Edited AFO Continuing Story, Part 1
Allegory60
do I have any idea of where the story is going. Such is part of the fun. I
have chosen to make the language, sentence variation, verbs, etc. somewhat
consistent, which meant that some edits made would not have been made to a
given segment that stood alone. I tried to remove stilted and obscure language
and clarify POV throughout. In doing so I added a few elements to some
segments but don't feel that I changed the writer's intentions. Of course I may
have inadvertently done so. The story, regardless, belongs to those who have
written it. This edit is a gift, and somewhat of an experiment, as is the
story itself. I also cut where I felt it improved the passage and cut where it
added concision. I fixed such things as a "small kitchenette." I've never seen
a large kitchenette, so removed the "small" and such words that tend to plague
our writing generally. The weasel words, etc. I took the liberties of adding
some more colorful or figurative language throughout. If anyone has any
questions about any edit, they can post them here or email me privately. Here
is the first section edited. Hank.]
AFO Continuing Story - Edited by DH Henry
Copyright AFO
2003
The old man didn't drink, but felt he had to order something while he waited,
so he watched the amber bubbles dance and cling to the beer mug. It wasn't
clear why he was to meet someone in a dive, but Molly had said it was
important. Earl remembered how she'd helped him elude them. The pack. For
years, they'd been after him, and because of Molly, this was the longest he'd
ever stayed in one place.
Pale light slanted across the dim room as the door opened, and a tall man
entered with stringy black hair and tattoos. He took a seat in the far corner.
Earl eyed him carefully. He was sure this was his contact. He left his drink
and walked over and stood in front of the man.
"Are you Tony?" he asked.
In prison that question came loaded and the typical answer was, "What's it to
you?" Still, the old man hardly looked like an attacker with a shiv. The man
acted as if he hadn't heard him. He laced his fingers on the table and said
blandly: "Yeah,"
"Molly told me--" Earl started.
Tony gestured him to silence and nodded with his head toward a nearby table.
"Did that guy just move closer?"
Earl's blue eyes twitched around the room. "I wasn't looking. Maybe."
"Maybe. Right. Maybe's a worry. Talk quietly, OK? Maybe, he ain't listening and
maybe it don't matter if he hears, but I don't like eavesdroppers."
"If it's one of them," Earl whispered, "if they've found me, I'll have to move
again. I'm getting too old to move again. I remember when I first-But, I
won't--mustn't bore you with that." Earl tugged on his ear. "Time's damned
short. So. Molly sent you. You're that Tony, right?"
"Yeah." Tony looked bored. He stared at Earl. Earl was glancing over at the
beer he'd left on the bar, trying to think of what to say next, what to ask.
Uneasy with the way Tony's eyes were boring into him, he said: "You know what
you're here for, right?"
"No, old man," Tony shot back. "What am I here for? To kill somebody? Is that
it? Because if that's it, you got the wrong guy." Earl caught a steely glint
in Tony's eyes, eyes that were deep set and too close together, giving him the
appearance of being cross-eyed, or just plain mean. Earl tugged on his long
right ear that was deformed like someone had taken a bite from it.
"No, no, it's not like that, Tony. Relax. I think we both know what you're here
for. I've got the money. I've-"
"I said I don't know. Some drop-off. That's all she said."
Earl stared over at his beer again, wishing he'd downed it anyway. A pain
danced over his cheekbones and pressed up to his eyebrows. Tony snapped his
fingers impatiently, bringing his attention forward. He shoved away his doubts
about Tony being clued in. He'd gone too far to turn back. He'd have to lay it
out.
"I've got it all set for you," Earl said.
"Good. What's it?"
"I've got keys, cards, tickets for you if you need them."
"Tickets?"
"Airline tickets."
"Won't need 'em. I've no plans to leave town."
"You might have to."
"I'm not leaving town."
"Well just in case, you know. Just in case, " he coaxed, dragging a thick,
yellow thumb nail in circles in a puddle of liquid on the table, as if trying
to encourage a child with a drawing.
Tony was quiet. He seemed impatient. Earl knew this man wouldn't understand
his demons, would say it was just age, except for the fact that Tony looked
like the sort that knew fear, and Earl was afraid. Tony's reticence might mean
he was regretting the deal, wishing he'd turned Molly down, despite what Earl
knew he owed her, but here he was and he didn't run when Earl furtively, pulled
a fat envelope out of his pocket.
The envelope whispered against the polished surface of the table when Earl slid
it across. Tony held it down below the table and silently examined the contents
as Earl explained the scope of the job. There were operational details, the
details with the devil in them that Earl wanted to run over. He was hoping Tony
wouldn't back out before he finished.
"The big key's to an old Ford tucked around the block. Blue. The other's for
the office. Don't use it till you've swiped the security card -- there's an
alarm. Get in. Grab the files labeled "Project Hemingway" and "Bartlett". Get
out. Ditch the Ford.
"If anything fouls up, and I mean anything, use those plane tickets and the
fake ID to lose yourself. If you do the job at midnight you could drive right
to the airport. If you don't use those, burn 'em. Got it?"
The steely black eyes looked dead, like oysters. "I'm not leaving town."
Earl shrugged.
Tony finished counting the cash. There was more than the job was worth, but
Molly said he was the only guy she'd trust. Earl guessed it had something to do
with the hard time Tony had done, but whatever, she trusted him. Tony didn't
seem exactly violent, but he wasn't a cream puff either.
"You understand? How important this is?" Earl said.
"Molly went over it. Listen, those files are practically in the mail already.
Nobody's going to be watching a podunk CPA office in the business district at
midnight. Small time piece of cake." Tony bit off his words as if impatient
with the whole thing.
Earl forced a smile and shook Tony's hand. "Here's hoping you're right, and,
that you'll understand when I say that I hope we never see each other again."
The two men stood.
"Maybe you're the one leaving town."
"It's possible."
Tony nodded and left, seemingly happy over his generous payday. Earl watched
him go through the door, then returned to the bar - he didn't want to be seen
leaving too soon after Tony.
He decided he could use a beer after all. The bubbles that had clung to the
sides of the glass were free now.
- - - - - - - -
Eugene couldn't take his eyes off the barmaid. She had long, blond hair tied
into a ponytail, warm eyes, and a smile that did naughty things to Eugene's
universe. Plus, she had that chest, those almost-too-big-boobs. But, she hadn't
so much as glanced at him. He doubted she ever would. No one ever looked at
him. Especially not that kind of woman.
He nursed his water. One lonely ice cube bobbed in the glass. He hated
alcohol, but loved the inspiration of a bar. Things were always happening, some
subtle, some outrageous, though not tonight it seemed, and he feared he would
have to go home with nothing to show for his time. That is, until the tough
looking guy walked through the door, covered in tattoos. He was certainly dark,
certainly mysterious; one green snake coiled up his arm. Eugene tingled with
the possibilities. The man took a table, and then a few moments later, an old
geezer joined him. Eugene angled circuitously around the room, sitting closer
so he could overhear.
"Come on, muse," he muttered. "Strike, baby." He crossed his fingers and wished
for something he might use. Anything.
Though was much closer, the men were mumbling and whispering. The tattooed man
spoke with a rasp, probably a heavy smoker. The older man kept looking back
over at the bar and seemed uneasy. What sort of meeting was this? A strange
couple in the dim corner. He wished he had a mike planted in the table. The
place smelled like moldy sawdust.
The barmaid interrupted her duties long enough to throw sarcasm his way.
"Another water, or have you had your limit?" He lifted his glass and nodded,
not wanting to bring notice to himself by the two men.
After a few minutes the men at the table shook hands and stood. The older man
went to the bar, looking straight through Eugene as he passed. There was the
trace of smugness in the old man's bright blue eyes. Good news for someone,
Eugene thought, nursing his fresh glass of water.
Eugene ran his hand through his thick bushy hair. The night was slipping
through his fingers and he had nothing. Not a single thing to spark his
imagination. It was normally easy to come up with an idea -- they came without
much trouble -- but something about the interaction of the men and the old
man's canary smile suggested a crime, or at least something forbidden.
There was a three thousand dollar prize for the winning entry in the Arkansas
Poetry Competition. Eugene had just a few days to get his entry in. He
scrutinized the old man, savoring a beer like it was his first in twenty years.
Old men usually gave him inspiration about ageing, loneliness, and lost
chances. But not this one. He had only caught a few words about a key and a
file, and the possibilities clanked around in his imagination.
Something portentous about the old man stuck in his mind like a popcorn kernel
in a wisdom tooth. His imagination percolated until he felt a sudden cooling in
his lap - the glass of water had tipped over, down the edge of the bar, wetting
the front of his pants.
The barmaid sauntered over, with a look that said she'd seen the scene many
times. She held a rag and a smirk of longsuffering on her tired face. "At least
you didn't break the glass," she cracked.
Eugene blushed and mumbled an apology. She leaned over to wipe the bar, laying
her breasts directly in front of his eyes.
"Could you stare at the left one a bit, it's gettin' jealous," she deadpanned.
She said it loud enough for all to hear. Laughter boomed from behind him.
Eugene headed for the men's room.
There were no paper towels. No clean ones anyway, just scummy ones littering
the floor. He dodged into the last stall and began drying his pants with toilet
paper. The paper left tiny white caterpillars on his pleats. He took a deep
breath and sat down. A moment later, he heard the bathroom door screech open.
Eugene braced his feet them on the stall door.
Someone was hunting through the stalls.
One door banged open and he recoiled, his knees shaking. He froze, certain the
man with the tattoos was now hunting him down, feeling threatened that he'd
heard too much.
The second door slammed open and he jumped.
The door to his stall, locked and braced with his whole strength, began to
rattle.
"Leave me alone! I've done nothing!" he pleaded.
A long silence, then, "Mister?" The barmaid's voice.
"Mister, you in there? Thought you might need a towel."
Eugene let his breath out, his knees still shaky. He stood and opened the door,
and took the towel. "Thanks. Sorry I hollered."
"No problem. Look, I followed you in about my comment. Didn't really mean for
everyone to hear. Sometimes I'm used to shouting when the music's on."
"It's fine. Really."
"Well, remember me in the tip," she said, then turned to go.
"Wait! Please."
"Yes?" she said, one hand on the door.
"Would you mind telling me your name?"
"I dunno. Why?"
"It'll seem silly."
"Look, you're there with wet pants. Try me?"
"I write poetry," he said, looking embarrassed. "I came in looking for
something to write about. Inspiration. For a competition. And what you just did
has given me a great idea for a poem. So I'd like your name for that. Poetry
has to be - well - it has to be the truth."
Eugene couldn't help staring at her twin truths.
"Well, that's a line I ain't heard. Are you any good at it? The poetry, I
mean." She stood with her hands on her hips in what seemed to Earl like a
challenge. A sexual challenge. She grinned like that, too.
Eugene couldn't help but laugh a little. A quiet sort of laugh. The way she
was eyeing him in the stall told him she thought he looked much better
laughing.
"Not too bad. I've won some prizes."
"Well, what do you know? A real artist! Me, I always wanted to be a painter.
Fat chance."
Eugene finished drying his trousers and handed the towel back. "You really
should give it chance. You might be terrific. When I get really down I do
charcoal sketches."
----------
"I expected them to talk in the toilet. It made sense they'd talk in the
toilet."
Doe pinched his glasses and leaned back in his leather chair. "Mr. Frost," he
said. "I hired you for your expertise and your knowledge of this dump town. Is
it too much to ask that you at least monitor the right conversation? I didn't
overpay you so I could listen to two adolescents discussing their frustrated
wishes to be Where's-Waldo Emerson and Mary-fucking-Cassatt."
"I like Cassatt," Frost quipped. "Impressionist."
"You're making an impression on me, Mr. Frost -- a bad one. I don't need you
for trivia questions."
"Well, I can't bug a whole bar. I had to guess."
"You're new at this, Kelvin? I'm your training case?"
"I'm the best private investigator in town."
"It's a small town."
Kelvin's dream had always been to become a PI, even if it meant putting up with
some jerk insulting him. Mr. Doe was a fool, Kelvin knew it, and as soon as he
made a name for himself, he planned on getting out from under his thumb.
"You don't understand the workings of a small town," Kelvin said.
"People everywhere are the same."
"Not true. Hillary may act like an adolescent, but she's got the info we need."
"What makes you think so?"
"She knows every man in town -- intimately."
"You speaking from experience?" Mr. Doe said with a smirk.
"At one time, she was interested in me, or, maybe I should say my money."
John Doe leaned forward. "Ah, now we might be getting somewhere."
"What d'ya mean?"
"She likes money, you say, and she's probably got dirt on everyone - either
from working the bar or from working the bedroom."
"What are you suggesting?"
"You really are in training, aren't you? We simply pay her off, unless your
connection with her affords you another method."
"I don't want her hurt."
"Still sweet on her, huh?"
"No." Kelvin looked away. He wanted to punch this guy in the mouth.
"Then get the scoop on every person who set foot in that bar last night. I know
he was there, and I'm damn tired of him eluding me all the time."
Eluding. What an ironic word, Kelvin thought.
He'd spent half the day thinking about his recurring dream, which he'd suffered
again last night. In it, he was running toward something or someone. But no
matter how fast he ran, he got no closer. And he always woke up with his goal
was not only unreachable, but with a feeling that it wasn't his to claim. He
was a modern day Sisyphus.
What was eluding him exactly? A new job? A girlfriend? Financial freedom? He
had no idea, but suspected it was something bigger, something rather more
fundamental.
"I'll do my best," he told Doe.
"That's what worries me."
----------
Kelvin needed to clear his thoughts of Doe, his dream, so he went to the High
Note Restaurant, and Karaoke Bar. When he walked in, a stunning woman was
crooning on stage. Her voice was exceptional, velvet like Patsy Cline, and even
though his heart had long been pledged to another woman, he found himself being
mesmerized by her sultry and melodic voice.
He ordered a drink. When she finished, the few people in the audience applauded
enthusiastically.
He approached her. "I love your voice."
"Thanks. I usually cook next door in the restaurant, but when it's slow, they
let me sing over here." She looked down. "It seems like it's always slow."
"Do you mind if I ask you something? Were you at the Empty Mug bar last
night?"
"No."
"Do you know an old coot named Earl?"
She jerked her head up, eyes narrowed. "So, who's asking?"
"Nobody. A friend."
"Sorry, no. Don't know him."
He knew she was lying but could say no more. He tipped his hat and walked out.
Halfway across the parking lot came a call: "Mister! Hey, mister!"
He turned. The singer was running after him. "Hey, mister, you forgot to pay
for your--"
That's when she was slammed into him and they both fell hard to the ground. The
restaurant blew up.
- - - - - - - -
Had Shelley not believed that honesty was the best policy before, she needed no
further proof. Had she not pursued the blond stranger for the two whole dollars
he owed, she'd have been carted away in a body bag. As it was, she dabbed at
the cuts on her knees and elbows. She knew too, that the blond stranger had
saved her from much worse. Waiting to give her statement to the police, she
sensed their eyes behind their sunglasses homing in on her body.
She looked in disbelief at the smoldering shop and the officials darting over
the scene like flies over shit.
"All we need's a TV crew," she muttered.
She couldn't see the blond man, maybe lost in the gawping crowds. She wanted to
thank him, ask if he was okay. She must have blacked out for a few moments and
he walked or was carried away.
A crowd of tourists and locals on the other side of yellow tape held whirring
video cameras; flash bulbs blinked against the surreal scene. Some onlookers
gorged on fast food as they watched, gawking like they were hoping for more
carnage.
She shook her head and walked away on weak legs made unsteadier by a hollow
stomach. All she wanted was to see her daughter. She didn't look back to see if
any of the police were following. Her statement would be the same tomorrow as
today. Right now, she needed to hold Ela tight.
She caught the number sixteen bus, light-headed and oblivious to the stares her
wounds attracted. She made for Molly Parker's house, hoping Molly could wait a
few days for the babysitting fee.
The tears, the shakes. Both hit her when she left the bus.
Molly's house was only a block from the stop. Shelley hurried, knowing it would
only be moments until she saw Ela again.
----
Molly looked in on Ela, cooing in her sleep. Molly adored Ela. When she looked
at Ela, regret bubbled to the surface, regrets she tried to submerge when she
was around other small children.
Molly was childless. Her husband had come home wounded and she'd never had
another chance to have a baby. She felt her life had been wasted caring for
her husband. Babysitting was as close as she could come to enjoying the joys of
raising a child.
"Sleep well, Ela. Momma will be here soon."
She pulled the crib into the living room. The small wheels squeaked on the
carpet, but Molly was slow and gentle and Ela didn't wake. She turned on the
television, keeping the volume low.
Then she froze.
Red lights flashed across the screen.
"This was the scene at the parking lot of the Whispering Pine's diner just a
few hours ago," the voiceover declared. "As you can see now the only things
remaining are the smoking embers and the hollowed out remains of the once award
winning restaurant. Police are baffled, and firefighters are still unable to
provide an idea about the cause. According to several eyewitnesses, the diner
just erupted into a ball of orange flame right after the five o'clock dinner
rush. We will bring you more details when they become available."
--------
This, Earl thought, is the quiet house that I never wanted to leave, though I
did leave it, and too often.
And this is the quiet bed, he thought, where I seldom find escape, harassed by
dreams and signs like mad mobiles, taunting me like headlines: "NOT INSANE",
"THEY WONT CATCH UP."
And his breathing would become deeper, even, and he could sleep, even now,
knowing what was
Happening, what he had started.
Earl had visions -- a paradox of lines attached to the notion of moving
through time, second to second; a regurgitation of his life images; the silky
image of a wooden horse on springs, mingled with the feeling of a million tons
pressing on him hotly, followed by a bull's head, hawk's head, man's head, that
twirled. Earl panted in his sleep, wanting above all else to wake up, to flee,
because in the background, probably above him, but somewhere, were They.
He was in a panic, covered in sweat, fear constricting him. He drifted back
into sleep and saw a carriage.
The child's gurgling next door woke him.
He bolted up in the bed, and shook the images from his head. He got up and
moved to the wall that Molly had allowed him to poke pinholes in so he could
watch TV from the safety of his room. He slowly pushed his face to one of the
holes.
Molly was on the floor in front of the television, rocking the child.
-----
Molly seemed brain dead, staring at the TV with wide, empty eyes, mechanically
rocking Ela. The child was crying, but Molly didn't seem to take notice.
A knock at the door almost sent Molly out of her skin. She put the girl back in
the crib and tiptoed to answer.
Shelley stood at the door, her mascara running and her eyes wide. Her clothes
were torn and soiled. She was cut across her face and neck.
"Oh my God Shelly -- Oh my God -- are you. . .?"
Shelley pushed her way in. "Where's my baby?" she said, trembling.
Molly stood aside, her mouth open.
Shelley went straight to Ela and lifted her up, crying with her child. She
nestled Ela against her and cradled a hand behind her head. She rocked back and
forth.
"I just realized," she said. "We almost lost each other." She sobbed a few
times and held Ela tight. "Molly, got any brandy?"
Molly was still holding on to the doorknob, letting chill flow into the room.
She shivered, looked outside as if more tragedy might arrive, and closed the
door.
"Of course, child." Molly moved across the room toward the kitchen. "I suppose
we could both use a little."
She returned with two tiny blue glasses, handing one to Shelley. She set the
other on the coffee table.
"Now," she said, "let me put Ela back to sleep and you sit."
Shelley took the glass and reluctantly let Molly take the child. She stood
there for a moment, and then collapsed onto the couch, spilling some of her
drink. She sobbed quietly, then brushed her face with the back of her hand.
"Tell this old woman; I was so worried."
Through the wall Earl listened to the whole story.
- - - - - - - -
"I never expected to see you again," said Hillary, nervously rearranging her
hair.
"You did say to stop by anytime," said Eugene. "Now is anytime. I was in the
area."
Hillary laughed quietly. Eugene had struck a chord last night when she invited
him, perhaps a little hastily, but under that unruly beard was an appealing
man.
"Come in," she said, slurring her words. "Did you ever hear of the phone?"
She led him into the old warehouse she called home. It was sparsely furnished
-- an unmade bed in one alcove and a kitchenette on the far side. Almost half
the area was devoted to a covered easel and a table loaded with paints and
brushes. Against the wall stood a dozen half finished canvases stretched on
frames. On the table was an opened bottle of cheap Spanish sherry.
"I brought some of my poems," said Eugene, walking towards the frames turned to
the wall.
"Don't touch those," said Hillary. "I'm not ready to exhibit my work."
She picked up the sherry awkwardly and topped off a glass with the wine.
"Want one?"
"You should know after the water incident, that I don't drink." He chuckled
shyly.
"Yes, the water incident," she said, before downing a good portion of the
sherry. "Okay, let's see those poems. Or better yet, read them to me."
"Well, okay, but don't expect T. S. Eliot," he said.
He moved aside some art books from a chair and sat opposite her. Before he
started, she was squinting at him, with a silly smile on her lips.
"What are you like in bed?" she cooed.
"What?!"
END OF FIRST PART
Allegory60
Brit or an Aussie, and perhaps have changed a few of the terms and expressions
that seemed out of place (flagon, top up a drink rather than top off, etc.) I
would apologize for this, but then you know Americans seldom apologize. Unless
they spell it with an "s".
Hank]
Alaric
this to say anything other than it reads better, a lot better. I just wonder
if such a heavy edit defeats the purpose of the game. But I repeat, I've no
issues abd I'm happy to thank you and run from here
--
They make the laws to chain us well. The clergy dazzle us with heaven or
they damn us into hell
We will not worship the God they serve. The God of greed who feeds the rich
while poor men starve
Leon Rosselson - World Turned Upside Down
"Allegory60" <alleg...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20030606162149...@mb-m05.aol.com...
Wind River
you did a thorough job. I know how time-consuming editing can be. Thank
you, Hank.
-Sue