Summer Corner
by
R.C. Davis
(First published by The Fourth River Magazine 2020)
In the summer we sat up on the corner, surrounded by the shops of the Midwestern affluent. An intersection. A crossroad at the midpoint of a small Iowa town. One blinking red light hanging at the center. It was the infamous ‘Square,’ and we were the sixteen year old boys who spent our days there.
We were Rock Stars. We were in love with summer, ourselves, the music, and—1972. We would make it our year. We wore bell-bottomed blue jeans, paisley button fronts, and tie-dyed T-shirts. Our hair was down our backs, peach fuzz was on our faces, and peace signs, in all sizes, shapes and colors, hung from our necks. Cigarettes occupied our fingers when the breath mints weren’t occupying our mouths. We wore cologne, earrings in our left ears, and sometimes—Ray-Bans, to shield our eyes from the brightness of the world.
We plucked Stratocasters, Gibsons, and Martins. We made them wail. We made them growl. We made them scream. We were Hendrix, Clapton, ZZ Top, and Jimmy Page. We beat drum kits and pounded keyboards. When we sang, we sang our hearts out—not a care—who cared. We did it in the village park. We did it in bedrooms and garages. We did it without consent and in the face of rage.
We acted rebellious. We acted rude. We acted like we didn’t have a care in the world, and that’s what attracted them… the girls. The unwanted. The inept. The uncool. The outcasts who sought acceptance and found it with The Rock Stars up on the corner. It was, ‘The One’s Outside’ ‘The Separate’—the ‘I am better than you’ crowd that had labeled them: The Teeny Boppers. The Groupies. The Bimbos. And worst of all, The Little Sluts. But those people didn’t know us. Together—The Girls and The Rock Stars were—The Troublemakers.
Before discovering us, The Girls had been somebody’s princess. Daddy’s little angels. Mommy’s little helpers. The model-children with the perfect report card. We were said to have corrupted them. Transformed them into something else. The undesirable. As if we wielded a magic wand and our single tap on their shoulder had changed them. They would never be the same again. But there was no doubt, they had made a choice. They felt courageous in their decision. They weren’t running away—they were running to. Freedom has its perils.
They danced beside us. They danced in front of us. They danced with us. And always in a way that captured us. They did it in the street. They did it on the sidewalk. They did it in groups in the corner of the room with the proverbial Boom Box booming. The Girls writhed, twisted, and swayed. They wore halter tops, low riding bell-bottoms, peasant blouses, and loose, ankle-length flowered skirts that caught the breeze in a way that sometimes brought a blush and a whistle. There were bare bellies, bare feet, and on the really hot days down at the hidden pond—bare everything. We were loud, and we were learning.
We were brash. We were brave. We were frightening to a world more used to the conventional. We kept track of every, “Get a job, freaks!” that they threw at us. But we didn’t want a job; being a freak was work enough.
In the coolness of the dark, we sat under the streetlight comparing scars, spitting for distance, telling bad jokes, and sometimes… complimenting The Girls on their qualities. Their fashion choices. Their beauty. We reminded them that someday their bodies would drive men mad. They only rolled their eyes, blushed, and giggled.
They didn’t care. Because when they weren’t dancing, they were busy playing Rock-Paper-Scissors, hand games, Tag, or just passing time contemplating celestial bodies.
We didn’t care what they did, and nothing in that sky could outshine The Rock Stars.
We shared everything. The food we bought. The cigarettes we stole. The flowers we’d pick from somebody’s cherished flower bed and the hash pipe that would appear and disappear just as quick. We shared our woes. We shared our misfortune and our heartache. We shared—our heartbreaks.
The Girls fawned over us. They petted us. They calmed us. They stole kisses. They ran errands for us, and guarded our stuff when we played the music. In their loyalty, they wouldn’t hesitate to raise a middle finger to any obnoxious passerby, and without us deeming it necessary. We never called them Teeny Boppers, Bimbos or Sluts, because, well… The Rock Stars knew better. You never scorn a goddess.
Losing My Muse
by
R.C. Davis
(First published by Wild Musette Magazine 2017)
Easels stood, watchful sentinels on the market sidewalk, defined by the surrealistic paintings pinned to their spindly bones. The artist sat motionless, her interest on the cigarette in her fingers. The smoke rolled skyward, no breeze to disrupt the moment. She could have easily been a self-portrait. I turned to walk away. Her voice rang in my ear, a sirens song. I was her Argonaut. The unsuspecting victim of a muse of the lower world. I was now trapped on a Berlin street, exposed for who I was—simply—a man.
She beckoned me to the second chair and I came to her. She offered me a smoke, cheap red wine in a plastic glass. I studied her. The blondest of hair. The bluest of eyes. Legs that never seemed to stop pouring out of her short denim skirt. She smiled back. Giggling, Sparkling. The paint under her fingernails, tattled. A starving artist. Anguish disclosed on canvas. She talked, I listened. I talked, she laughed. She said she really liked me. I would be her special someone. She confirmed it with her perfect face. She was content to have captured a poet. Undoubtedly, I could understand her.
We sat in the dark as the market collapsed around us. Two people in chairs, a paint easel audience. Wrapping her work in linen, she twined it, leaving the stands to be manipulated by my hands. Then we walked to a Kreuzberg flat. A moment that was followed by a thirty one day month. Where I slept, Coldplay pounded ‘Clocks’ into my head. I never got tired of the music. We didn’t have sex. I wasn’t going to let her kill my muse. So, we lingered in each other’s presence. Pleasantly. Affectionately. Intelligently.
Germany said my time had run out. I left her, reluctantly, hurtling back across the Atlantic. Landing in a place where one room awaited. A spot to touch down. A space where my fingers played across a keyboard, giving rise to rhythmic delineations, spilling onto white vellum. Allowing her virtues to become things, seen. She never released her hold on me—and I wouldn’t let her. Our words bounced off of satellites, back and forth in milliseconds.
I always knew what she wanted, and when she wanted me, I flew. Coming through the sliding glass doors, a passenger’s identity, the victim of flight attendant love. She took my hand. For a moment, she smiled. Embracing, she softly said my name. I had never heard Ulysses put that way. We rode the bus, climbing down at the Zoo. We walked. Berlin became dark streets, passing trains, strolling couples.
She led me to the roof of the Schoenberg platform. The S Bahn rolled underneath as we lay on the rough metal of the canopy, heads pillowed on arms. We watched the moon and other heavenly bodies. We talked about how small they made us feel. As I lay pondering, her face became the sky and her eyes, the stars. Celestial lips found mine and I felt the change. The inspiration drained from me, to be replaced with void. Holding tightly to keep from freefall, I kissed her hard. Then, in nonlinear motion, we blasted off.
Our noise filled the air of a half two morning, where voyeuristic windows looked down upon our passion. I always knew what she wanted, and when she wanted me, I…
Afterwards she took my hand and led me to the climbing down place, lamenting her need for coffee. Looking back, I thought I saw the lifeless body of the muse that I couldn’t save, sprawled out upon that dirty tin. She apologized for slaying my Erato. Laughing, she told me there was no room for two women in my life.
Now, there is a place in my head where Ligeia lives. I wonder if she still sits at the window of her Kreuzberg flat, watching the street, smoking. Moreover, I wonder if she misses me and if she was ever able to grasp the concept that a hopeless romantic, only loves, Love.
SNOWFALL ON DEAD LEAVES
BY
R. C. DAVIS
(First Published by The Daily Palette-Iowa Writes 2012)
The week-old snow crunched underfoot, and his steps resounded through the quiet forest. It was really cold out. The faded Nehi soda thermometer tacked to the garden shed had read fifteen degrees. Last year, in ‘69, it had been below zero around this time. He had spent most of January backed up to the big, freestanding furnace in the old, converted post office where they lived. A huge building that now housed three apartments, offered cheap rent, and was the best they could do for this small Iowa town.
He was grateful there was no wind to steal away the warmth that had built up inside his old coat. As long as he kept moving, he could stay warm. Trudging along, lost in thought, the little twenty-gauge double barrel soon grew heavy in his hands. Shifting the stock up underneath his right armpit, he supported the barrel in the crook of his elbow. He hadn’t given much thought as to why he had brought it. He only pretended to be hunting. Anyone passing would just figure he was out for pheasant, rabbit, or quail. However, it was all for show. No one around there would think it was weird for there to be hunters about, even with a snowstorm coming. Yet, to be out for just a walk in the woods right now, might seem a little nuts. He wasn’t going to blame anyone for thinking that way though, because sometimes, he felt like he was.
Did fourteen-year-old boys go crazy? Could a mother drive her kids insane?
That’s what had pushed him out this day. She could have picked a warmer time to have her crying fit, but no, it had to be a day he was off from school. She knew this way he would have to be witness to her tears. He didn’t look forward to the weekend like most of his classmates. It was supposed to be the part of the week set aside for family--just not his. So, he had no place to escape to except the woods.
He longed for the summer months when he could getaway to his favorite fishing spot above the roller dam. He loved the river and all that went with it. The boats, the fishing, and the occasional dip on the hotter days at the end of July. There was no limit to how long he could hang out there in the summer air. He could grab up his rod and tackle box and just disappear out the back door without a word. He would get excited thinking about the first cast of the day. That gold colored fishhook flashing through the air, and the whine of the reel as the line played out. The heavy lead sinker would carry it into the boils at the base of the dam where only the biggest fish were strong enough to fight the wild water. Three or four kernels of sweet corn were enough to hide that deadly barb, luring any greedy, unsuspecting carp to its doom.
They were always looking for whatever tasty morsel the rushing water could stir up. He supposed that they didn’t know that canned corn wasn’t commonly found at the bottom of rivers, and the pursuit of it could mean their end. However, he didn’t want to judge them too harshly. He too liked corn, especially when it was on the cob and soaked in butter. It made him smile to think he had something in common with the fish. Except for being a bunch of bottom feeders, they weren’t such a bad lot.
When hooked, they fought hard, and the reward of the coming battle gave him the will to be patient. Sometimes, even until dusk when the Nighthawks would show up. Then, flitting about, the white spots on their long slender wings would flash in the cool evening air. Plunging down toward the water for some elusive mosquito, they would swerve back up at the last second, croaking loudly, “Ba-ent! Ba-ent!” It was as if they were joyful over having been able to pull out of that lightning fast dive just before hitting the water. He felt so carefree at those times, and more so, when he didn’t have the sensation of the sharp winter cold numbing his cheeks.
Now here he was again, driven out of the warmth by the woman who had at one time been a goddess to him. Someone he could turn to in times of scraped knees or nightmares. The person who had made his bed, cooked his meals, and had laid out his clothes in the morning before school. She had been his protector, storyteller, and one-time pal, who he could tell his deepest secrets to. Now, he felt like he was on his own, alone in the world, and the one person he thought he could always rely on—now lost to something he didn’t understand. It was like, there were no friendly faces anymore, and everyone seemed a stranger. At fourteen years of age, not only the weather had seemed to turn cold.
As he worked his way through a thicket of small saplings, he recalled the moment he had returned home from his part time job at the local lawnmower shop. He had shown up early, and finding the place already open, he quickly went to work prepping an order of new snow blowers to be sold. When he finished, and wasn’t needed anymore, Old Ernie had sent him away.
“I’m not gonna pay someone to sit around and read magazines all day, you might as well go on home, sonny.”
He didn’t want to. Home was the last place he wanted to be. Yet, he knew the old man didn’t want some longhaired kid hanging around when his buddies showed up to ‘shoot the bull.’ So, he left them to their fish tales, and returned up the block to the old gray building. Walking in the front door, he thought to finish the last chapter of The Martian Chronicles. The Bradbury stories had excited him. He could hardly wait to dive back into his fantasy of being with the first pioneers to settle the red planet.
He had to pass through his mother’s bedroom to get to his own, and he didn’t see her in there at first, sitting on the edge of her bed, weeping. It was when she blew her nose, startling him, that she caught his eye. He said, “Hallo?” more as a concerned question than a greeting. She suddenly stood up, and in the process of covering her eyes, knocked her glasses off onto the floor. The piece of white adhesive tape on the bridge, flashed as they bounced, testimony that it had not been the first time.
She didn’t even bother to pick them up, but instead, stomped around the bed to the curtain-less window. Then turning her back to him, started to cry even harder. At the point she started ringing her hands, he decided he’d had enough. Something inside of him just snapped, and that’s exactly how it felt. Just like a wishbone on Thanksgiving Day.
He remembered how the anger rushed in like a hot liquid, filling him up from his feet to his head. Then trying to outdo her with his own version of stomping, he went to the closet. Pulling out the little shotgun, he also grabbed a box of shells. Dumping them into a vacant pocket, he threw the container on the table without care as he hurried toward the back door.
This needed to stop. He needed to do or say something that would make her stop. He felt she didn’t understand that she was driving him out of his mind. He paused midstride and gave her the meanest look he could muster. Then he did something he had never ever done before in his life; he yelled at her.
“Just so yah know, I’ve had enough of yer crap!”
She just stood there as if she had lost her hearing, and that only made him madder. He jerked the door open, and stepping through, slammed it as hard as he could. It jarred a portrait of them together that was hanging on the wall and he heard it crash to the floor. She had screamed at him through the window, beating on the glass as he hurried away down the backstairs.
Now, he just wanted quiet, and breaking from the thicket, he made his way deeper into the woods, knowing that’s where he would find it. The trees went from being arm thick Ash and Poplar, to giant Oak, Maple, and Elm. The Oak trees were different from the others. They would keep their leaves until new ones pushed them out in the spring.
Stubborn til the end, just like me.
The thought struck a nerve, and he wondered if that was really something to be proud of. He didn’t want that in his head, so pushed it away. Better to think about right now, and changing his direction, moved down into a small glen. The dark gray clouds thickened over his head, and his toes started to grow numb. He stomped as he walked, trying to keep the blood circulating. This disturbed a little cottontail that had been hiding under a low bush. It burst out at a dead run, then zigzagging, made its way up the slope on the opposite side.
He brought the shotgun up to his shoulder without thinking about it, and leaning his cheek against the stock, he sighted along the barrels. He waited until the rabbit disappeared over the top before he pulled the trigger. There was a dry click, and he remembered that he hadn’t even bothered to load the gun.
Lowering it back down, he saw the stock was wet where his face had rested. Was he crying? He wondered how long the tears had been rolling down his cold numbed skin. It didn’t matter though; no one was there to see them. No one to call him crybaby. The times when they had caught him openly weeping, they had treated him badly. He tried to make himself feel better with, ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones…’ But that was a lie. The names always hurt.
He studied the crazy pattern the tears were making as they froze in the decorative cross-hatching on the walnut stock. He tried to make himself believe that it was the cold making them leak and wiping his face with a rough knit glove, he tried to stem the flow of water from his eyes. It was a poor attempt at hiding the evidence of his frailty, and suddenly a great sadness rose up in him and he lost all control. Dropping down on all fours, the gun slipped from his grip. The sound of his sobs echoed through the trees and hot tears dripped, making strange shapes in the snow.
It’s not her fault
“What?” he said, sitting back on his knees. He could have sworn that someone had spoken to him. He studied the forest around him. Not a soul insight, and then he saw the big owl sitting on a low branch, its big yellow eyes, questioning.
Could it have been?
“Naaaw,” he said aloud, realizing that they were his own words, in his own voice, inside his own head.
With that, the owl let go with a single, “Whooo” and dropping from its perch, flapped silently away.
“Yes, who? Who’s to blame for this mess?” he muttered to himself, watching the bird disappear from sight. Deep down, he knew she couldn’t help that his bastard of a father had walked out on her and left them with nothing, stealing away in the night when they were fast asleep. What had made it worse was that he had taken the boys two sisters with him. At first, he thought of the girls as traitors, but over the last few months, he came to accept that they weren’t to blame either. However, knowing that, didn’t lessen the pain of a broken heart.
His tears finally stopped, and picking up the gun, he wiped off the snow. Then, getting to his feet, he walked away, soon coming to a cut bank on the rivers shore. The dark water there was free from ice and reflected his image. The person he saw there was not the same boy who lived in his head. The likeness, reflected before him, was of someone older. A stranger. Someone he didn’t know but would soon have too. The door to his childhood had been slammed in his face and he was no longer allowed to go there. It was going to be like starting all over again. He felt afraid.
Standing, lost in thought, he watched his image squirm, and wiggle. The river rolled on taking his anger with it. It was almost as if someone had pulled a plug, allowing the black water of his rage to drain out to leave him empty. Now pity took its place and he remembered what his mother was like before that terrible day. He found himself smiling at the memories, trying to keep the tears at bay. He knew his mother was fighting to keep her head on straight, and he wondered if she understood that he was too.
Then it happened. The snow. It didn’t come gradually with a few warning flakes trailing down, but all at once. Like someone had opened a giant trapdoor in the sky. Snowflakes as large as cotton balls came falling straight down. It was so thick, it made it hard to see. He backed up underneath the trees and listened. It seemed to clatter as it struck the leaves, becoming the only sound in the timber as it echoed from shore to shore. A steady beat that bounced around the treetops and then funneled down to the ground. After a few minutes, it slacked off, and he found its steady rhythm comforting. Like the sound of a slow summer rain on the roof of an attic bedroom.
He now felt the cold inside his coat, and his stomach rumbled from hunger. The thought of hot chocolate and cookies made him turn and start back the way he had come. He would make it right with her. He had doubts that things would change much, but regardless, he needed to try. Every little bit would help and something told him that if he did, it would make him feel better about himself. He worked his way back through the ancient Oaks, his footprints fast filling with snow. The little cottontail sat undetected under a nearby windfall. It watched as the boy disappeared into the storm, the noise of his heavy boots fading away, leaving only the sound of snowfall on dead leaves.