I'll be honest, my musical taste is not a connoisseurs. But one thing that is a constant in my musical preference is the lyrics. In fact, most of my favorite artists are songwriters who pen their own music. Sure, I will also buy the main stream beats and thuds and dance mixes and I'll nod along with other music but none of it will make me hum as much as the words will.
You've seen me push Maroon 5, Matt Nathanson, Adele, and Michael Buble at you over the course of these months. But I remember watching SYTYCD last season and hearing Jar of Hearts for the first time and going- okay, definitely in my wheel house. Not the best song I'll ever play on repeat but she meant those words and I think that more than anything was the reason she sky rocketed to the top of the billboards.
Since there was not much more of her discography, I soon got tired of Jar of Hearts and only listened to it when it slipped up on the shuffle or popped up on the radio one dreary day. But yesterday, I heard Arms by Ms. Chrisitini Perri and for some reason or another it stuck.
I never was big into poetry but I never really went in search of it. I was more likely to pick up the grand romance epics or science fiction, I consumed the classics of Austen, Eyre, and Twain while mucking through Rand and Tolstoy, rolling my eyes and flipping the page in the hope it would be over soon. Not kind thoughts but I was in high school, I owe them a reread.
(Never Robinson Cruesue though, dear god. My own fault, I was sure I was about to read the Swiss Family Robinson story and was really, really annoyed when i got halfway through it and realized I was reading the wrong story but hey a paper was due in the morning and I had been an idiot and chosen this stupid thing instead of the Hobbit like all the sane children- okay tangent done)
But songwriters of today are possibly the closest thing we have to minstrels of centuries ago. And who else do we turn to when we can't face the things that are haunting us? Movies? Books? Music?
Well, I turn to music more often than not. Movies are distracting but hollow and books will distract me but the end too soon. Music....music on the other hand is something that soothes in a way a mere amateur like me wouldn't attempt to explain.
As I write this, I'm listening to The Lonley by Miss Perri. I'm sure it'll end up on my ipod sooner or later but for now Arms is going to reign queen.
Not a huge fan of the music video- but pay attention to the lyrics.
I hope that you see right through my walls
I hope that you catch me because I'm already fallen
You put your arms around me and I'm home
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
245-The Hotel du Berry
The picture frame was tilted.
Which wouldn't have been unusual in most houses but not in the Hotel du Berry. Danny shifted around the edge of the staircase, long fingers reaching out to straighten the erroneous picture when he heard the creak from above him.
Eyes narrowed, he craned his neck to see into the heavy shadows that were currently holding court in the top landing of his grandfather's once great property. Nothing stirred but the familiar cranky breathing of the old air conditioner unit that was tucked away in the storage closet on the right wing of the landing. Old houses settle, he reminded himself fiercely and he turned back to the frame.
As his fingers touched the splintered oak, a louder creak emanated from further down the hallway. Danny stopped, his head twisting back to the shadows, fear blossoming in his chest. He scolded himself for his unnecessary fear but he didn't move either. His fingers rested lightly on the frame, it's occupants still smiling up at him from an odd angle, turning their smiles into drunken grins.
He listened, straining his ears for another broach of sound in the grave quiet of the desolated hotel. The air conditioner sputtered to a silence and the quiet of the Square of Danders crept back into the night. It was mid August and the heat and humidity of a Delta summer was dampening his shirt, pressing the white tee to his chest and pitting the sleeves a yellow gray. Or perhaps it was fear, he didn't care to dwell on it.
He had simply stopped by to pick up Hannah's sweater. She had left it in the hallway when they had come over to show the Hotel to the interested party who had telephoned his sister earlier that week about the possibility of reopening the old building. They had met but it had been increasingly obvious that the agent was more interested in the land the hotel sat on than reopening it's doors. Hannah had been more than willing to sell her the old heap but Danny had refused.
He liked the old building with all its narrow corridors and french windows. He liked the too small bathrooms that guests had never failed to complain about. He had jumped on the feather beds as a child and raced around the gardens looking for the supposed ghosts that his grandfather told him lingered out by the fountain at twilight. He had worked the front counter all through high school and through his summers when he returned back home from college. He had even lived there with Hannah for a while after Grandfather died. His mother had put them in his old room with his old twin boxspring and a roll away bed from the storage shed. She had taken the old cot behind the counter, the one Grandfather had taken to sleeping on after her mother had passed away.
Danny edged up a step, eyes targeted on the deeper shadows down the hall. It was not quiet yet eleven but the wee hours of the morning were creeping into the hallways of Hotel du Berry, filling the empty spaces with imagined faces and potential demons. He drew in a shallow breath, his teeth gritted in a nervous habit he had picked up from some fellow classmate down in State. He passed another step and found himself beside the most recent picture that graced the yellowing walls. He didn't give it a glance- he knew the bright colors of the summer day with the little girl in the watermelon dress and blond pigtails smiling up at the older boy who was offering a slice of cake to the photographer. It had been his grandmother's favorite photo. He remembered the afternoon she had nailed the frame to the wall, defiantly ignoring the mutinous look Grandfather had been giving her from behind the counter.
He had claimed the guests wouldn't mind the old family pictures or the wedding photo of Grandmother, all gray and smoky in her pearls and short hair cut of the twenties but he had been adamant that the guests would resent the gaudy colors of a youngster's birthday party even if it was in the gardens.
He hadn't to worry, days later Grandmother had fallen making one of the guest's beds and had passed a few months later. He had moved the frame down the landing so he could see it from the desk after that. Guests often looked twice at the picture framed between the older opening pictures of the Hotel and the more dire pictures of the wars. But no one ever said anything about the picture. About the bathrooms and the mold and the noise from the street below but never the picture.
A soft thud vibrated down the east corridor. He shifted his attention likewise, gently laying down the cashmere sweater that Hannah had asked him to pick up for her on his way home from the dance recital. The hotel was located off the main road, tall iron fences shaped in Fleur de Lises and crowns lined the property's vast lawns and tall oaks and willows protected it's drive from the elements. It had been closed for over four years now, easy enough to forget until the notices had come from the city. They had claimed it was in disrepair, abandoned and a potential squatter's paradise. The council's will had been simple- tear it down or sell it.
Danny arrived on the top stair, eyes straining to see down the east corridor. It was familiar to him as his own home, more so probably he thought wryly. But he didn't leave the safety of the stairs. Ghost stories Grandfather had told them were seeping through his memory, dredging up old forgotten fears about the bride who had fallen from her balcony on her honeymoon, the little boy who had been hit by a falling branch out in the arbor, and the first owner's son who had died bravely in the war only to return to his rightful home only to find it no longer his.
Hannah had always begged him to sleep beside her when they were children staying at the Hotel. She always claimed that she would see the Lost Son when she went to the bathroom across the hall in the middle of the night or that the Bride was always staring out the window of the East corridor. Danny had called her a baby and pulled her pigtails but he also slid into bed with her anyways. After all, that's what big brothers did, he would tell himself. It wasn't because of the creaks and moans the house would make in the middle of the night or the silver light that sometimes would pass underneath his door some nights...
He looked for the tell tale sign of silver that Grandfather had warned them heralded the coming of the ghosts. His niece Amber had sat in the dark hallways for days after the funeral waiting to see if Grandpa was coming home. He had sat up some nights with her in the dark, part of her somber watch but Hannah had become more and more upset with her daughter's obsession. Danny twisted away from the East corridor to look down at the West Wing. The white tarp he had taped up after Amber's accident was swaying softly in the silence of the evening.
Danny's fingers clenched. He had taped the tarp back up after he had shown the agent the wing and suites that lay down that way. He remembered warning her to watch her step around the corner where the beams and plaster of the derelict building had come crashing down that fateful winter evening. It had been the beginning of the end, the night he woke up to the crash, the short terrified scream of a little girl, and the crunching that had silenced the scream as quickly as it came.
He knew he taped the tarp back up; he didn't want any other little girl to go exploring, any other person to wander into the building and find the termite infestation had gone further than any of them could imagine- that the silent army had eaten half the wood of the West Wing rotten and almost killed the little girl who had followed the ghost to the attic. Amber had sworn she saw the Bride drift through the door that led to the steep attic stairs, had eased the locked door open but never could remember how, and had been tip toeing quietly, trying to surprise the Bride into giving her Grandpa back when...
She had wound up crushed beneath rotten boards and countless Christmas decorations that accumulated over the years. He could remember skidding down the hall in the dark, the wooden boards slick with age and the carpet runner splotched with dust and insulation floating down from above like a Christmas pantomime's snow. He had seen the little hand sticking out of the debris, the shiny red ribbons that usually hung from the portcullis dying a deeper red as blood soaked into them.
Oh, yes, Danny remembered the scream as Hannah's sleepy steps faltered beside him and the wide white of Jack's eyes as he looked at his sister's blond hair, turning strawberry red in the light of the wing. Hannah's husband Edward and he had jumped into the debris, picking the large beam and heavy boxes off to reveal the tiny white and red figurine which could have been a Christmas tree angel if it wasn't for the gaping hole in her side where the beam had wedged itself or the gashes that scored her entire left side. Her eyes had flickered open and she has asked for Grandpa before succumbing to her injuries. Hannah had aged ten years that night and as they sat in the waiting room of the hospital. She had turned dead eyes to him and told him she was done with the cursed place and that was that.
Amber had danced beautifully tonight, Danny remembered. Her smile was beautiful enough that one almost didn't notice the large scars that criss-crossed all along the left hand of her body or the slight limp she had when she tried to walk. Dancing seemed to light her up from the inside and even her instructors had noted that the limp was notably absent when she was dancing. It was something, he had told Hannah, something that the Hotel had given back. Hannah had called him an idiot and Edward had just tightened his lips and watched his daughter take her bows.
He released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It was easy to slip back into childhood and memories of ghost's in this old abandoned place but he knew better. Ghosts didn't make thumps, or tilt picture frames when passing up the stairs, or take down half a tarp only to think better of it and go back down the other way. But squatters did, as well as people interested in what may have been left behind in the old building. They had had a few problems with the homeless and more than a few break ins but the thieves usually were spooked away by the alarm system and squatters often left dirty rooms but never stayed long.
Danny liked to think the Hotel took care of itself but tonight he would have to do it. He passed the balcony landing that looked down on the dining hall, the tables and chairs with dust clothes over them and the silver chandelier had been taken down and put in storage after the hotel had closed. Nothing of value remained but memories and photographs on the wall. But still, he continued down the hall. The thumps had come from before the turn into the East wing.
He stopped suddenly, a flickering light was coming from the last bedroom on the left. It was a standard sized room but it had the largest bathroom. It hadn't been a popular room though, the noise from the street below often rose up and battered against the windows since no trees stood in its way. The power in the old Hotel was still accessible from the breaker box down in the basement but obviously his guest preferred candle light. Danny swore, his hands closing around the Tiffany lamp that had stood sentry on the hallway runner table since he had knocked the original guard down years ago. His mother had torn him raw for that but Grandmother had simply laughed when told and proclaimed it too old to handle the next generation. She had let Danny pick its replacement, a bright green and blue dappled mushroom lamp that Hannah claimed looked more like a peacock than a table lamp.
It felt heavy and solid in his hand, his fingers wrapped around the black iron base- he took a deep breath and pivoted to face the door head on. The candlelight flickered and then was gone and Danny knew he had been heard. He cursed, kicked the ajar door open and came face to face with the inky emptiness that was room 13A.
The bed sheets were untouched, the dust cover pulled up like a corpse sheet and the bathroom door was open, the mirror reflecting the black of the room back at him. It was a large mirror and he could see the corners of the room as well as the corners of the bathroom and empty shower- it's curtain long gone to mildew and rot.
In short, the room was empty.
Danny opened the closet doors, peered under the bed, and even checked in the chest just to be sure. Whoever his guest had been, they were gone. Danny's eyes caught a sudden movement in the room and he turned to see the lace curtains fluttering slightly in the breeze of the evening air. The window, Danny swore under his breath and in two strides he was looking down into the yard below. It wasn't a short drop but he could see the overgrown bushes had a been bent and broken beneath the window, and the arbor wasn't far from the corner room's view. It was highly likely his visitor had taken a short ride down, rolled, and whisked away into the protective covering of the drive. Danny could see his truck in the drive, but no sign of any other vehicle or person.
He ducked his head back from the window, closed it and stared at the paint flakes that had once sealed the window shut. All the Hotel's windows were painted shut at Grandfather's command. The story of the Bride was often told when guest's complained of the summer heat and he could still hear his crotchety old grandfather grumble at the more stubborn clamors, "You want fresh air? Drag your bed down into the garden and I'll take half off your stay but it better be back up those stairs before breakfast time the day you leave or you pay double."
His Grandmother would sit in her large wing back by the door as he grumbled along and then before the visitors could get an angry word in would happily call out, "And he means it too! Why, I'll never forget the young man from up north who got so hot and sticky, he threw his bed out the window and jumped out on to it and slept in the garden for five nights." She would slap her knee here and bend back down to her sewing before continuing on," And damn it, if the morning he left he hadn't put that bed right back where it belonged before Grumps here had even woken up! He didn't pay a dime for his stay the Hotel du Berry but he certainly made his mark. Go on, Gerald, but them in the Garden room, there's a sweet breeze that comes through the cracks around the window and it faces over the fountain. You'll be comfortable there, or I'll help you drag the mattress down myself."
Guests had loved Grandmother Marianne. Just as much as they loved his own mother's cooking or Aunt Ellen's singing on the weekends. All that ended when Grandfather died. Mother had moved up north with Aunt Ellen and Uncle Jason to open up a restaurant with an old college friend, leaving her two children with the old abandoned hotel. She sent her share of the rent in for a while before she gave it Danny one day. Aunt Ellen had given her share to Hannah. Hannah who had told him she was done with the place but held on to her half all the same.
The night was getting later and Danny locked the window, reminding himself to set the alarm on his way out and come in the morning to repaint the windows shut. Even if the old building was going to be sold off and torn down, he owed it that much decency. To see it through to the end.
He was halfway out the door when he remembered the flickering light. He turned and saw the half melted candle on the desk, its wick black and twisted and wax hardening on the disk it sat upon. Danny frowned at it for a moment, it was not one he recognized. It was a stark white candle, unlike the cream and forest green that Hotel du Berry used and the candle holder was a pewter color. Grandmother had insisted all the chandeliers and candlebras be a brass- claimed they held the shine longer. The wick and holder in the room were from the outside, Danny was sure of it.
But what kind of intruder brought a candle instead of a flashlight?
Which wouldn't have been unusual in most houses but not in the Hotel du Berry. Danny shifted around the edge of the staircase, long fingers reaching out to straighten the erroneous picture when he heard the creak from above him.
Eyes narrowed, he craned his neck to see into the heavy shadows that were currently holding court in the top landing of his grandfather's once great property. Nothing stirred but the familiar cranky breathing of the old air conditioner unit that was tucked away in the storage closet on the right wing of the landing. Old houses settle, he reminded himself fiercely and he turned back to the frame.
As his fingers touched the splintered oak, a louder creak emanated from further down the hallway. Danny stopped, his head twisting back to the shadows, fear blossoming in his chest. He scolded himself for his unnecessary fear but he didn't move either. His fingers rested lightly on the frame, it's occupants still smiling up at him from an odd angle, turning their smiles into drunken grins.
He listened, straining his ears for another broach of sound in the grave quiet of the desolated hotel. The air conditioner sputtered to a silence and the quiet of the Square of Danders crept back into the night. It was mid August and the heat and humidity of a Delta summer was dampening his shirt, pressing the white tee to his chest and pitting the sleeves a yellow gray. Or perhaps it was fear, he didn't care to dwell on it.
He had simply stopped by to pick up Hannah's sweater. She had left it in the hallway when they had come over to show the Hotel to the interested party who had telephoned his sister earlier that week about the possibility of reopening the old building. They had met but it had been increasingly obvious that the agent was more interested in the land the hotel sat on than reopening it's doors. Hannah had been more than willing to sell her the old heap but Danny had refused.
He liked the old building with all its narrow corridors and french windows. He liked the too small bathrooms that guests had never failed to complain about. He had jumped on the feather beds as a child and raced around the gardens looking for the supposed ghosts that his grandfather told him lingered out by the fountain at twilight. He had worked the front counter all through high school and through his summers when he returned back home from college. He had even lived there with Hannah for a while after Grandfather died. His mother had put them in his old room with his old twin boxspring and a roll away bed from the storage shed. She had taken the old cot behind the counter, the one Grandfather had taken to sleeping on after her mother had passed away.
Danny edged up a step, eyes targeted on the deeper shadows down the hall. It was not quiet yet eleven but the wee hours of the morning were creeping into the hallways of Hotel du Berry, filling the empty spaces with imagined faces and potential demons. He drew in a shallow breath, his teeth gritted in a nervous habit he had picked up from some fellow classmate down in State. He passed another step and found himself beside the most recent picture that graced the yellowing walls. He didn't give it a glance- he knew the bright colors of the summer day with the little girl in the watermelon dress and blond pigtails smiling up at the older boy who was offering a slice of cake to the photographer. It had been his grandmother's favorite photo. He remembered the afternoon she had nailed the frame to the wall, defiantly ignoring the mutinous look Grandfather had been giving her from behind the counter.
He had claimed the guests wouldn't mind the old family pictures or the wedding photo of Grandmother, all gray and smoky in her pearls and short hair cut of the twenties but he had been adamant that the guests would resent the gaudy colors of a youngster's birthday party even if it was in the gardens.
He hadn't to worry, days later Grandmother had fallen making one of the guest's beds and had passed a few months later. He had moved the frame down the landing so he could see it from the desk after that. Guests often looked twice at the picture framed between the older opening pictures of the Hotel and the more dire pictures of the wars. But no one ever said anything about the picture. About the bathrooms and the mold and the noise from the street below but never the picture.
A soft thud vibrated down the east corridor. He shifted his attention likewise, gently laying down the cashmere sweater that Hannah had asked him to pick up for her on his way home from the dance recital. The hotel was located off the main road, tall iron fences shaped in Fleur de Lises and crowns lined the property's vast lawns and tall oaks and willows protected it's drive from the elements. It had been closed for over four years now, easy enough to forget until the notices had come from the city. They had claimed it was in disrepair, abandoned and a potential squatter's paradise. The council's will had been simple- tear it down or sell it.
Danny arrived on the top stair, eyes straining to see down the east corridor. It was familiar to him as his own home, more so probably he thought wryly. But he didn't leave the safety of the stairs. Ghost stories Grandfather had told them were seeping through his memory, dredging up old forgotten fears about the bride who had fallen from her balcony on her honeymoon, the little boy who had been hit by a falling branch out in the arbor, and the first owner's son who had died bravely in the war only to return to his rightful home only to find it no longer his.
Hannah had always begged him to sleep beside her when they were children staying at the Hotel. She always claimed that she would see the Lost Son when she went to the bathroom across the hall in the middle of the night or that the Bride was always staring out the window of the East corridor. Danny had called her a baby and pulled her pigtails but he also slid into bed with her anyways. After all, that's what big brothers did, he would tell himself. It wasn't because of the creaks and moans the house would make in the middle of the night or the silver light that sometimes would pass underneath his door some nights...
He looked for the tell tale sign of silver that Grandfather had warned them heralded the coming of the ghosts. His niece Amber had sat in the dark hallways for days after the funeral waiting to see if Grandpa was coming home. He had sat up some nights with her in the dark, part of her somber watch but Hannah had become more and more upset with her daughter's obsession. Danny twisted away from the East corridor to look down at the West Wing. The white tarp he had taped up after Amber's accident was swaying softly in the silence of the evening.
Danny's fingers clenched. He had taped the tarp back up after he had shown the agent the wing and suites that lay down that way. He remembered warning her to watch her step around the corner where the beams and plaster of the derelict building had come crashing down that fateful winter evening. It had been the beginning of the end, the night he woke up to the crash, the short terrified scream of a little girl, and the crunching that had silenced the scream as quickly as it came.
He knew he taped the tarp back up; he didn't want any other little girl to go exploring, any other person to wander into the building and find the termite infestation had gone further than any of them could imagine- that the silent army had eaten half the wood of the West Wing rotten and almost killed the little girl who had followed the ghost to the attic. Amber had sworn she saw the Bride drift through the door that led to the steep attic stairs, had eased the locked door open but never could remember how, and had been tip toeing quietly, trying to surprise the Bride into giving her Grandpa back when...
She had wound up crushed beneath rotten boards and countless Christmas decorations that accumulated over the years. He could remember skidding down the hall in the dark, the wooden boards slick with age and the carpet runner splotched with dust and insulation floating down from above like a Christmas pantomime's snow. He had seen the little hand sticking out of the debris, the shiny red ribbons that usually hung from the portcullis dying a deeper red as blood soaked into them.
Oh, yes, Danny remembered the scream as Hannah's sleepy steps faltered beside him and the wide white of Jack's eyes as he looked at his sister's blond hair, turning strawberry red in the light of the wing. Hannah's husband Edward and he had jumped into the debris, picking the large beam and heavy boxes off to reveal the tiny white and red figurine which could have been a Christmas tree angel if it wasn't for the gaping hole in her side where the beam had wedged itself or the gashes that scored her entire left side. Her eyes had flickered open and she has asked for Grandpa before succumbing to her injuries. Hannah had aged ten years that night and as they sat in the waiting room of the hospital. She had turned dead eyes to him and told him she was done with the cursed place and that was that.
Amber had danced beautifully tonight, Danny remembered. Her smile was beautiful enough that one almost didn't notice the large scars that criss-crossed all along the left hand of her body or the slight limp she had when she tried to walk. Dancing seemed to light her up from the inside and even her instructors had noted that the limp was notably absent when she was dancing. It was something, he had told Hannah, something that the Hotel had given back. Hannah had called him an idiot and Edward had just tightened his lips and watched his daughter take her bows.
He released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It was easy to slip back into childhood and memories of ghost's in this old abandoned place but he knew better. Ghosts didn't make thumps, or tilt picture frames when passing up the stairs, or take down half a tarp only to think better of it and go back down the other way. But squatters did, as well as people interested in what may have been left behind in the old building. They had had a few problems with the homeless and more than a few break ins but the thieves usually were spooked away by the alarm system and squatters often left dirty rooms but never stayed long.
Danny liked to think the Hotel took care of itself but tonight he would have to do it. He passed the balcony landing that looked down on the dining hall, the tables and chairs with dust clothes over them and the silver chandelier had been taken down and put in storage after the hotel had closed. Nothing of value remained but memories and photographs on the wall. But still, he continued down the hall. The thumps had come from before the turn into the East wing.
He stopped suddenly, a flickering light was coming from the last bedroom on the left. It was a standard sized room but it had the largest bathroom. It hadn't been a popular room though, the noise from the street below often rose up and battered against the windows since no trees stood in its way. The power in the old Hotel was still accessible from the breaker box down in the basement but obviously his guest preferred candle light. Danny swore, his hands closing around the Tiffany lamp that had stood sentry on the hallway runner table since he had knocked the original guard down years ago. His mother had torn him raw for that but Grandmother had simply laughed when told and proclaimed it too old to handle the next generation. She had let Danny pick its replacement, a bright green and blue dappled mushroom lamp that Hannah claimed looked more like a peacock than a table lamp.
It felt heavy and solid in his hand, his fingers wrapped around the black iron base- he took a deep breath and pivoted to face the door head on. The candlelight flickered and then was gone and Danny knew he had been heard. He cursed, kicked the ajar door open and came face to face with the inky emptiness that was room 13A.
The bed sheets were untouched, the dust cover pulled up like a corpse sheet and the bathroom door was open, the mirror reflecting the black of the room back at him. It was a large mirror and he could see the corners of the room as well as the corners of the bathroom and empty shower- it's curtain long gone to mildew and rot.
In short, the room was empty.
Danny opened the closet doors, peered under the bed, and even checked in the chest just to be sure. Whoever his guest had been, they were gone. Danny's eyes caught a sudden movement in the room and he turned to see the lace curtains fluttering slightly in the breeze of the evening air. The window, Danny swore under his breath and in two strides he was looking down into the yard below. It wasn't a short drop but he could see the overgrown bushes had a been bent and broken beneath the window, and the arbor wasn't far from the corner room's view. It was highly likely his visitor had taken a short ride down, rolled, and whisked away into the protective covering of the drive. Danny could see his truck in the drive, but no sign of any other vehicle or person.
He ducked his head back from the window, closed it and stared at the paint flakes that had once sealed the window shut. All the Hotel's windows were painted shut at Grandfather's command. The story of the Bride was often told when guest's complained of the summer heat and he could still hear his crotchety old grandfather grumble at the more stubborn clamors, "You want fresh air? Drag your bed down into the garden and I'll take half off your stay but it better be back up those stairs before breakfast time the day you leave or you pay double."
His Grandmother would sit in her large wing back by the door as he grumbled along and then before the visitors could get an angry word in would happily call out, "And he means it too! Why, I'll never forget the young man from up north who got so hot and sticky, he threw his bed out the window and jumped out on to it and slept in the garden for five nights." She would slap her knee here and bend back down to her sewing before continuing on," And damn it, if the morning he left he hadn't put that bed right back where it belonged before Grumps here had even woken up! He didn't pay a dime for his stay the Hotel du Berry but he certainly made his mark. Go on, Gerald, but them in the Garden room, there's a sweet breeze that comes through the cracks around the window and it faces over the fountain. You'll be comfortable there, or I'll help you drag the mattress down myself."
Guests had loved Grandmother Marianne. Just as much as they loved his own mother's cooking or Aunt Ellen's singing on the weekends. All that ended when Grandfather died. Mother had moved up north with Aunt Ellen and Uncle Jason to open up a restaurant with an old college friend, leaving her two children with the old abandoned hotel. She sent her share of the rent in for a while before she gave it Danny one day. Aunt Ellen had given her share to Hannah. Hannah who had told him she was done with the place but held on to her half all the same.
The night was getting later and Danny locked the window, reminding himself to set the alarm on his way out and come in the morning to repaint the windows shut. Even if the old building was going to be sold off and torn down, he owed it that much decency. To see it through to the end.
He was halfway out the door when he remembered the flickering light. He turned and saw the half melted candle on the desk, its wick black and twisted and wax hardening on the disk it sat upon. Danny frowned at it for a moment, it was not one he recognized. It was a stark white candle, unlike the cream and forest green that Hotel du Berry used and the candle holder was a pewter color. Grandmother had insisted all the chandeliers and candlebras be a brass- claimed they held the shine longer. The wick and holder in the room were from the outside, Danny was sure of it.
But what kind of intruder brought a candle instead of a flashlight?
Monday, July 25, 2011
246- The Game
Playing a game I don't think I can win.
Making a move just so I don't have to resign again.
Waiting and waiting, anticipating you.
Patience I lack, no focus, no tact.
Scared to lose but desperate to win
Keep placing myself in plain view
But holding back the honesty, the truth.
You know my next move
And out of spite, I twist it untrue.
Behind a wall of pricks and taunts-
You will simply sit- refuse to play
Until I bow my head and play again.
And then once again
You win.
247- To Be Sure
Strangled by the words in her throat, Rosanna emitted a soft squeak, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. She felt like a fish out of water, she thought ruefully, standing here like this....
Luckily, the cause of her fish impersonation was unaware of her inner struggle. Dorian sat on the threadbare couch with his computer pulled onto his lap and was blissfully ignorant of anything beside the current sports page. Sickened by her sudden anxiety, Rosanna pushed her bangs out of her eyes but still the words flew through her brain- effectively cutting out the voices of reason and sanity that were doing their best to stop her folly.
Indecision and uncertainty warred, churning her insides as reason tried to be heard over the clamor of her emotional upheavel. As if he could hear the clangs and clatter of her inner battle, Dorian raised his eyes for a second. When he caught her staring at him in distress, his familiar features folded into a wary expression.
"What's wrong with you?" He asked, incredulous.
"Nothing," she lied.
"Okay, whatever," he shrugged and returned to his web browsing leaving her caught up in the eddy of her own mess. She felt anger rise up through the chaos, ire that he couldn't even be bothered to care about what was wrong with her. Anyone could read her face and tell what she was thinking and Dorian knew her better than most. He knew something was wrong but obviously did not feel like playing that guessing game. She knew it was silly to be angry at him for not pressing her but she couldn't help the irritation.
Why couldn't he at least put the damn computer aside and-...And what, she mused darkly, take me in his arms and kiss away my anxiety? God, she swore, when did I become such a insipid romantic? She turned and fled back to the bathroom.
Flipping the light on, she stared at the now illuminated mirror. Familiar features stared back at her- brown eyes that were currently confused and clouded, worry and confusion was etched in the line of her mouth and her eyebrows pinched over her too large nose. She could almost forget the blemish that had appeared two nights ago by her right temple when she had her bangs down. She hastily untucked them from behind her ear, brushing out the strands with her fingers. She could hear clicking coming from the other room still. She sighed, the noise echoing in the tiled room and filling her ears.
Rosanna knew what would come next. She would go to the bedroom, lie down with a book and wait for him to do something. He never did. Dorian would leave her alone until she tried to talk to him and even then he would be silent, letting her spill everything out. She was sick of spilling everything out and then realizing he had never volunteered anything in return. She had once tiredly told him that he would have been an excellent political adviser. He had taken it as a great compliment, even if it hadn't been meant as such..
She turned from the mirror, flipping the light off in thoughtless custom before returning to the living room. He didn't glance up as she settled on the couch, pulling a book off the table beside her. She twisted to look at the dark haired man beside her, his dark blue eyes scanning a page and seemingly oblivious to her. She cracked the book open and began to read.
The words began to sink back down her throat, twisting back down to where they originated in her gut. She turned the page, half reading and half focused on the warmth emanating next to her. For a few moments, quiet regined in the small space.
Then, a shuffle and bare feet pressed against her thigh before retreating. She glanced up, to the naked eye he was still absorbed in his reading, his body still in the curled position he adapted when the computer became too hot to sit on his lap. She glanced down at the bare feet underneath him and back up at him. He made no sign that she was even sitting there, much less staring at him. She returned to her reading and a moment later, watched as one pale foot creeped out to nudge her again.
She smiled a twisted sardonic grin and folded the book away. She turned to face him and pushed the words down deeper. It wasn't time yet. She had to be sure.
After all, it won't do to tell someone you loved them when they were reading the sports page, she assured herself as he turned to look at her quizzically. She could see the mischief behind the talented facade though, perhaps she would convince him to go out on the porch for a while but even so....
Dorian began his mummer's show of protest and innocence at her claim that he was pushing her, mock irritation and frustration sounding much more real than she would like. All a game but still...Rosanna let it slide around her, the familiar game of him and her. He wouldn't thank her for those words tonight. She felt selfish even wanting to say them. So, she kept them inside.
She had to be sure after all.
Better to be safe than sorry.
Luckily, the cause of her fish impersonation was unaware of her inner struggle. Dorian sat on the threadbare couch with his computer pulled onto his lap and was blissfully ignorant of anything beside the current sports page. Sickened by her sudden anxiety, Rosanna pushed her bangs out of her eyes but still the words flew through her brain- effectively cutting out the voices of reason and sanity that were doing their best to stop her folly.
Indecision and uncertainty warred, churning her insides as reason tried to be heard over the clamor of her emotional upheavel. As if he could hear the clangs and clatter of her inner battle, Dorian raised his eyes for a second. When he caught her staring at him in distress, his familiar features folded into a wary expression.
"What's wrong with you?" He asked, incredulous.
"Nothing," she lied.
"Okay, whatever," he shrugged and returned to his web browsing leaving her caught up in the eddy of her own mess. She felt anger rise up through the chaos, ire that he couldn't even be bothered to care about what was wrong with her. Anyone could read her face and tell what she was thinking and Dorian knew her better than most. He knew something was wrong but obviously did not feel like playing that guessing game. She knew it was silly to be angry at him for not pressing her but she couldn't help the irritation.
Why couldn't he at least put the damn computer aside and-...And what, she mused darkly, take me in his arms and kiss away my anxiety? God, she swore, when did I become such a insipid romantic? She turned and fled back to the bathroom.
Flipping the light on, she stared at the now illuminated mirror. Familiar features stared back at her- brown eyes that were currently confused and clouded, worry and confusion was etched in the line of her mouth and her eyebrows pinched over her too large nose. She could almost forget the blemish that had appeared two nights ago by her right temple when she had her bangs down. She hastily untucked them from behind her ear, brushing out the strands with her fingers. She could hear clicking coming from the other room still. She sighed, the noise echoing in the tiled room and filling her ears.
Rosanna knew what would come next. She would go to the bedroom, lie down with a book and wait for him to do something. He never did. Dorian would leave her alone until she tried to talk to him and even then he would be silent, letting her spill everything out. She was sick of spilling everything out and then realizing he had never volunteered anything in return. She had once tiredly told him that he would have been an excellent political adviser. He had taken it as a great compliment, even if it hadn't been meant as such..
She turned from the mirror, flipping the light off in thoughtless custom before returning to the living room. He didn't glance up as she settled on the couch, pulling a book off the table beside her. She twisted to look at the dark haired man beside her, his dark blue eyes scanning a page and seemingly oblivious to her. She cracked the book open and began to read.
The words began to sink back down her throat, twisting back down to where they originated in her gut. She turned the page, half reading and half focused on the warmth emanating next to her. For a few moments, quiet regined in the small space.
Then, a shuffle and bare feet pressed against her thigh before retreating. She glanced up, to the naked eye he was still absorbed in his reading, his body still in the curled position he adapted when the computer became too hot to sit on his lap. She glanced down at the bare feet underneath him and back up at him. He made no sign that she was even sitting there, much less staring at him. She returned to her reading and a moment later, watched as one pale foot creeped out to nudge her again.
She smiled a twisted sardonic grin and folded the book away. She turned to face him and pushed the words down deeper. It wasn't time yet. She had to be sure.
After all, it won't do to tell someone you loved them when they were reading the sports page, she assured herself as he turned to look at her quizzically. She could see the mischief behind the talented facade though, perhaps she would convince him to go out on the porch for a while but even so....
Dorian began his mummer's show of protest and innocence at her claim that he was pushing her, mock irritation and frustration sounding much more real than she would like. All a game but still...Rosanna let it slide around her, the familiar game of him and her. He wouldn't thank her for those words tonight. She felt selfish even wanting to say them. So, she kept them inside.
She had to be sure after all.
Better to be safe than sorry.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
248- The Trash Bag
A sudden burst of light caught the corner of her eyes, shifting away and taking her eyes with it. She had been on the bus for hours, half asleep and pressed up against the sticky glass that passed as a window. She blinked slowly, feeling the muscles in her face protesting the movement- but the bus was stopped in the downtown district of some city that Caitlin didn't really know- nor care- the name of. She had passed through countless cities now. The bus took its time winding over the great expanse of pavement that was Uncle's Sam's and Lady Liberty's.
The light flashed again, just a small explosion. As if the sun light was flirting with something, throwing tokens and treats in the hope of winning it's attention. She twisted her face to the front of the vehicle, looking the for the source. The traffic jam had lasted over an hour already due to some sort of marathon which had turned the main arteries of the city to clogged veins- sluggish and pumping clots into the connecting streets- heating and smoking like dragons in the heat of a southern summer.
The bus moved forward a half a inch before settling back down with a grumbling moan, its heavy load of some seventy people obviously more than the old dragon wanted to bear. She yawned, wide and stretching let it sink down into her chest and nuzzled back up to the heated plastic. Her legs were cramped, crossed over each other and dangling but she had no other option. If she wanted to doze on a Greyhound bus, she had learned that she had to hide her things well. She had her purse tucked into her side, between herself and the paneling of the bus wall. She had learned that trick the first day when the chatting amiable grandpa next to her had tried to relieve her of it within the first thirty minutes of her nap.
That was another thing about the bus, Caitlin thought grimly, never trust anyone. Perhaps that was more true of life than the bus itself but...
Another flash caught her half lidded eyes. They lifted, curiosity winning over exhaustion and Caitlin saw what she had missed before. The source of the bursts was not a glass or metal shining in the afternoon sun but a trash bag, shiny and black some six feet up in the hair and balanced periouscly on the head of a tall black man who was standing on the sidewalk.
He was staring into the flower bed of the huge state building that was sprawled out on the side of the road- staring but not seeing. Caitlin took in his tattered grey and navy clothes and unshaved face without meaning to and then flicked up to the bag perched on his head. She almost failed to notice the white hard hat that was between his head and the bag itself.
She had noticed a construction site a couple of miles back, right as the bus has began to apply its brakes as it hit the congested city. It was probable that that the man had gotten the hat from there. Men left things behind all the time and one man's hat was another man's bag holder.
The chuckle slipped out before she could catch it- she felt the blob beside her twist to look at her but she kept her face tilted towards her bag man. He had yet to move. Much like the bus.
For a long moment, Caitlin just stared.
And then the bus lurched forward and he slide back out of view as her seat wiped him from view. She twisted a bit, trying to look out the window behind her but the only view that achieved was the suspicious glare of the seat kicker that had been sitting behind her since Texas. She avoided his gaze and turned back around- aware her seat mate was staring at her as well now.
Let them stare, she thought. But she didn't go back to sleep. She watched the buildings ease by as the bus started it's massive turn into the waiting arms of the station.
She had an hour, she glanced down at the watch that had traveled the miles with her. It's scratched face winked up at her as she did the mental math. She would have about three hours before the bus left for Florida.
Or she could stop riding and start going somewhere.
The thought was as sudden as it was sharp and Caitlin felt her eyes flicker back up to the window. The bus pulled alongside its fellow mammoths, sun winking off black and grey surfaces in the courtyard and off the glass windows of the terminal. Caitlin felt the Blob start to shift eagerly in their seat and she turned to look at the bus interior. Faces swam before her as people began to gather their things, shaking off the lethargy and antipathy of the traveling. The chit that had the blank face and moon eyes by the bathroom was now a laughing and vibrating woman who was shaking her hair out of its ponytail and applying lip gloss, eagerly ducking her head to peek out the window. Even the Blob was no longer quiet as big as they had seemed on the long bus ride but simply present in the growing din of the bus.
Caitlin's eye caught a familiar sheen when a passenger dragged a trash bag from the overhead rack- slinging it over their shoulder as they stood to exit the bus. Her simple overnight bag was underneath the bus, filled with tshirts, sweat pants, socks, underwear and a few photos that she had not trusted to keep in her purse in case it got snatched.
She wondered how she would look walking down the street with the black bag perched atop her head- all her worldly possessions balanced, leaving her hands free and her head held tall. They would call her crazy, point and laugh, take pictures and shake their head in amusement.
They wouldn't understand what she was starting to.
That perhaps it wasn't all about balancing your life with moving forward- unafraid to drop everything and pick up and go as she had been doing. Perhaps, thought Caitlin as she stood to exit the bus, the Blob courtlesly holding the line for her- perhaps it was more about stopping and actually seeing past what it is youre looking at- with open mind, close mouth, and nothing hanging over your head.
Just balanced, waiting for the next step forward.
The light flashed again, just a small explosion. As if the sun light was flirting with something, throwing tokens and treats in the hope of winning it's attention. She twisted her face to the front of the vehicle, looking the for the source. The traffic jam had lasted over an hour already due to some sort of marathon which had turned the main arteries of the city to clogged veins- sluggish and pumping clots into the connecting streets- heating and smoking like dragons in the heat of a southern summer.
The bus moved forward a half a inch before settling back down with a grumbling moan, its heavy load of some seventy people obviously more than the old dragon wanted to bear. She yawned, wide and stretching let it sink down into her chest and nuzzled back up to the heated plastic. Her legs were cramped, crossed over each other and dangling but she had no other option. If she wanted to doze on a Greyhound bus, she had learned that she had to hide her things well. She had her purse tucked into her side, between herself and the paneling of the bus wall. She had learned that trick the first day when the chatting amiable grandpa next to her had tried to relieve her of it within the first thirty minutes of her nap.
That was another thing about the bus, Caitlin thought grimly, never trust anyone. Perhaps that was more true of life than the bus itself but...
Another flash caught her half lidded eyes. They lifted, curiosity winning over exhaustion and Caitlin saw what she had missed before. The source of the bursts was not a glass or metal shining in the afternoon sun but a trash bag, shiny and black some six feet up in the hair and balanced periouscly on the head of a tall black man who was standing on the sidewalk.
He was staring into the flower bed of the huge state building that was sprawled out on the side of the road- staring but not seeing. Caitlin took in his tattered grey and navy clothes and unshaved face without meaning to and then flicked up to the bag perched on his head. She almost failed to notice the white hard hat that was between his head and the bag itself.
She had noticed a construction site a couple of miles back, right as the bus has began to apply its brakes as it hit the congested city. It was probable that that the man had gotten the hat from there. Men left things behind all the time and one man's hat was another man's bag holder.
The chuckle slipped out before she could catch it- she felt the blob beside her twist to look at her but she kept her face tilted towards her bag man. He had yet to move. Much like the bus.
For a long moment, Caitlin just stared.
And then the bus lurched forward and he slide back out of view as her seat wiped him from view. She twisted a bit, trying to look out the window behind her but the only view that achieved was the suspicious glare of the seat kicker that had been sitting behind her since Texas. She avoided his gaze and turned back around- aware her seat mate was staring at her as well now.
Let them stare, she thought. But she didn't go back to sleep. She watched the buildings ease by as the bus started it's massive turn into the waiting arms of the station.
She had an hour, she glanced down at the watch that had traveled the miles with her. It's scratched face winked up at her as she did the mental math. She would have about three hours before the bus left for Florida.
Or she could stop riding and start going somewhere.
The thought was as sudden as it was sharp and Caitlin felt her eyes flicker back up to the window. The bus pulled alongside its fellow mammoths, sun winking off black and grey surfaces in the courtyard and off the glass windows of the terminal. Caitlin felt the Blob start to shift eagerly in their seat and she turned to look at the bus interior. Faces swam before her as people began to gather their things, shaking off the lethargy and antipathy of the traveling. The chit that had the blank face and moon eyes by the bathroom was now a laughing and vibrating woman who was shaking her hair out of its ponytail and applying lip gloss, eagerly ducking her head to peek out the window. Even the Blob was no longer quiet as big as they had seemed on the long bus ride but simply present in the growing din of the bus.
Caitlin's eye caught a familiar sheen when a passenger dragged a trash bag from the overhead rack- slinging it over their shoulder as they stood to exit the bus. Her simple overnight bag was underneath the bus, filled with tshirts, sweat pants, socks, underwear and a few photos that she had not trusted to keep in her purse in case it got snatched.
She wondered how she would look walking down the street with the black bag perched atop her head- all her worldly possessions balanced, leaving her hands free and her head held tall. They would call her crazy, point and laugh, take pictures and shake their head in amusement.
They wouldn't understand what she was starting to.
That perhaps it wasn't all about balancing your life with moving forward- unafraid to drop everything and pick up and go as she had been doing. Perhaps, thought Caitlin as she stood to exit the bus, the Blob courtlesly holding the line for her- perhaps it was more about stopping and actually seeing past what it is youre looking at- with open mind, close mouth, and nothing hanging over your head.
Just balanced, waiting for the next step forward.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
249-The Lanyard
There's a few things in life that will wake you up.
Most of those are unpleasant things- things we would rather sleep through, wish they never happened, or bury deep.
And then there are the good things in life that nudge you awake with light fingers- casting shadows where there once was only darkness.
One of those is standing on a crystal beach in the dawn hours, watching dolphins swim less than a hundred yards away. Alone and quiet, music playing softly in the dangling earbuds - ripped out to hear the sounds of the ocean and feel the ocean breeze as it brings some kind of answer back across the water.
And you realize- if you are lucky- that this tranquil scene, this peace is really just raw power- an ageless, nameless mystery that is the sea. The dolphins, seaweed and shells that scatter in the sand are simply a part of the whole- the whole is the sound that echoes in you- and you realize how hollow you've become.
Or perhaps that was just me.
The man next to me- who I stopped by while frantically texting back an answer to a coworker about a continuous reservation set up- seemed more at peace with himself than many men I've seen in my time standing behind the desk.
He simply tapped my shoulder, waited until I slipped my earphones out of, and murmured, "Can you see they're following us?"
And as I walked down the beach, they did.
So, I stopped at the edge of the town houses littering the dunes- legs aching with the effort of walking on the hot sand, legs crusted with the salt of the ocean, and eyes narrowed at the sun fiercely bouncing off the blue waves- and I let everything go.
I let the phone buzz the rest of the trip- I didn't pick it up if I could help it. I turned the music down so it was a part of the waves instead of drowning them out. I walked back along the umbrellas and chairs, keeping my eyes on the pod. I stopped- knelt at the shore line and stopped worrying about getting sand all over my clothes and just let the waves and seaweed and heaven knows what else just wash over my legs.
And I did this every morning. Alone. Because when I silenced my head, I could better understand my heart.
That week I was surrounded with friends who I knew and loved- with all their faults and all their virtues. And as we laughed and joked, argued and bickered, sulked and resented, talked and loved- we all put lanyards of various color around our right wrist and laughingly called ourselves a family of sorts.
By the time we found ourselves heading home, I still had the lanyard wrapped around my wrist to remind me.
Remember what it was like to face the ocean and know there are bigger things in this world. Mysteries and wonders and horrors and tragedies that you can either avoid until they find you or you go seek out.
Remember that waking up every morning and dragging yourself to a job you hate and then back to a home that you've outgrown, with friends miles away and hitting dead end after dead end is not going to change anything. (Putting in dues and being in a rut are two different things, my friends. Don't forget that. )
So, a little piece of rope sits bright orange against the tan skin of my right wrist- fraying and wearing as the days go on- as a reminder. It brought me peace as I drove home, strength as I walked into the office of a good friend and wonderful boss to turn in my notice, resolution when faced with unerring distress from family, and tranquility in the hours when doubt wiggles in and drowns out the roaring of the waves in me.
So, why am I packing up, taking a huge risk by forsaking a steady job, free food and rent, and going back to a city I left a year ago?
Because I stared out over blue water, fell asleep on the sand, and woke up with the knowledge that I had to stand up and move forward- even if that means falling flat on my face. I keep the orange tied around my hand, a constant source of reassurance and a reminder of what I'm headed towards and I ignore the jibes as they echo in my ears. This may not be a wise decision, I'll admit to that readily. I am doing it half blind and with no real safety net.
But it will be living.
And I'm ready for the next adventure.
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