Semi-Daily Scribbles

Gary likes his stuff.

Model airplanes, winged creatures under glass, notebooks packed with scribbles and clippings, and portraits of loved ones made from found objects. Don't even dare use the one syllable word that begins with the letter "J" anywhere near Gary. Everything has its place, and collections are arranged on the walls in a most methodical manner. Gary's got a keen eye for color and form. And to prove he can laugh at his idiosyncrasies, there's a special piece, mounted and framed, over his bed he likes to call (take a wild guess…) JUNK. It includes the diplomas of his advanced degrees in science and mathematics, his birth certificate, original SSN card, and a birthday greeting he received from a Guatemalan pen pal when he turned eight. In fact, if you stretch out on Gary's bed, with the-ode-to-his-interpretation-of-JUNK on the wall behind you, and look straight up at the ceiling, it's hard to miss the numeral of which Gary is so very fond. Painted right there in black, and really big.

Gary likes the number 8.

Claire lost the bounce in her step as she rounded the corner to her apartment. She woke up that morning with the intention of giving her two weeks' notice at the DMV. By the time she got into position behind the counter, she'd scrapped the plan. Claire didn't have another job lined up, but figured she could survive for a couple months while she went on the hunt. She'd been a barista before and, to her best recollection, people still drank coffee. Claire didn't mind putting up with steam, and noise, and mountains of grounds as an interim sort of situation. But then this is where Claire had a heart-to-heart with herself during the two-transfer bus commute. She wasn't going to find a job that paid as well as where she was at. Claire knew after a few weeks working at The Busy Bean, she'd lose interest in looking for a more suitable means of employment. Then she would fall behind on the bills. Claire's musings were not what-if scenarios. She'd been down that road and back again. Patterns were so awfully hard to break, and fantasies were as easily collapsible as a take-out carton. As Claire approached her building, she decided she really liked having a roof, and a bathtub, and a kitchenette. Claire liked her neighborhood, too. She was just born a restless soul, and needed a cold dose of reality on a fairly regular basis. It sure didn't help when she let her imagination run wild and thought the stupid message stuck to her foot was some kind of cosmic permission slip to quit her job. As soon as she got inside her cozy abode, Claire was going to set a match to that dangerous sticky note.

Willa shrugs off the chill that settles over her twisted body. She sits at the table and arranges pieces of cloth to form the patterns she sees in her sleep. Willa dreams of sailing ships and wooden troughs brimming with brackish water. The sea parts and reveals fields of pale purple and emerald green. Willa pulls up an undulating stalk of a flower she has never seen. The creamy pink head has eyes and ears and a heart-shaped mouth. Mini feet kick and tiny fists jab and Willa knows it is The Calling. Fate waits for her somewhere far away and wild. She works with a purpose to complete her story that she will wear as a mantle of humility.

A new priority crowded out all that had been previously important to Johnette Crabtree. She made things with wire, twigs, dried apple slices, and creamy peanut butter. Guests found the mobiles uncomely as they spun above bed rails, or the commodes. Finches liked Johnette's artistry just fine. However, Johnette's days of genteel hospitality were drawing to a close. Her inheritance dwindled to an uncomfortable level, and she vowed not to become the downtrodden protagonist of a riches to rags story. Johnette missed Mama and Papa so very dearly, and thanked them nightly in her prayers for their generosity and sound business sense. Sadly, the manufacturing of hospital fixtures had seen better days. Johnette Crabtree needed to get a job. Her first one ever, outside the drafty family home.

Nell bought a pair of idiotic shoes with money she didn't have. She bought the heels to impress, then berated herself for thinking anyone cared how her feet were shod. Those feet, heels or no, would be concealed behind a desk, if she got the job. A person, a very rude person, with too much time on his/her hands (and knees) would have to crouch down and crawl a ways to see those impressive, expensive heels. They were much too uncomfortable to walk around in. Nell would wear sneakers on the ride there–nobody cared what you wore on the bus–then change into those damn heels for the interview. She pictured a blister, red and weeping, erupt on the back of each ankle. Nell needed to tread lightly and walk on tiptoes to avoid unsightly blood smudges inside the idiotic shoes she'd return as soon as her job search was over.