InkStains January (8 page)

Boy became an accountant for criminal
enterprises, where, by necessity, he learned various means of
self-defense.

Girl became a master chef and opened her own
restaurant to rave reviews.

Boy’s boss ordered a hit. It went down in the
girl’s restaurant, and it went ugly. The target got away.

The girl went after the assassin. She was a
chef. She had knife skills. The assassin had no chance.

The target turned back and went after the
boss. In the showdown, neither survived and much was destroyed.

Boy went out to get drunk and consider his
future employment. The girl went out to get drunk and figure some
way to re-build her restaurant.

Boy and girl got drunk together. Recognized
each other. Explored their individual pasts, the present, the
future.

As I said, it was a classic romance, and
there should’ve been nothing to get in their way. He had money. She
had skills. They had dreams, big dreams, and their love was
real.

Did I mention the time travelling aliens?
Popped into our time in the newly opened restaurant. Critics ran
screaming. The aliens had ray guns, after all.

But that wasn’t enough to get in the way of
their love.

Did I mention the radioactive monster tearing
up the streets? The National Guard had to take it down.

What about the supernatural circus made up of
ghouls, magicians, creeps, freaks, murderers, and pickpockets?

The mad arsonist blowing up everything he
could blow up, buildings and limousines and finally himself?

The ghost with her head on backwards?

There was a ninja.

None of these things did any damage to the
love shared by the boy and the girl. The trust between them was
unshakable. The love unprecedented. They laughed together and cried
together and ate the most exquisite meals.

No, the thing that stuck a wedge between them
was a photographer with a 600mm telephoto lens.

Is there a moral to this story? Don’t get
caught. It’s not a good moral, but it’s honest. How about this,
then: don’t do something you wouldn’t want to see captured in full
color and painful detail on the front page of a supermarket
tabloid.

19 January

A light skips across the edge of the woods –
a reflection perhaps, nothing grand or bright.

These are no great or fabled wood, not an
ancient forest. There are no dark stories or forbidding tales, no
suggestion that anything has ever gone awry. And it borders the
back of a condominium complex.

Any other day, Martin might not have noticed
the light. But tonight, half a bottle of wine deep, sitting on his
back porch in the light of a crescent moon, he notices.

There’s a small pond behind his condo, woods
on one side of it and behind it, a line of condos coming around the
other edge. There’s nothing magical in a place like this. Every
home is like every other, the cars lined up outside nearly carbon
copies of each other.

So when Martin sees the light, he reaches no
mystical conclusion. He doesn’t comment on it; he’s drinking alone
tonight. He doesn’t rise from his chair. He merely watches the
light.

It’s a small light, but constant, neither
fickle nor flickering, and it knows it’s been noticed, so the light
dances and leaps and skirts dangerously close to the pond’s
shore.

In another time, at another place, when magic
might have been something to believe in – and even something to
expect – the light would have played. It might have been called a
fairy by someone who didn’t know better, a fairy light, an elf
light, a will-o-the-wisp. It might have lured Martin into the woods
when all woodland was filled with danger and mystery and
romance.

Instead, Martin pours himself another glass
of wine and dwells on his sorrows, whatever they might be, however
unimportant.

Eventually, Martin gathers himself, which is
quite a chore, and goes inside. He falls asleep – or passes out –
on the couch with the television on.

The light creeps in through a window. It
explores the corners and edges of the inside and finds them
constrictive. Reaching the living room, the light hovers over
Martin as he snores.

The light sighs.

The light fades and leaves.

Martin, at the last moment,
opens his eyes. He’s almost seen something. He still feels the wine
in him, and the sorrows he meant to drown.
Next time
, he tells himself:
whiskey
.

He goes upstairs and sleeps properly, in his
bed and under covers.

The light, meanwhile, drifts to a place where
condominiums have not yet invaded.

The light is not alone. Creatures of all
types gather in groups or wander or simply stare into the sky.
Here, the moon is closer, and she is warmer, and she is almost
always kind.

The light finds a shadow it recognizes, and
together the two lament the loss of humanity in silence.

Martin sleeps dreamlessly and wakes with a
hangover, but he doesn’t care. He isn’t going to do anything,
anyhow. He swallows aspirin and a great deal of water and sits
outside on his porch. He doesn’t touch the wine, but he stares at
the pond and the woods.

He stares for a long time, struggling to get
his head working. Finally, he says, “I received a visitor last
night.”

Without a will-o-the-wisp to guide him in his
folly, Martin ventures into the woods and is lost.

20 January

Trumpets sound in the distance, and the hunt
is on. Run, little fox, or the dogs will catch you, and the men
with their rifles will sight you and shoot you and skin you and eat
you.

In many ways, it’s the same as it always was,
little fox, but clearly the rules have changed. What was once a
fair challenge has been overwhelmingly tilted into the favor of the
hunters. Where once you might have had thousands and thousands of
acres in which to evade the hunters’ bullets and knives, now there
are fences and dangerous highways and other critters fighting for
the same slight refuge.

Run through the woods, little fox, but
already the dogs have your scent, and the men on their horses are
getting closer. You can smell their rancid stench and hear their
excited yells.

There has always been a hunt. Once upon a
time, little fox, a man alone would chase your ancestor on foot,
armed perhaps with a club or a makeshift blade of questionable
durability. A man alone chasing a fox – that was a fair contest,
and it didn’t always end in bloodshed.

You’re a wily one, little fox, though I’m not
sure turning back to their cabin will be of much use. There, they
have additional implements of killing, all the tools of cooking,
and boxes and boxes of ammunition.

There’s a gunshot. They’ve taken a rabbit.
I’m sorry, little fox; that might have been your dinner tonight.
Yes, there’s a moment of celebration amongst the hunters, but don’t
mistake their brief joy for satisfaction. There are not after
rabbit, though it will make a fine stew. The hunt is still on.

Ah, I see you’ve already got a way inside the
cabin, so even if they locked the doors you’re safely inside. Look
around, little fox. See if there’s anything to help you. The dogs
are fast on your trail. You haven’t got much by way of time.

The hunters circle the cabin in two groups,
surrounding it from both directions. I count five of them, little
fox, and three dogs – too many to fight on your own.

I wonder:
are
you alone, little
fox?

You’re desperate. The dogs won’t stop
barking. Two of the hunters have dismounted and approach the door.
What will they do to you, little fox, if they catch you alive? The
dogs have found your point of entrance. There’s no way out of the
cabin.

Obviously, little fox, you are done running,
and you’ve transformed, taking on your feminine aspect, which an
age ago might have been a surprise to these hunters but not
today.

I admit, little fox, you are a beautiful
creature.

They’re inside, the two of them, and you’re
waiting for them gloriously nude and perfectly displayed. Even
seasoned hunters such as these can be momentarily distracted by
such fine, delicate grace. They don’t even see the rifle in your
hands – one of their own – until you’ve pulled the trigger. Crafty
little fox. You’re quick enough with the second shot, and accurate
with both – but the other three, the younger hunters, less
experienced but more emotional, come quick behind them with weapons
already raised.

The next shot takes out the middle hunter.
Sly little fox, you didn’t fire it. The front hunter, surprised,
turns but never fully realizes what has happened. Your shot is low
this time, and you must shoot again rather than mercilessly prolong
his agony.

You drop the rifle after that. You run to the
last hunter. He opens his arms to catch your embrace. You kiss, the
hunter and the little fox in human guise, the forbidden lovers. You
shut the door to keep out the dogs. You have fresh rabbit for stew.
You have the warmth of his mortal body, nearly as perfect in its
masculinity as yours in its femininity. You’re both strong, and
your lovemaking wild, and you feed your hunter the most incredible
of dreams.

In the morning, little fox, you leave him,
and in pity you give the dogs the leftover rabbit, and you go back
to your own world.

But I know your secret, little fox – your
secret hunter lover. I know your passions go deep. I know how it
breaks your heart to leave him.

I feel sad for you, little fox, but I will
keep your secret. For now.

21 January

Corvette Stingray.

Let that sink in a moment. You’ve probably
got a pre-conceived notion that looks a lot like mine: a ’72 with
curves over those front tires, long and sleep, a fast as hell work
of art.

For a long time, the Corvette was America’s
premiere sports car. But there have been several re-designs,
economic upheavals, a changing face of corporate America. In 1982,
the last Stingray rolled off the assembly line.

Someone should have noticed. Chevy sold 30 or
40 thousand of them every year. It was an icon, a member of the pop
culture elite, yet at some point it became merely the de-facto
answer to the midlife crisis.

For a brief time, I had the
chance to drive a white ’95 Corvette. It was, unfortunately, an
automatic. But the
power
. Seriously, when the light
turns green in a regular car, you let go of the brake and apply
some gas to move that car forward. With the Corvette, you’re
restraining a beast with your foot jammed down on that brake; let
up just a little, it will burst forward.

In its heart, the Corvette has always been
such a beast. And maybe we didn’t notice when they started to tame
down its look – maybe a bit more aerodynamic but losing some level
of excitement. What was once distinctive became almost mundane.
Only 11,647 new Corvettes were brought to the world in 2012. 13,596
in 2011. There hasn’t been a major re-design in nine years. The
Corvette, sadly, was becoming just another car.

Yes, it’s still an icon. It’s got 60 years of
history. It is still the dream car du jour of many red-blooded
Americans. But ask around a bit, and you’ll find people looking to
the past, to the ’63 or the ’72, maybe the ’58 or the ’67. You
think of Alan Shepard, whose ‘Vette is displayed at the Kennedy
Space Center. You think of Price’s Red Corvette. You think of Route
66.

The truth is, the Corvette never stopped
being America’s premiere sports car. It never gave up any of its
power or magnificence. However, in popular culture, its excitement
has dwindled.

There hasn’t been a Stingray since 1982. Not
until now.

It’s new. It looks like a
Corvette should – how the Stingray would have evolved into the
21
^st
Century.

They say it’s got 450 horses, that it’s the
most fuel efficient Corvette ever, that it’s given up its
fiberglass for composite and carbon-fiber, and its all-new V-8 goes
from 0 to 60 in under four seconds. General Motors knows you might
not buy it; but they hope you’ll come to look at the Corvette and
still go home with a new Chevy. Maybe a Malibu.

I don’t care about any of that. I want to get
behind the wheel of one of these new Stingrays, drop it into gear,
and unleash the new beast.

The excitement is back.

22 January

The old god huddled under his blanket,
crouched in the middle of the living room, shivering, cursing in
forgotten languages. He hadn’t paid the electric bill again. He
also hadn’t eaten anything but a raw, scrawny rat he’d managed to
catch – what, three days ago?

It was a blizzard out there, the likes of
which were unheard of in his old country. There, it had been glory
and warmth year round, and his people had marched far in every
direction to conquer in his name. There’d been women, endless
feasts, music – he missed the music most.

Another night, he might’ve escaped his misery
by finding a band at any bar or club. It didn’t matter if they
worshipped blues, soul, country, or rap, so long as they were loud
and earnest. But this night, the coldest of the year – of his life,
which had indeed been a long one – the whole city had shut down.
The snow fell harshly and heavily, the wind was relentless, the
windows fought a losing battle to keep the cold outside.

It didn’t help, not having heat.

The window – his basement apartment had only
one – had frosted over, inside as well as out. There were laws, he
thought, that should’ve keep his lights on at a time like this.

Once upon a time, there had been sacrifices,
volcanoes and storytellers, oracles and fortune tellers, dancing
girls, and so much music. He could almost, even now, hear one of
those ancient rhythms. It made him smile, though the smile cracked
his brittle skin and hurt.