it.” The voice was full of remembering. Memories too painful to frequent, but too precious to let go. He clutched his fist and grit his teeth at the sorrow.

“I know you didn’t, mom. I know.” It takes strength to stare down suffering, when you’re the anchor in a conversation.

“I miss him… so much…” choking all over her words, she made a few “hups” to hobble through it. He knew she was unable to pull the resources together to do much of anything with it. The bits of inexpensive decor laid upon it for the last thirty years would make for a small memorial to its maker. They were the token acknowledgement of its existence. It must have been killing her to see it that way for so long.

“I would like you to stop by and listen to it sometime.”

Another sob came over the line ending with, “I would love that very much.”

There had not been a time in his life where he doubted his role in all of this. He just never knew the why until the very end. Today, he had done right.

© 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

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My City by the Bay (Chapter 4, Part 4 of 4)

The Dip

Love loves complication. Love loves drama. Love loves attention. One day you want to nestle your head on her chest, the next you’re looking for an apartment far away from her. For as painful as it is, this condition has to be for the best. Continuity and consistency are rules for robots, and no one’s a machine… yet. That’s to the wealthy’s chagrin anyway; they would be the only ones to benefit from it.

At the heart of humanity, being human, is change. Without it a person becomes obsolete like a Commodore 64 or 8-track tape player. Sure, they’re fun for the sense of nostalgia. People would like something more modern for the day-to-day activities though.

Sig’s ride jostled with each imperfection in the road. He looked up at the ceiling ads and sighed, “what am I doing?” This was some sort of defeat, but there wasn’t any definition to it. He hadn’t actively done anything to destroy the relationship, but wasn’t the greatest proponent of it either. Who was to blame? No one, he supposed. Chrissy and he were just two incompatible people hoping to cross over. He was out helping family, while she was in need of most of it.

With a little anxiety, he rolled together stems of the bouquet purchased in Old Town. Cellophane became a cathedral radio, crackling as he adjusted to his favorite station: nervous. The last time they spoke was at 100 decibels. Love loves scorched Earth, too.

Life in the Dip felt like living in a hole. In truth, it was a depression in the land but also acted as an oubliette. Deriving itself from oublier, French for “to forget,” many lost recollection of the area and its residents. Unlike Old Town and North Harbor, people in the Dip kept to themselves and didn’t make a fuss. Heavy notes of defeat and resignation drifted through the neighborhood as sweeping winds carried litter down its streets.

Christine’s house stood as a fortress from all that was outside of her personal sphere of influence. Not even the smog of Uptown could penetrate the small, ecru bungalow of Stapleton Row. Mostly-plumb pickets poked the atmosphere with an air of defiance and smacked of rough carpentry. Sig was not the best craftsman in the world, but it worked for what they could afford.  It was better suited for filtering plastic bags anyway. Cheap pine is serviceable baleen.

Bottles from Sig’s “Alcolympics” disappeared since his departure. His favorite past time was the “beer put,” which involved launching an empty beer bottle like three-pound shot from the porch. The unbroken bottle furthest from the front door won. And what did they win? Another beer, of course, however the crisp shatter of glass was a satisfying runner up.

Sig pushed back the front gate, and it drooped to the right as if to say “oh God, not you again.”  This was the first time he was back in months, only enough time to settle into his new digs, yet crossing the threshold felt like a violation itself. In a strict sense, it was trespassing, but this was beyond any technical interpretation.

The porch was different only in the sense it had been cleared of various debris from unfinished projects. She let a whole flat of petunias wilt one year, but something prompted its removal. Change is good, but change is scary. The eyes of an emotionally worn man turned up to peer at the knocker which was polished, yet not entirely wiped clean. An oak tree in the front lawn waved its shadow on the beast as if to warn of bad ideas.

“What is going on here?” Fingers touched the hastily buffed brass ring attached to a lion’s mouth, which gave way to space a few seconds later. In its place stood a stern looking man in a white tank top and a cell phone.

“Can I help you?” the wall of a man was at least getting down to business in a semi-cordial manner. Tonality indicated, however, Sig’s reputation preceded him. There wasn’t much room for a favorable opinion.

“I… uh… I’m here to see Christine Taureano. Is she in by any chance?”

“She went shopping. Sor…” The obviously lie was quickly foiled when a sprightly, small figure came up from behind the slab of meat and gave him a kiss.

“Who is it, swee… oh, hey Sig.”  Disappointment became palpable at that moment, and the energy drained from her form. This was obviously not the day she wanted to break the news to him. She might have been banking on never seeing him again. It was probably the lack of control over the situation which carried the most dissatisfaction.

“Yeah, hey. I was hoping you still had my box of clothes. It could come in handy down the road.” Yeah, for when he wanted to burn an effigy of Sergeant Beefhead standing next to him.

“Oh! Yeah, no problem.” The softball was smacked with so much fervor, one would think nothing happened at all. There were a few seconds of awkward silence that followed between the new beau and Sig. That was nothing compared to the awkward silence following him home that night. Chrissy returned with a faded egg box signifying the end of the round. Sig got a consolation prize.

“There! That should be the last of it.” Smiling during a meeting of this nature could be considered an insult, but the one riding up her face was probably meant to be such. The two lovebirds probably met within the last month or so. Her benevolence was a good way to avoid spoiling the honeymoon. “So, what’s with the flowers?”

“Oh, these. I happened to meet a florist today and she wanted to know if you would like them.” No one would have ever bought that. What good would it have done regardless?

“No, thanks.”

That hurt more than it should. They both claimed the fire was gone more often than he could remember, but this was it. Sig pursed his lips at the bitter end of book he didn’t want to finish. She actually found someone new.

“OK, then. I’ll see you around.” Lingering any further would result in someone either getting physically or emotionally battered. A quick exit was the way to salvation.

“I sure hope not,” followed quietly thereafter.

For all the enticing aromas, the flowers refused to look at him at the bus stop. They only stared at the street wanting someone else to plant them in a vase. Sig knew that was only his perception, but it seemed real enough at the moment. An attitude like that only gets the trash can. An attitude like his only gets the curb. It was the price of being himself.

The egg carton showed wear from being thrown about the house. Rough in feel, only the dried adhesive provided competition. Failed duct tape clung to one end of the box as if to document some sort of effort in the storage process, but maintenance had a lot to be desired. Sig tucked the flaps back and peeked into the faded darkness.

Various garments felt fresh air for the first time in ages. Underwear, bowling shirts, and the cut-off jeans he used for mowing were among various articles tossed about like a wild sea of dyed cotton. Bailing out the container, he noticed something sunk at the bottom of the box. Diving deeper, it became apparent Davy Jones found a picture of them when they first started seeing each other.

Sig looked up at the sky and added a few more drops in the ocean.

© 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

My City by the Bay (Chapter 4, Part 1 of 4)

Station

The next few days were rough on Sig. The thought of Sal weighed heavy on his mind as he went through the day-to-day motions of his life. Conversations got garbled and meals were tasteless. Benelli did what she could to help, but could only stay out of his way. There wasn’t much that could be done. He had to sort this out and make peace with the issue by himself.

He stared at the map on the corkboard. All the red pins started to dance a bit, as he stood there motionless. There wasn’t much of a pattern, save that they were close to Old Town. That’s merely a practical move. Dead bodies showing up in the richer neighborhoods would rattle too many movers and shakers, and pressure on the police chief would be compounded.

“They wouldn’t want the bodies to get cold too much. They obviously need a chop shop, and it’s obviously in Old Town. It’s got to be large and accommodating, which says little. There are plenty of those down there. Too many drop offs would also stir the hive.”

“That is, if the hive isn’t afraid for its life. Life’s cheap in the ghetto. There’s no reason to push the envelope.” Benelli chimed in behind him.

“How long have you been standing there?” Sig twisted his head to the right.

“Long enough to listen to your little soliloquy.”

“With Sal gone, it’s going to be a little more difficult to pull out information from the area. He was one of the few people that talked to the police.” There was a lingering bit of sorrow, bring up a sore subject.

“Do you have any bright ideas? You seem to be good at them, even if they are a little reckless at times.” Benelli was trying to change the subject. Sig winced, recalling McGreavy’s words a few days ago, and she closed her eyes at the realization. After a long pause, Sig spoke, “when I was face to face with their enforcer, he said he got flowers for his girl. At first, I thought it may have been funeral arrangements but that could be it.”

“Why’s that?” Benelli was one to get straight to the point.

“Because the corpses wouldn’t be fresh enough by the time they got a hold of them. They would want the parts as soon as possible. That and I already asked the Chestnut Grove caretakers if they noticed any body parts missing on their grave robberies. It was just jewelry and fillings.” Sig stared at the board the whole time he was talking. “That means the flowers came directly from a vendor. How many flower shops are there in Old Town? I doubt the gorilla likes to go outside his comfort zone.”

“A quick search reveals five plausible locations, Sig.”

“That’s a start, at least. It sure beats staring at this board. He’s a creature of habit for sure. He’s not smart enough to deviate from a learned routine. We’ll tail him and bring him in for questioning.”

“On what? Promoting the destruction of plant life?” Painfully following the letter of the law was a favorite pastime of Benelli’s.

“Aw Hell, he’s too stupid to know. We’ll find something. Keep your eyes peeled for something that will ease your conscience.” Sig always had trouble wrapping his mind this quirk.

“I don’t like this! You can’t just do that. This is what separates us from dirty cops. I’ve looked the other way on a lot of things, but… I just can’t! No, I just can’t.” Benelli was starting to get her fur up.

“Alright! Alright! We’ll follow him and see where his sweetheart lives. We’ll question her when he’s gone. Better?” Benelli calmed down after that.

“Yes. Thank you.” She finally said.

 © 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved