Well, I was going to post here an email exchange with a friend,
dealing with the issue of parents who may be starting to slip, mentally. Likely
– if I do post it – it will be in a couple more days. But since the last
several postings were downright serious, I'll lighten up a bit and invite you
to Steal My Stuff again.
(Earlier I set to tweaking some of the text settings, and that didn't
work, so we're back to importing via Word… and chopping up the paragraphs,
alas. I will figure this out – even if I have to follow the instructions.)
Anyway, here's a story-fragment from September of 1983; its setting
is later that same decade… and probably somewhere in the rural mid-Atlantic US.
The "Woolfson" singer, for those of you who remember 1980s music, was
one-third of the core of The Alan Parsons Project, Eric Woolfson: lyricist and
vocalist – it's his voice on "Time" and "Eye in the Sky".
But he never wrote or sang the songs here in this post, on his own or
elsewhere… I wrote them, trying (somewhat weakly) to "channel" his
style of voice and word. (Uphill Den and Carrier are also groups I invented,
and whose work shows up now and then in my own.)
I never found anyplace in other stories to put this little scene,
though I do like the budding warmth (or is that bubbly warmth?) between the two
characters, and a bit of the repartee, but I don't see how or where I can make
this piece work. So… feel free to Steal My Stuff!
***
"It
was nice of Bill to lend us his van for the evening," I observed as
I set the glass down.
"Yes,
wasn't it," Karen said with a smile. She slid a side window open, and a
soft breeze gently lifted the white curtain. "It was also nice of you
to slip him 40$ for this."
I
adjusted the volume on the tape player to subliminal suggestivity. It was classic
Bread – the more of which the better. Who needs Uphill Den, Carrier, The Clash,
et al.? I answered, "Me? Bribery? Of a friend, no less!"
"Yes,"
Karen answered, "all of the above. I have the distinct feeling someone
is trying to force himself on me." She snatched the cassette out. "Love
songs, no less."
A
little rooting through Bill's case yielded a well-worn, ancient Iron Maiden. I
took it from her, and replaced Bread with Woolfson's latest, which I slid into
the player. At once we heard "Thunder":
If I gaze
at you in candlelight
And
dream of you in drifting moonlight
And
when you smile at the words I sing
Can I
help doing anything?
For
like the thunder
of a
sudden… summer storm
Like
the thunder
at
the crashing ocean's shore
My
heart is pounding
With
my love for you—-
I
fully expected her to switch the player off. But instead she gave me a pleasant
smile, and let the song finish. "You get an F for subtle, you know,"
she said softly. "But that's always been a sweet song to me."
She
surprised me further by gently pulling me down for a three-minute kiss. "You
didn't have to force anything," she said then in a whisper.
"You
mean the way to a woman's heart is music?"
"Not
always, silly thing. To get a foothold you have to treat her like a woman."
"Like
a woman who is the Queen", I answered truthfully. Again Karen nodded. "You
do know it." She kissed me again. "You know," she whispered
after a few weeks, "I think we have a chance at something here. I—"
Talking
softly, her voice verged on slightly husky. But my finger on her soft lip
quieted her. "An observation like that is unnecessary." Too much
fertilizer will kill the rose, I thought.
Karen
responded by kissing my fingertip.
"Now,"
I added, "now that the evening is young—"
"—and
we are gay! — "
"—and
we are definitely not, I've got a little something else planned." I
moved forward to the driver's seat. Karen settled in on the passenger side,
sitting on her bare heels. Reaching back, I slid Woolfson's "Miracle"
tape back in and we drove off to the stronger "Young and Foolish":
We were
young and foolish, you and I
The
world was a game we had to play
The
game was to live before we were too old
We were
young and foolish, you and I
And now
I am old and wiser—
Where
are you today?
Where
are you today?
"I think this is isolated enough," I said. The van
was now parked in the exact, geographic center of 157 acres of foot-tall
blowing green grass. (Four-wheel drive helps; Dad owning the field doesn't
hurt.)
"Well," Karen breathed. "When I said ‘Get lost!', I
didn't expect you to take me seriously."
"Neither did I," I answered, carrying out the box from
behind my seat.
Facing downwind, I waved a large lace table cloth, then set it
down on a square of grass I'd just flattened. I looked around. Yes, far enough
from the van that it wouldn't obstruct too much of the view. I began setting
out wine glasses, bottles, and assorted expensive condiments.
Karen clapped her hands in too-thick glee. "Oh! A picnic! Let's!
I'll get the pillows." But she was kidding about the pillows; she stayed
put.
I gave her a wry face. As soon as the cork was out, I had Karen
sniff it. Her response: "Yuck. I am supposed to drink this?"
"No, just nibble on it a bit. The vintage is Taylor
California ‘85 – a hard one to get hold of, you know."
Karen Taylor whistled appreciatively. "I am impressed."
She took the glass as I handed it to her. She klinged it against mine. "Amor
vincit omnia!" she declared boisterously.
"Nemo me impune lacessit," I agreed.
"In vino veritas!"
"Dum vivimus, bibamus!" And I belched slightly, having
run out of high-school Latin.
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