Semi-Daily Scribbles

Your Gary's a tough one to pin down. Oh, he's dependable and doesn't gripe much. Keeps that old tractor of mine hummin'. But damn me if he doesn't out and out make stuff up. Weird crap. Told me yesterday he's finally got a break in the case he's workin'. Case? What case? I didn't wanna ask, but thought I'd better play along. My stomach didn't feel right. Anyhow, Gary goes on about some rich guy, big time hog farmer, who hired him to find his daughter. Hired you? I didn't mean nothin' by it, didn't catch Gary's meanin' is all. But boy did he get his nose out of joint. Said he didn't see a reason to continue our conversation, which I thought was funny. Ok by me! I had to say I was sorry, though, and asked him to keep talkin'. Gary's got a big job for me to cut up sod, so…well, so he explained that he works on the side as a private investigator. Private investigator! Once told me he was goin' for his pilot license and never did hear nothin' more about that. Guess he up and changed careers without tellin' me. It's this next part I'm havin' a hard time with. It's like maybe I need to tell someone about it, you know? Like maybe the police. Damn it. Gary said he found the rich guy's daughter workin' at the Chik'n & Biskit in town. Been followin' her all over the place. Guess he called the dad to let him know, and Gary said he told him to keep a close watch and don't approach her. Don't approach her? Naw, there's somethin' wrong with that. Somethin' wrong with the rich guy tellin' Gary he wants to find out who she's really workin' for. When Gary said that last part, he did that thing where you curl your two fingers in the air. Know what I'm talkin' about?

It was the dream offer I'd been waiting for. It was a sign to let me know everything was all right, according to the story.

I was transformed by mischief into a merry-go-round and whirled like a cyclone on my tailbone in the yard. Winifred was nestled in my breadbasket, my left arm around her so she wouldn't be flung off into space. Such velocity! Bright flashes of golden light danced above our heads. Winifred swiped at them with her flippers, chocolate eyes crinkled in concentration. She laughed, and panted, then barked her approval. I felt exhilarated by the ridiculous speed. Leticia the Midwife was frantic, running about, tripping, sniffling back tears. Arcs of light streaked out of reach. They were giant fireflies, or bars of gold. We couldn't tell which. The jittery glow was like a peek past the pearly gates. Greetings from beyond the porch. It was night, but the hissing sparks we grabbed at lit up the universe. All too soon the game was over. We three participants clamored to disentangle ourselves from the business of play. Leticia the Midwife got a hold on Winifred and ran for the backdoor. It creaked open slowly as a swarm of twinkling bees hummed and hawed over our shoulders. None of us could afford to dawdle. There was a great tumult of wings and shouts, and we all shoved through the doorway at once. The floor was wet, we lost our footing (although I'd just found my legs), and gangly limbs were splayed out on the linoleum every which way. Like old times. No toes got stepped on, thank goodness, but the bees were put out by our hasty retreat. We all had a laugh just the same. The affair was like a slice of life, but with more ice cream and no spoon. Fantasy enhanced at no extra charge.

Oh, that sparkling light!

Penny and her peonies. She favors foxgloves and hollyhocks, too. Eggplant, tomato, fennel, and quince. Cherry and chicory and Cheddar pink. Penny's passion is the perfect old fashioned garden. She plants sweet next to bitter, pale and bright grow side by side. Penny plans, with great care, her fecund plot so there's something to bury and something to dig up no matter what time of year. From the lowly viola to the royal red rose, Penny's patch of solitude provides peace and repose. Just ask those who pay Penny a visit, and find it hard not to stay a spell.

Véronique's dream is much more than it seems on the surface. The short version she shares with willing listeners is she finds herself at the top of a long, winding staircase. She's dressed in a beaded burgundy ball gown and elbow length white gloves. Her slippers are made of diamonds. They feel like feathers against her feet. Véronique, in this recurring dream, slowly descends the twisting steps until she reaches the bottom. A shimmering silver lake stretches out before her where terrazzo ought to be. A heart-shaped silk pillow floats by, waist high, with parchment, quill, and inkpot nestled carefully within its folds. Véronique picks up the quill to write. This is all she remembers before the dream fades and she is once again awake. Véronique's willing listeners nod knowingly and offer interpretations along the lines of, "You desire the fine things in life," and "You stand on the shores of the Unknown, waiting…contemplating."

Véronique never reveals what it is she writes on the parchment. Time and time again, without fail, Véronique inscribes the how, where, and why of each willing listener's demise. She smiles as she seals the fate of so many with quick strokes and dashes of wickedness.

Loni left her notes on the kitchen table. The realization, five minutes before she was due to deliver her presentation, triggered a stomach cramp and droplets of sweat along her upper lip. She tried hard not to picture the damage being done to the armpits of her borrowed silk blouse. Loni was up most of the night tossing, and turning, and worrying about her speech. She was no public speaker. She was not much of anything, if she was completely honest with herself, but she could run the registers and the fry station better than any of Leonard's sorry crew. Given that fact, Loni did not understand where her boss got the idea she was assistant manager material. Loni didn't mind hard work, even the hot, greasy kind at places like Chik'n & Biskit. But handling squirrelly people and their nonstop drama? Loni flat out told Leonard she wasn't interested in Chik'n & Biskit's Leadership Program. She didn't have time to read handouts, and take tests, and get up in front of other Biskiteers and give a talk on What Customer Service Means To Me. Leonard hounded her about the training and wore her down until Loni finally agreed to go. He said she'd thank him for it someday. So, at the close of the six-week course, Loni wrote down discussion points on 3×5 index cards, which she flipped through before leaving for work. It was a long Monday (with no sleep the night before), and one more chore left to do. Loni couldn't decide what was worse: listening to her fellow graduates fumble through their speeches on various aspects of the food service industry, or having to get up there and wing it. Loni swallowed hard, and prayed for whatever nuggets were wedged in her addled memory to shake loose.