FAUXMONT with Fred BlogZ

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

After enjoying the buffet lunch at The Emperor Babur Restaurant at the Hadron shopping Center I climbed the stairs to street level. The orange “open” sign at the Subway blinks on and off surrounded with holiday cheer in LEDs rendering images of holly and red berries.

Turning from this pulsing orange and green merriment, there’s Diddlie and Lark across the street loading the last of their Obama campaign paraphernalia into the back of Diddlie’s Prius. They face me as they step out of the glass-fronted office and into the fine rain that fills the mid afternoon dark, and intermittently refreshes the puddles out here.

Keeping the umbrella facing into the wind and walking towards them, I can see Diddlie waving a picture of the president on the end of a pole to get my attention. Next door, by a quirk of fate, the silent image Senator Lee Levenworth Knox fills a seventy two inch TV in the window of Dream Screen, the big screen TV shop with its ‘Great Wall of Entertainment’ stretching around the far corner and beyond towards the Snaz Super Store.  Snaz and Dream are the two anchors for the Hadron Center’s lesser outlets and restaurants.  A block long row of huge screens with smaller flat screen sets stacked above and below them make the ‘wall’ of identical images shining through the display windows, accompanied by the sound of ‘Jingle Bells’ from the store’s outside speakers.  The row of smaller screens below the giants, advertize electronic products under falling snow that never buries them.  Those above the Senator show us beautiful people at the beach using their laptops under colorful umbrellas displaying the Dream Store logo in red white and blue. The president is pictured up on Diddlie’s pole pointing high into the air with his mouth slightly open facing the Dream Screen store. For a moment the president and the senator seem to be talking to each other, but it is an illusion. I look up at the crawl under the image of Knox,  “…end of America as we knew and loved …”  A cold gust of wind catches the president’s picture like a sail, blowing the pole against the side of Diddlie’s head.

The rain lets up.  Lark drops the box she is carrying and moves over to steady the pole. Another gust sends papers in Lark’s open carton fluttering into the air like pale yellow paper birds.  I wave and walk towards them across the street streaked with colorful commercial reflections in front of the vacant store-front they were using for the campaign.  The crawl on Dream Screen’s set continues … “over- whelming numbers of takers are swamping the makers” … “Knox is surrounded by his supporters in Dyspeptic NY”.  I try to catch some of the sample ballots blowing around my knees from Lark’s box, and pick two off the surface of a gleaming amber puddle before they are saturated.

“Lark, I see the “dynamic duo” have been working hard for the President’s reelection.”

“Its time to leave the bat cave Fred.  I couldn’t have lived with myself if Romney had won while I sat back.  Could you ‘Did’?”

Diddlie grunts from behind her grimace.

“How’s your head, honey?”

Diddlie is biting her bottom lip and rubbing the side of her head with one gloved hand and brushing her wind-blown hair out of her eyes with the bare fingers of the other.  Lark takes the pole and slides it into the car letting the end rest on the dashboard with the rectangular picture flat in back.  She picks up the bright red leather glove Diddlie dropped and stuffs it into her shoulder bag.  The tips of three fingers stick up from the top like a cock’s comb.  I roll the papers in my hand into a tube and offer them to Lark.

“I felt like the election was a toss up right up to the end.”  She takes my tube and puts it in her carton before picking it up and loading it in the car.

“Too true Diddlie.  Have you seen today’s paper?”

“You mean that headline announcing Fibonacci Corporation is in chapter 11?”

“Yup they are reorganizing, and there’s a picture of Jake Trip and Aaron Macadamia getting out of Jake’s Hummer Limo, or is it his?”
“Probably not.  They are in Detroit.”

“Hi Bel!”

Bel Vionnet is walking towards us past the ‘Great Wall’ with a bag full of groceries from Snaz.

“Bel would you like a memento?  Would you Fred?”

Diddlie offers us both an Obama poster, one in each hand.

“Thanks, I’ve got plenty.  I am not sure I want to remember that horrible campaign.”

“Horrible, Bel?  That’s entertainment!”

Bel doesn’t look happy “I am relieved to know that Romney is not in the White House.”

“Bel, Be Happy!  Our guy won!”

Standing silently next to Diddlie, Lark eases down the hatchback of the Prius, so as not to damage any of the cargo.

“Yes Lark, and that’s fine with me, but the campaign was not.”

“Bel, that’s what seven billion of dollars buys in the political speech market.”

“Later Lark … I know I’m not ideologically correct, but there are times when I put that load down … Excuse me for now, but I have to move on home.  This is my exercise for today folks.”

“May I walk with you Bel?”

“Come along Fred.”

“What do you make of the Fibonacci debacle?”

The sky is clearing and the rain has stopped blowing across the parking lot as we turn our backs on the ‘Great Wall of Entertainment’

and walk homeward talking quietly.

“Business as usual.”

“I was surprised.”

“What is so surprising about greedy people ruining themselves?”

“Nothing much I suppose.  They take a lot of employees down with them though.”

“Fred that is the tragedy of it.  It is a betrayal of those employees and I think it is a crime about those pensions.”

“Their pension contributions were automatically paid into company stock and they weren’t given a choice.”

“No, true enough, and for years they did very well.  I think at some point the company got more interested in making money than doing business.”

“What do you mean?  Aren’t they the same thing?”

“Not in this case.  They were a diversified company and they put too much into bets on Wall Street and less and less into the rest of the company and the services it provided.”

“Lark tells me they had a huge contract with the Defense Department.”

“Yes, won’t it be interesting to see what happens?”

We stop at the long light on Route One and look at the pigeons sitting in a row on the utility lines, as if to watch the spectacle below.  Facing us at first, the flock flies up in a huge cloud and circles back over the traffic and shopping center to lines that run perpendicular to Route One, up Boltzmann Road.  Traffic is backed up at the lights because the long cycle allows for left turns from three directions.  As we cross Bel tells me that risk management at Fibonacci finance arm grew weaker as their profits grew stronger. A fire engine races up to the intersection with horn and sirens loud enough to send the pigeons off again and when the engine passes they take up their positions facing us again.  “Bel do you think each bird found his original spot?”

“Fred, I have no way to tell, but they all know when to take off and land, even without the sirens to scare them.”

“Yes, they don’t have to take a vote on it.”

“Pigeons know, Fred.”

“Where did you learn all that about Fibonacci Bel?”

“Sherman Shroud told me at a party.  It was a bunch of Steve’s old colleagues mainly and I didn’t expect to see Sherman there.”

“So you know Sherman?”

“Sure, he has done some pro bono work for the Fauxmont Board.”

“I had no idea of that connection!”

“Steve knows him because they both visit Arty Bliemisch’s studio.  The Shrouds collect her work.”

“I would have thought he was too high powered for us.  I mean

Jake Tripp hired him!”

“He is high powered but that doesn’t put him out of reach.  He spent his first five years here and went to the preschool.”

“ … and hasn’t forgotten us!”

“By the way Bel, have you seen Jake’s house is empty, with a foreclosure notice on it?”

“No, but I am not surprised.”

“Snaz is till open I see Bel.”

“Yes they won’t go out of business in this area.”

“So why should Jake be in foreclosure?”

“He got caught in Macadamia’s meltdown.”

Bel shows no sign of flagging after this long stretch with bag in hand.

It is a good mile up Boltzmann Road.

“This thing’s not heavy Fred.  Just paper towel and some radishes I couldn’t find at the Farmer’s Market.”

We reach Victor de Broglie Boulevard with cherry trees growing in two rows down the broad grassy median and three turreted mansions towering over their new landscaping along one side.  We take a short cut over to Maxwell Avenue, through an expanse of weeds in the last vacant lot on the street and come out in sight of the Light House Gas station up the road.  Long before it was torn down, a Fauxmont style house stood here with a sign outside saying ‘Lot for Sale’.  Bel stops and reads the number still visible on the old mailbox lying on the ground.

“1775, I think Mrs. Rutherford grew up in this house when she was Marguerite Ampere.”

“Did you know the Amperes?”

“No, but Margaret and I chat.”

We pass a few broken bricks strewn on the ground and a length of privet hedge the bulldozer left when it tore out the azaleas growing around the patio.  The azaleas dried out over the summer on a mound of excavated dirt, now flattened.

 NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

Daisy Briscoe is painting at her French easel off Slips Lane on the wide grassy verge at the corner of Wicket Street. Although the weather has cooled since July and it is no longer in the high nineties, she uses a golfing umbrella to keep the sun off. First she scrapes some thick wet paint off her small canvas with a palette knife and wipes it onto a paper towel and then wipes that spot precisely with a rag around her forefinger not smudging wet paint anywhere else. Now she mixes more color on her plate glass palette arranged along the top with blobs of assorted blues, browns and yellows and a long extruded snake of white, fresh squeezed from the tube. She picks up a tube of chrome yellow for  second and puts it down in favor of cadmium. Squeezes some cadmium yellow out onto the palette and spreads white and a little yellow across the glass with her palette knife.  Yellow streaks appear and she keeps blending until it is the pale shade of unsalted butter.  She scoops it up into a blob only to spread it again with a little blue from the top of the palette. The streaks of unmixed pigment gradually blend together into a uniform pale green tone.  She positions a few brush-loads on the painting, mixes again, and positions thicker paint next to the first daubs.  It is a highlight.  She doesn’t look up.

“Where’s Lambert?”

“He isn’t with me Daisy.”

“Oh hi Fred.  Thought you were Steve.  I was expecting him as we were talking about painting last week and he said he’d stop by.”

“I didn’t know you were a painter Daisy.”

“Welcome to the late nineteenth century!”

“Thanks Daisy, what’s so 19^th Century?”

“This folding wooden easel for one thing, and oil paint in tubes was invented at that time and that’s what gave artists the freedom to go outside and paint wherever they liked.”

“So you are enjoying the hard won freedom of the French Impressionists!”

“Well, I haven’t been for years.  Doing it now is like a ‘brain-wipe’.”

“Painting clears your brain does it?”

“Well I need a new picture.”

“Oh?”

“DON’T say it!”  Her emphatic tone cautions me, and it dawns that she is talking about Boyd Nightingale.  It is rumored that their summer affair is over.

“No I won’t, the thought has vanished while watching you work!”

“See what I mean?”

“Oh yes, I watched you change the picture!”

“Yeah!  It takes time to build a new picture, a long time!”

“This certainly is a departure from stained glass.”

“Used to spend part of the summer painting in Brittany.”

“Landscapes you mean?”

“Yup, and the rest visiting my aunt Virginia in Sussex.”

“Fall has started early.  Look at all those dead leaves blown off the path into a dusty brown heap.”

“The wind has died down now.  It blew a whole cloud of them down earlier which gave me problems with the umbrella.”

“Is it the perspective of this avenue of white oaks that got your attention?”

“Steve remarked on that too, but no that’s not what’s getting me.  Do you know Hobbema’s Avenue?”

“Whose?”

“Meindert Hobbema, the 17^th century Dutch painter.”

“Not sure I do, what about him?”

“Well he moved on to selling wine later in life, but painted the ‘Avenue at Middelharnis’.  It is over in London.  Love at first sight!  Oh that painting! … first set eyes on it when I was a kid visiting my aunt and  she bought me the print.”

“So that’s your inspiration.”

“That picture of a huge Dutch sky with tall spindly tree trunks is different from this.  But yes inspirational in a way.  Holland is so close to the sea and flat.  They have ocean light, not land light like ours. That painting was a starting point, and my painting is a new starting point and in that sense this avenue is a change in my perspective.”

“So you are finding a new outlook through these trees.”

“I am not so interested in painting a picture of the avenue.  There was interesting light going past the trunks and through the lower branches, but the light soon changed.”

“Yes, it isn’t a raking light any more.”

“No, but that’s okay.  The avenue doesn’t matter now.”

“But you are looking right down the avenue!  I can see it in your work”

“Oh of course I am, but I am not looking at the perspective now, I am looking at the color … it is just something to hang color on.  Like an armature in sculpture.”

“So what are you doing Daisy?”

“I am making the light I saw into thick oily pigments”

“That’s what they call high impasto.”

“There is something fascinating about thick paint becoming light in a painting.  I mean that is what got me as a child.”

“The thing is to see paint and light at the same time while knowing that it isn’t light.”

“That is the frisson!”  It’s Steve Strether with Lambert covered in leaves and mulch, pulling so hard on his leash toward Daisy’s legs that he chokes.

“Lambert you look a mess!”  Daisy is wearing a pair of bib overalls and a man’s button down oxford cloth shirt with the cuffs cut off at mid forearm.  A loose thread hangs from the fabric on her left arm drifting in the wake of her movements like as though it were spider’s silk.  Lambert trots over nosing the ground at her feet, then looks up. He raises his paws against her legs and tries to sniff the paint rag in her lap.  She reaches into her shirt pocket and gives him a treat. “Lambert, honey let me get those azalea leaves off your nose.”  She tries to pick them off but he dodges, looking for another treat in her hand. “Honey your mustache is twisted out of alignment and your ears are covered in something.  Just look at him Fred.”  Lambert quickly backs away and starts crunching on his treat and bits fall out of his mouth at Steve’s feet and Daisy looks up at Steve.

“What is the frisson Steve?”

“What Fred just pointed out about seeing paint as light.”

“Color makes its own light when you mix the tones just right.”

Daisy has started mixing another green.  Deeper this time, but she doesn’t use it yet.  She looks up.

“I found interesting tones on the tree leaves and trunks and the tones on that grass and dry gravel in the path underneath.”

“Two kinds of grayish browns and grayish greens.”

“Yes all broken up by light coming through the branches here and there.  Except it’s getting late. The light has changed again in the last few minutes.”

“Sorry to interrupt, every moment is valuable.”

“In fact I am looking more at the painting now, and less at the view.”

“Why?”

“Fred, once I have got the areas and proportions massed in, the painting is more about the paint than the motif.”

“You mean you are concentrating on relationships within the painting.”

“Now finishing is a matter of balancing and contrasting.  Composing the tones and hues.”

“That Fred, is how the work sort of ‘lifts off’ from representation and goes more abstract.”

“Daisy’s inner landscape, Steve.”  Daisy discards her deep green mixture and starts again, but pauses.

“That’s where we started Fred.”

“Painting can be a risky business.”

“One line placed on the canvas commits me to innumerable risks, to frequent and irrevocable decisions.”

Lambert has moved under the easel.  He is bumping one of the legs with his nose. Steve bends down to pull Lambert back before he upsets the easel.  “These white oaks got you I see.”

“They did Steve.  This Avenue is my escape route.”

“Yeah arborists call white oaks ‘grey ghosts’.”

“A ghost, yes, that is what I am dealing with now.”

“Look down there Fred.  There are 11 trunks on the left and only nine on the right, and see that cherry growing two trunks along, filling a gap on the right?”

“Got it Steve.”

“Now look at her painting.”

I can see the cherry foliage is painted in strokes of deep orange.

“Guys, that is Fall.  Also the color of a dying fire, these oaks are forgetting summer.  Summer is just a dusty heap that you pointed out Fred.”

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

I am looking for quick connectors and a soaker hose in the Garden section of Jake’s Snaz Super Store.  Snaz has mounted electronic tablets on each shopping cart.  Type in the product you want and its graphic display tells you where to find it, the cost, and then bombards you with ads for related products.  I wave the bar code on my connectors in front of the tablet’s electric eye and it gives me the option to purchase by touching an outsize red purchase button on the screen or one of the small buttons to hold, or reject the item.  Hoses are in the next aisle.  There’s Lou Waymarsh walking towards me with a couple of GFIs in one hand and a pistol grip device in the other that serves the same purpose as a cart mounted tablet.

“Electrical problems Lou?”

“Not at my house.  An outlet has burned out on Diddlie’s kitchen counter.  I am going by her place after lunch to fix it.”

I hold up my quick connectors.  “There is no more rain this Fall than there was over the Summer, and all my chrysanthemums are drooping.”  My cart holds 50 feet of coiled black hose with ‘genuine brass fittings’.  ‘Made with 100% recycled material’ says the yellow and green cardboard packaging with Snaz logo. Perhaps it’s the voice of the woman in the picture standing above a column of printed warnings and smiling as she points towards a bed of brilliantly colored dahlias.  The image of colorful petals is cut off by a fold dividing the photo from a column of directions for use on the back of the package.

“So what you been doing lately Fred?”

“Reading back issues of Shrink Rap.”

“What’re you wasting your time on that for?”
“Keeps me out of the heat.”

The tablet on my shopping cart seems to be listening to us.  Pictures of various beverages flash into a rectangle sharing the screen with a promotion requesting my email address and the possibility of winning a free weed whacker.  Also a separate offer of a discount on ride on mowers if I apply today, ‘just touch the green happy face’!

“How about a coffee Lou?”

“Yeah, I see it on that screen too, opposite Isle 23.”  We walk towards Isle 23 and find a spacious elevator waiting to take us up to the ‘Gallery and Gables Café’.

“Do you get a strange feeling Fred?”

“This elevator is gentle.  I don’t feel as if my stomach was left down in Isle 23.”
“No I mean the way that we both responded to the suggestion pictured on that tablet.”

“Is it any different from seeing a conventional sign at the right moment?”

“Maybe not, but that was not a conventional sign though.”

“Are you thinking of subliminal suggestion?”

“Nothing subliminal about it Fred.”

The cafe is a long narrow area with huge round windows on one side looking out over the mall and a view across the interior expanse of Snaz with its numbered isles like a maze below.  Heavy timbers cross above us as if we are under the gable of an old wooden building, or is it supposed to evoke an old ship with the round windows?  The rest of the store looks as if it is built of steel and cinderblock.

A menu of snacks and drinks comes up on the tablet as we get off the elevator.  We walk over to sit at one of the many vacant oval tables well spaced to accommodate shopping carts.

“ShrinkWrap?  They must be years old …  I mean where did you get them from anyway?”

“Lou, They are on loan from Diddlie.  They turned up when rain soaked her attic in the big storm and she had to clear it out.  I’ve been reading about the beginnings of Prestige U.”

“Surely you don’t believe that malarkey Lark Bunlush wrote!”

“It didn’t seem all that implausible Lou.”

We order coffees from a young waitress in stylized white bib overalls with navy blue work shirt.   She taps our order into a phone and soon returns, the Snaz logo on her cufflinks shining as she serves the drinks.

“Armond Macadamia is a plutocrat and you don’t get that kind of money without cutting some corners.  That I accept, but this idea that he was laundering drug money for the CIA is ridiculous.”

“You mean he isn’t in the drug business at all?”

“He may be implicated in it somehow.  He may have had accounts at BCCI too, but he keeps his hands clean.”

“Well that doesn’t preclude his involvement in intelligence.”

“Well no, but I don’t find it credible.”

“I wonder how he weathered the recent bank melt down.”

“Not well.  I believe he lost a bundle in that new fund of his.”

“I thought he got out of that.”

“No he’s started Amphibian Investments.  Their slogan is ‘We take a cold blooded look at the market.’  I think it was the Toad Skin Fund that took the hit.”

“Is he in this with Jake?”

“Don’t know about Toad, but yes they are partners in some ventures.  He helped Jake get started and now he is going to help him on this settlement Sherman Shroud has cooked up.”

“Liberty was skeptical about that.”

“That’s Sherman’s specialty.  I wonder if he’d know what to do as a litigator.  I’ll bet he hasn’t done a trial in twenty years.  One aspect of it is that Prestige U. is going to get a fifteen million dollar endowment for a new chair in finance.”

“So Armond is going to bail Jake out!”

“Sort of … Jake is going to do Armond a favor too.”

“What can Jake do for a man with all Armond’s resources?”

“Armond is getting too old to get around.  He needs an energetic young guy like Jake, whom he trusts to represent him and travel for him.”

“Good grief Lou, how did you get all this?”

“Oh I hear stuff here and there you know, and folks in the neighborhood such as Derwent.”

“Derwent?”

“Yeah he’s in a wheel chair now … had a long chat with him … that’s after he got through complaining.  Derwent was on the founding Board of Regents for Prestige U.”

“I thought he was an obscure expert on little known arctic life forms.”

“He is an authority of some kind.”

“So how did he get from the ice pack to the board room?”

“That is a story in itself.  Derwent married one of Macadamia’s relatives, a cousin or something.  There was no money in it, but the connection helped him get tenure at Prestige U. after he published some important work.  He was also having an affair with a secretary up in the admin office.  Oh it was quite a scandal!  That secretary had a lot of influence showing a little cleavage here and spending some couch time there.  Come to think of it Diddlie was in the midst of that scene.”

“Diddlie has never mentioned it to me.”

“Oh well, maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Did she work at Prestige U. too?”

“No, no, no, it was a social scene … Diddlie her husband Stuart Dodgson, and Lark, Harper Nightingale, her ex, and a bunch of others.  I better let her tell you, we never got into that swinging scene.”

“You mean the secretary was part of this too?”

“Yeah, she had been a scholarship student from Guatamala I think, or was it Chile?  I forget.  Somehow she ended up working in the front office.  Derwent was only one of her sexual partners.”

“Sounds like trouble right there.”

“Yeah it was really something.  My wife used to get a lot of gossip from Diddlie and pass it on to me.  I found it pretty amusing in some respects, and kind of disgusting in others.”

“The promiscuity you mean?”

“Yes, the promiscuity.  They called it ‘a liberation’ and I question that idea.  I’ve got serious reservations about the liberating aspect of promiscuity.  I get in trouble for it some times, but there it is.”

“It’s liberation from generations of repression and hypocrisy, from the demons their parents haunted them with, the demons that block expression of real feeling.”

“I know, I know, heard it all before Fred.  It’s fine to get past hypocrisy about sex, and fear and all that chauvinistic stuff.  Sure I am all for that, but promiscuity ‘ain’t it’ to me.”

“Well if you are mixed up, acting out is a way through it all.”

“That is understandable in some cases, maybe many.  I don’t know how messed up these people were.  God knows there’s plenty of trash talked on the street and on TV.”

“Yes I think TV is mimicking ‘the street’ and visa versa.  It has proven to be an effective way of getting attention …”

“ … and attention is what it’s all about.  You know that reminds me.  Derwent’s affair never attracted any one’s attention at the time.  He was apart from that scene, but she was into it.  My wife and I used to discuss these goings on endlessly.  At one point it became our evening’s entertainment after work.”

“Lark tells me that when she and Juanita were getting to know each other they ran into Rank Majors on the street and Juanita went into shock.”

“I have heard it from her too.  Then one day I had a chance to talk to Juanita about it privately and she described seeing a big snake partly wound around a limb and partly looping down between branches with its head in the air immediately behind Rank.  That’s what frightened her.”

“Oh well, Lark made no mention of a snake.”

“No, and I don’t want to get into it with her or all that stuff between Jake and Derwent.”

“I have heard Derwent rant about Jake Trip and saying he’s a drug dealer and Macadamia is in it too.”

“Yeah there was a big falling out there … a squabble over family documents I think … there’s probably more to it than that though. Well, that’s Jake’s take on it.  Now Derwent is going off the deep end, saying all this crazy stuff about dope deals.”

“Jake did tell me he was in a jam, a ‘hell of a jam’ in fact’.”

“Lark tells me that when she and Juanita were getting to know each other they ran into Rank Majors on the street and Juanita went into shock.”

An alarm is going off by the exit as we walk towards it.  Three security people with pistols on their hips converge on two Hispanic men with a cart full of paint, brushes, rollers and plastic drop cloths.  They look frightened.  A roll of masking tape bounces on the floor and rolls out the door as it opens, with a snake like hiss, for another exiting customer.

“Get back here, sir.”

The man is chasing his role of tape out the door.  The larger older man is explaining in Spanish but the guards don’t show any sign of understanding.  Lou walks over and offers to translate.

“Thank you sir, we have the situation under control.”

He translates the man’s explanation anyway but they ignore him.  The

The two men in paint-splashed jeans are escorted behind a counter used for returned items.  They stand there with their cart and the uniformed guards bar the way out.  Lou leans over the counter and tries to talk to them.

“Sir, this is a restricted area.”  A female guard flashes Lou a beautiful smile from under the countless fine braids arranged around her head with tiny gold charms interspersed. Putting her arm in his she guides him away as if she were a close friend about to have an intimate conversation.

I wait for several minutes while Lou huddles with the glamorous security woman.  Then he comes to explain that they are following routine store procedure.  “If this is routine, I think we are all in big trouble!”

“Those two think they have paid but don’t understand the system, so the alarm is going off.  Maybe his purchase didn’t go through.  His cell phone is now out of juice so he can’t produce any proof of purchase, now what?”

We exit the maze of Snaz knowing receipts for our goods and coffees have been transmitted to our phones and the price has been deducted from our credit accounts.

 NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

Goldenrod is blooming heavy with pollen.  Tall clumps grow vigorously around the far end of the shaded bench I am sitting on. More long stems with drooping leaves lean towards the unprotected trashcan only a yard away.  I am looking at the river through a gap in the trees from Wicket Street.  The water is glassy over toward the far bank and textured under the shadow of massive clouds, like vanilla ice cream scooped and stacked up further down stream.  The dogwoods are dropping leaves and the branch over my head looks scorched.  It is nearly ten, later than I usually go out, and already hot in the high morning sun.  Warm wind comes off the water and blows an empty slate blue plastic bag up the steep bank from the road. It catches on a twig in the wind-whipped Kentucky coffee tree below me.  The shopping bag looks for a moment like a garment hanging from its shoulder strap among the remaining dark brown leathery seedpods, until the plastic twists unmistakably, becoming trash.  A succession of low flying jets whistles and roars over the river heading north to the airport runway, echoing under low cloud approaching from the west.  Cloud has been rolling in all summer dropping enough rain to leave puddles in the street, and drip from the azaleas along our path.  Enough to drench your shirtsleeves brushing past but there’s little sign of moisture on the ground still hard and cracked.  Another jet circles higher up, its engines whine, as if in frustration at having to wait.  The power of internal combustion and spinning turbines disturbs air and water.  A speedboat thunders into view and throbs as it moves further up stream and as it grows fainter the wake moves a large mat of detritus undulating at the river’s edge where it could have been mistaken for solid ground.  The noise abates long enough for a blue jay to screech into the pre-industrial quiet, followed by the buzz of a distant chain-saw ripping through rings of history.  If following loud noise, the quiet lasts long enough, it often turns out to be alive with a softer range of sounds.  In this case it is an exhalation close by, more exhaust you might say, and a step falling on the patch of gravel around the bench and then a gentle sigh.

“Oh, finally some relief!”

Diddlie sits down next to me.

“Didn’t see me, did you?”

“No, lost in thought I guess.”

“I have been walking as fast as I can for exercise … feel like I’m burning up.”

“Hope you don’t have a fever Diddlie.”

“No, just not used to doing all this walking.”

“You might try going before the sun rises above the tree line.”

“The humidity is just as bad.”

“Exercise will add years to your life.”

“I feel half dead.”

“I am still reading the blog you know.”

“Oh are you?”

“Let’s see now. You are digging up the past, old gossip and stuff.  Piling up questions, right?”

“Yes, I am getting more and more interested in my neighbors and I’ve been here long enough to gain their confidence.”

“How can you remember all those conversations word for word?”

“I mean its kind of creepy to think Fred is listening like some one hidden behind the bedroom curtain, and keeping track of it all.”

“But I am in plain sight!”

“What you’re doing is an invasion of privacy!”

“You don’t have to read it if you find it offensive.”

“No one is reading it!”

“You just said you are.”

“That doesn’t count because I know you.”

“That the moral issue is eavesdropping, not readership.”

“The moral is … I mean, like I said before, what you are doing is voyeurism.  Isn’t that kind of trashy?”

“I don’t think telling stories is voyeurism.”

“The way you tell this story is, though.  Why is that so interesting to you?”

“I find it interesting that we are able to put together lots of different conversations with the same person over time and not get mixed up.”

“That’s called ‘getting to know you’.”

“That’s it.  All these disparate experiences are categorized automatically.  They easily come together Diddlie and become ‘you’ in my mind.”

“So when you recognize me you recognize yourself.”

“Yes in a way some part of me becomes a straw you.”

“So you think I am doing that too?”

“Kind of a me, me, me, thing.”

“No, you are the center of interest in this case, not me.”

“Well, yes in one way, but not really because you are making it all up.  So it’s all you.”

“Yes the blogger is listening to things I make up.”

“It’s not believable.”

“No, it is a conceit, you have to suspend disbelief.”

“I thought your blog was supposed to be real!”

“It is in other respects.”

“You’re a good listener Fred, but why write it down.  I mean gossip is gossip.  It’s fun to tell and it can get exciting to hear but then who cares after that?”

“I don’t know if any one cares but I do want to ask you about your days with the Prestige U. crowd.”

“Oh more hot gossip huh!  I am not sure I want to be a part of this thing.”

“Why not?”

“Because of the moral issue!”

“Which is?”

“Fred I have been trying to say it ever since I sat down.  So tell me again.  What are you doing?”

“The blog records many conversations.  All of them are fragments of some larger picture or story that emerges over time.”

“It is too fragmented.  Too many characters, and so little development I’ve forgotten who many of them are.  There are too many starting points that don’t fit together.”

“Some things will come together out of the past.”

“Out of the past, what do you mean out of the past?”

“I mean Fred asks people to reminisce.”

“So okay, and every one’s memories will differ.”

“That’s right.”

“Sounds like more fragmentation.  How are you going to bring it all together?”

“In a way similar to putting all the experiences I have being with you together to make sense of who you are.”

“So you can’t explain it.”

“No I don’t know how the brain works or how the mind puts all my different experiences over time in one place which make up my sense of you at this moment.”

“So, are you interested in people or is the blog some kind of experiment in brain science or something?”

“No Diddlie, there is no science in it.  People tell the blogger stories.  Perhaps it is gossip.  Whatever it is, there are differences in people’s memories of the same thing, and that is interesting.”

“That happens.  Witnesses to an event often describe it differently.”

“Yes seeing is selective.”

“So is hearing.”

“It is, and that’s part of what the blog is about.”

“I hate to tell you this Fred, but I fell asleep reading your blog.”  The low clouds are now overhead darkening the water.  They look like smudges against towering white clouds above them.  Freshening wind dislodges the plastic bag from its twig and blows dust in my eyes. “Maybe I was just tired though.”

“I hope it isn’t that boring!”

“Sorry Fred, but there it is.  So go on, what were you saying?”

“I am really talking about perception Diddlie, not gossip.  Also there is what people choose to say, and choose to leave out.”

“Oh so you’re looking for lies and deception and selective memories.  You sound like a detective!”

“That’s part of it, but the blog is a series on conversations.  I want you, well any reader, to apreciate the value of conversation.”

“What is so special about conversation?  It goes on all the time and has been for generations.”

“Yes it has, but I think a lot of conversation deteriorates when contest and conflict become too pronounced.  Instead of drawing one another out in give and take, the participants do battle!”

“So people fight, so what?”

“The point is to see what conversation reveals.  It broadens perception. One senses conversational pressure in the play of emotion but it doesn’t break out into coercion.  That ruins everything.”

“Fights are revealing too”

“Yes of course it is always revealing to see when some one gets defensive.”

“It depends on whether you take things personally or not.”

“Right, and what leads one to take personally something that is not intended that way?”

“If you take it personally, I guess you sense a threat or something.”

“Yes one looses detachment.”

“Well you can’t live in your head all the time.  I keep telling you that!”

“So you do.”

“You think we are broadening our perception now?”

“Yes in as much as we communicate.”

I look up after rubbing the dust out of my eyes.  “Diddlie, where are you?”

Getting up and looking around I still can’t see her.  A jogger disappears around the corner further down Wicket Street.  The big clouds are passing over fast and a toad is revealed by a sunburst sitting in the shade of a fallen hickory branch.

 NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

It is 99 degrees outside with humidity hanging in the willow oaks like monstrous cobwebs illuminated by street lights above the Hadron Shopping Center parking lot.  What a relief it is to get downstairs to the basement and The Emperor Babur restaurant with the Bose Gallery opposite. Strange to say, it is under a Subway franchise featuring ‘Fabulous Five Foot Long Subs’.  Daisy, who has yet to arrive, tells me Babur’s biryanis get five stars on Yelp.  Lark is already sitting at a large table under a picture of ‘The Emperor’ overseeing his gardeners.  She is anxious about Juanita, and Gale Trip still doesn’t know where she is detained.

“It doesn’t make sense.  They ought to be able to get her out of there.”

“How, if even the Trips don’t know where she is held?”

“Jake has connections through Macadamia going way back.

Macadamia sold his estate in Chile to one of Pinochet’s generals a few years after Allende was murdered.”

“I thought he committed suicide.”

“No way.”

“Oh! What’s the connection with Juanita?”

“It’s all about money.  Most people don’t know it, but Jake and Armon Macadamia are close.”

“They are secretive alright, but you seem to know something about it.”

“Juanita used to work for us when Boyd was growing up.  As I got to know her I could tell she was deeply upset about something.   She told me part of her story over the first few months.  Then, suddenly, she wouldn’t go any further.”

“Do you think some one frightened her off?”

“I often wondered about that.  I meant to follow up too.  We don’t see much of each other since she has been with the Trips and I have been away, all over the place.  Haven’t got to know the Trips either.”

“Gale told me Juanita’s husband, Hector was killed by leftists during the Coup.”

“Fred, that’s what might be called the, ‘official story’ but it’s not what Juanita told me!  In fact Hector was a go-between for the CIA and one of the drug cartels.  What they call a ‘cut out’.  That’s why he got killed.”

“You mean she told you that outright?”

“Hector’s American friend Stan who helped him get a truck turned out to be CIA, and Hector’s contacts with the cartels were through his extended family.  She said they once slept on sacks of hundred dollar bills.”

“So it was drugs more than politics.  Is that what Juanita told you?  Where did you get that story Lark?”

“Not from Juanita, I was still writing for Shrink Rap and researched a piece on Macadamia.  I caught scent of something while talking to Chilean émigrés, and one of them had had a falling out with the General involved in the coup.  Well, her husband had.  I guess that’s why they were living in this area, and living very well too.  She was bitter about the mystery of her son’s disappearance on a drug mission with the Chilean army.  She talked to me in the hope … huh! … that I might find out something.  Maybe he was running some drugs himself, maybe not.  She mentioned the Macadamia deal in passing.  She said she overheard a fifty million figure discussed by her husband and a group of men he had invited to their home in secret.  She said one sounded American but couldn’t confirm it was Stan.  She didn’t recognize any of them.  Well, I didn’t find out anything helpful to her, but she helped me.”

“I didn’t see this, looking through the back issues of Shrink Rap Diddlie loaned me.  What was your article about?”

“For one thing, I asked how did he get the fifty million dollars out of Chile and pointed out that was the same amount as the fifty million he gave to Prestige U. when they first opened in 1979.”

“So did you cause a stir?”

“No, no one followed up and the story died.  Even my colleague Foulton Furay wouldn’t touch it.  I think some one got to him.”

“Who?”

“He won’t say much about it but I know he was doing a piece about BCCI and the CIA and I am sure he found Macadamia had accounts there too.  Any way he didn’t deny it when I put it to him.”

“I didn’t see his article either.”

“You won’t.  It was never published.”

“So that’s how he got his money out! I have read that the Bank of Credit and Commerce was an intelligence operation itself.”

“Fred a lot of people were betrayed by that BCCI bankruptcy.  The whole thing reeks of hidden transactions.”

I can see through the stair railings from where we are sitting.  Two long thin calf muscles are moving below long black Bermuda shorts.  Daisy’s distinctive arms appear draped in dark purple voile to the elbow, with forearms loaded in bracelets.  She takes off her bowler to duck under the low arch at the bottom of the stairs, and walks over pulling out a chair with a jangle of jeweled metals.

Daisy doesn’t sit down, but stops in an awkward posture half way down with a hand on the back of the chair for support. She notices the picture above our table.

“Have you two looked at that picture?  Isn’t it gorgeous!  I love those Moghul paradise gardens!”

“I have Daisy, look at the abundant fruit on those trees!”

“Fred, I know … are they pomegranates? …

I’m ready to eat … I hope you have ordered … sorry I am so late … my car broke down by Higgs Field.  I called the ‘Light House’ and they got it towed and ran me down here.”  Daisy sits down facing the picture.  Lark and I face each other to her left and right.

“Isn’t Boyd coming Daisy?”

“No, let’s not go there.”

The waiter serves bottles of Rosy Pelican beer with quiet murmurs of ‘Sah’ and Mam.

Another comes with murmurs of his own, and serves papadoms and chutneys, grated coconut, sliced banana, pickles, cucumbers, raita, lemon pickle, and more, all in triangular glass sections on the wide wheel of a lazy Susan. Daisy gazes at the picture in silence.  Lark slowly turns the lazy susan  looking carefully at each section. The piped sitar music, suddenly intrudes on this lull in our conversation.  I wonder if I will be moved to hear the ‘unstuck sound’, or Anahata Nad of the Yogis, by this evening raga.  I am not.  Daisy is still preoccupied by the picture.

“You know that picture is all about water.”

“Irrigation you mean Daisy?”

“Yeah Lark, see those cute little rills around each bed, like frames making each garden a painting within the painting.  That’s just part of a complex network that spreads water all over these gardens.”

“It’s geometric, kind of like a rug!”

“Same theme Lark, Persian influence.  Check the curvy Persian script.”

The waiter in a blue gray jacket positions a folding table at her side with one dexterous motion and lowers the tray held aloft in his other hand with ease.

He distributes numerous covered dishes around the lazy susan. Now it is obvious why we have an outsized table. Then lifts the shiny metal tops with a slight flourish which brings forth the scented Moghul genies.  Clove, mint, garlic, and turmeric, dance their aromatic turns through the atmosphere.  A pale coriander pod rolls out of the saffron yellow rice and lodges in a crease of the tablecloth.

“Daisy, in fact we have been discussing some one as wealthy as a Moghul emperor, and he’s a gardener too.”

“Oh Lark, have you told him about Armond?”

“Daisy I have been telling him about Macadamia and Prestige U.  You know those stories that came out in the seventies about the money for that campus.”

“Yes Lark, you wrote them!”  Daisy orders cardamom tea and Lark and I split her Rosy Pelican.

“No I didn’t write them all.  There were pieces in the Post about that whole group who gave money at the beginning and their common Latin American connections and …”

“I remember Lark, the CIA connection.  They supposedly had students and faculty there.”

“They were called scholarship students, and that’s what they were, but favoring certain people in certain governments they wanted to reward and influence.”

“Well, if you have to recycle drug money a University is a nice benign way of doing so!”

“Oh Fred, it stinks!, and it has all been covered up.”

“But of course!  You know I did see an article in Diddlie’s back issues about a truck load of money that spilled into the jungle some where after a crash, and Macadamia was involved.”

“You know who else is involved Fred?  Rank Majors.”

“I don’t know about that Lark.”

“No, I am convinced because I found the records showing he was an attaché at our embassy in Chile in the late seventies.  He was coordinating flights in and out.”

“You mean secret flights Lark.”

“They weren’t commercial that’s for sure!”

“How can you be so sure.”

“I was with Juanita one day years ago when we ran into Rank on the street, and she turned as pale as marble, and I asked her what was wrong.  All she’d say was that he’d got them out.”

“You mean Rank got them out of Chile and up here to Washington?”

“Fred, I don’t know how they ended up here but Juanita’s first job was working for Macadamias here.

“Does she have relatives here?”

“They are all in Troy.”

“Has she any children?”

“Two, they are both grown up.”

“Did the rest of the family come north with Hector?”

“I think they may have come years before, quite separately.  I suspect that CIA found them in Troy.  Juanita and I never got to that.”

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

I keep hearing a familiar voice while having lunch with Lou at the H bar.

“Who’s that behind me Lou?”

“I think it’s Theo Tinderbrush.  He just sat down a few minutes ago but he has his back to us.”

Lou is enjoying his usual ‘Berger and beer’ and we have just heard Tinderbrush tell some one standing next to him about his trip to Australia.  Dr. Theo Tinderbrush has returned from Melbourne where he attended the “Atheist’s Global Convention” in April.  “Atheists,” he says “call it their ‘Celebration of Reason’.”  I turn around to see who is with him only to find Lark Bunlush approaching and the one he was talking to walking away towards the door. All at once Lark waves to us and speaks to Theo, and then suggests we sit together.  Tinderbrush gets up excitedly and one foot catches a table leg and he staggers as the small square table scrapes across the tiled floor against his chair. His thin summer weight linen blazer swings open as he raises his arms to embrace Lark sweeping the pepper and saltshakers and menu off the table-top with the bulk of a weighty pocket.

“My God!  How did that happen?”

“Theo why don’t you move over and sit with them.”  Lark introduces me to Theo, who, still flustered, moves heavily towards our table but doesn’t sit down.

“Was that Ms Flack, Theo?”

“Yes it was.  The congressman can’t make it Lou.”

“I wish he could have joined us.  Why don’t you sit down Theo?”  Lou stares into his beer.

The waiter comes over to clean up.  Lark apologizes for the mess and bends down to gather some pieces of glass that he cannot reach with his broom.

“Where are you from?”

“Tibet”

“Really!  Were you born there?”  She hands him some bits of broken peppershaker including the metal top.  He sneezes.

A baby is crying over by the bay window.  The father takes the child from its mother and walks around the room toward us to calm it.  The Tibetan waiter takes away the debris in his dustpan without answering Lark standing up to look at the baby.  Now Herman Intaglio joins us, and starts sneezing as he sits down.  Lou looks up at him.

“It’s the pepper Herman!”

“That’s my fault Herman, sorry.”  Theo sits down opposite Herman while Lark is still cooing the baby.

“Theo, are you throwing pepper around for some reason?”

“No the shaker fell on the floor and broke and when the waiter swept up, it seems to have filled the air.  Theo tries to stifle a sneeze and sinks behind his hands, hunching his shoulders.  Lark pats him on the back, sneezes into the crook of her arm, and sits down next to him.  She puts her hand on his shoulder and leans over to him.

“So what’s with Congressman Bean? … is Boris Tarantula going to design the replacement for the Washington Monument?”

“It’s still simmering in the stew cooked up by the Select Committee on Aesthetic Crime.  I think it’ll get buried with the election coming up.”  Theo has grown a big reddish gray goatee and his front teeth flash from the overhanging mustache curling east and west under his nostrils.

“Come on then Theo, I want to hear about the convention.”

“What are you professors up to now?”

“Herman, I have been in Melbourne with the atheists and my old friend Sylvester Paumgartner.”

“Your benefactor Theo!”

“Let’s not go there, Lark.”

“I didn’t know you were an atheist Theo.”

“Yes, have been since … well since I was twenty seven.”

“So what led you away from the good Lord?”

“I found it didn’t make sense any more.”

“What didn’t make sense?”

“The existence of god.”

I ask if any of us is a regular churchgoer.  Only Herman responds.  Rubbing the back of his head and looking down at the table he says he doesn’t get to Mass very often these days.  He is obviously more interested in discussing Theo’s skepticism.

“So, Theo, why should anything exist?”

“No one knows why, Herman.  The world is simply given to us.”

“Yes, given by God.”

“No, our world evolved out of the big bang, from a singularity.  At least that’s the current theory.”

“Yes, a single God!”

“We don’t know what the singularity was.”

Lou offers up his open palms and shrugs.  “Well who can say what god is!”

“No one, it doesn’t exist.”  Lark is following this with one hand twirling the lock of black hair growing out of the waves of grey above her forehead, while her other hand supports her chin.  The waiter comes back for orders and Lark looks up and puts her hand on his arm.  “Say, were you born in Tibet?”

“Yes”

“Wow! … How did you get out?”

“Walked”

“That’s amazing … How long you been here?”

“Ten years.”  The waiter’s face remains expressionless, his voice is soft.  Theo interrupts and places an order followed by Herman.  Lark doesn’t place an order.  The waiter steps away quickly.  Lou puts down the beer he was drinking and addresses Herman and Theo.

“You were talking about two beginnings which are both mysteries.”

“Except one is Divine and the other is a sort of calculation.”

“Herman, do you also mean supernatural when you say divine?”

“Of course Lou.  God is a supernatural all knowing being.”

“Okay, but if both god and the big bang are essentially unknown, how do you know that God is supernatural?  How do you know they aren’t both the same thing?”

“For one thing Lark, the bang is said to have been 13.7 billion years ago. There’s no such figure for god. Besides we talk about them so differently.”

“Well you might say Theo, it all begins at birth?”

“What’s birth got to do with this Lark?”

“It is our beginning isn’t it Herman?”

“I would agree that birth is a miracle, but not a supernatural one.”

“What sort of miracle is it then Theo?”

“It seems miraculous Lark, because birth brings a new animal into the world. I mean don’t you find that extraordinary?”

“A new animal?  Theo don’t you mean a new human being?”

“Possibly, but we are not the only species that is born.”

“Yes, but the others don’t argue about god.”

“That’s right enough Lou.”

“They don’t have to argue in Eden!”

“Well, perhaps talking is the real point.”

”What do you mean Theo?”

”You might say the whole fantasy about a supernatural god and associated myths, and scientific theories, all came about through talk.”

“A lot more than talk; divine revelation and human ingenuity and calculation.”

”Well I don’t believe in divine revelation Herman.  It really boils down to people talking to each other, or writing and reading articles and books etcetera.”

“I don’t know if you can reduce the word of god to that, Theo.”

“Lark, what has god ever said?”

“I am that I am.”

“That is profound alright, who did it say it to, I forget?”

“In King James, God said it to Moses, Exodus Chapter 3 Verse 14.”

“Lark, you are quite the Biblical scholar!”

“Why is life so short?  Why is it so inexplicable? Lou, I have always been interested in belief and faith.  I really want to ask our waiter about Tibetan Buddhism.”

“Now is not the time … he’s working besides … ”

“I know Lou, I shouldn’t have gone there … you’re right.”

Theo puts an arm around Lark’s shoulders.  “Lark and I have discussed this many times.”

“Yes and you always point out that some human wrote the biblical texts.”

“That’s it Lark.  I mean we only have the writer’s word for it.”

“Look, you have to accept tradition in this case.”

“Why Herman? Tradition tells me that the earth is flat.”

“Theo, you don’t know who you are, without tradition, and if you don’t know that, then you are nowhere!”

Lark breaks into song:

“He’s a real nowhere Man,

Sitting in his Nowhere Land,

Making all his nowhere plans

For nobody.”

Lou laughs and claps silently.  “Bravo Lark!”

Theo is leaning back with his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Okay Lark, I know, there’s no challenging the authority of the Beetles!”

Herman leans forward across the table towards Theo.

“Look Theo, have you ever been really terrified?”

“Yes, every time this topic comes up!”

“No seriously Theo.  If you have ever been really scared shitless, then you knew God!”

“I did?”

“That’s right! … When you’re that terrified your ego isn’t getting in the  way.”

“Well the experience isn’t like that for me.”

“Thinking is ego Theo, and no thought can help you in that instant, only God can help you!”

“Herman, how about meditation?  Doesn’t that take you to the same place?”

“Maybe Lark, I pray but don’t meditate, nor am I a Buddhist.”

“I mean is god necessarily supernatural?”

“Of course Lark.  That’s what I said to begin with.  How else could the world have been created from nothing?”

“Well if God created the world then it’s not that nothing was there, God was there.”

“God was there but he had nothing to work with.  He had to create it.”

“Herman, I take your point about the ego, and Lark I see what you mean about meditation, and I don’t think that we are talking about the supernatural in either case.”

“What do you think Theo?  It’s just psychic states?”

“Yeah, I can go with that Lou.”

“What is a psychic state? What do you mean?”

“Lark, I just mean something that isn’t supernatural, that science might explain.”

“Do you think psychic states are supernatural Herman?”

“Psychic states, that’s just reductive jargon Lark.  I am talking about your immortal soul, the center of your being, your heart, okay?”

“Herman, all I am saying is that I accept the known and the unknown, and I don’t see what the supernatural adds to knowledge.  I think it is just mythology.”

“Theo, you must understand we are talking about a matter of faith, not knowledge!”

“Are you saying that you believe things you don’t know Herman?”

“Lou, I know that my faith is strong and I believe in God.”

“Yeah Lou this is getting into semantics or philosophy or something … I mean is faith knowledge?”

“Lark, knowledge is justified true belief.  I think that sums it up as simply as possible.”

“Okay Theo; are you trying to say that Herman’s knowledge of God is justified by his faith?”

“Doesn’t make sense to me Lark.”

“I am not going to deny Herman’s faith. Faith needs no justification. ”

“Are you a materialist then Theo?”

“No Lou.  I just favor rational thought.”

“Theo do you have no faith at all?”

“Sure I have faith Herman. I expect the sun to come up tomorrow morning, and I trust my friends, my bank will … “

“You’re on thin ice there Theo!”

“Right Lark, let’s leave the economy out of this for now even though trust is essential there too.”

“So Theo, you believe in God’s work but you deny God’s existence.  I can’t understand that!”  Herman’s phone rings before he can get the first bite of his fillet of trout.

The waiter is standing next to Herman with plates balanced half way up his arm.  “Chicken Salad?”

My cell phone chimes.  It’s the Light House gas station.  My old Saturn has soaked up another $1,300 in parts and labor.  The Battle Hymn of the Republic sounds from Lou’s cell phone, and he pulls it out of his pocket.  Theo’s ring tones sounds like the opening flourish of Schubert’s A Major piano quintet.  Lark’s phone didn’t sound, perhaps it vibrated, as she opened it up at the same time as Lou.  Theo spreads his thumb and finger through the whiskers on his lips to clear the way for lunch, but goes on talking.  At the moment it doesn’t look as if any one will eat.

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

Daisy is walking Maximilian, a longhaired Dachshund belonging to Hank James, an old friend. He occasionally zooms off the road on the end of his extending leash and through the Virginia creeper like a canine torpedo leaving a trail of pale green agitation. She tells me about Derwent’s recent trouble as we walk along Wickett Street towards Slipps Lane and Boundry Circle with the river visible through the trees.

“How did he fall Daisy?”

“Medications I think … they affect his balance.  Bel is very concerned.  He is our oldest resident, and she has found him full of useful advice.”

“About the Guild and its politics you mean?”

“Yeah, Derwent goes all the way back to the beginning.  He is strongly opinionated but he also sees how things work, and he was on the Guild in some capacity for most of the first twenty years, at least.”

We reach the smoking remains of a stump.  A dead gum tree, cut down years ago, left a substantial canyon of rotting wood.  Some one emptied a pan of hot coals into the middle of it, which has smoldered for days.  Now we can see a fine layer of light gray ash accumulating which looks like the end of an enormous lit cigarette some chthonic smoker enjoys under the peace of the lawn.

“Do you know who lives there, Daisy?”  We are looking at a typical Fauxmont brick house beyond the close cut lawn. Blue hydrangeas lean out towards the light on long arching stems in front of the entrance.

“That’s the Rundstedt’s. They are building a big new place up on Boundary Circle”

“There’s a Rundstedt amongst Derwent’s chess students.”

“Yes after Heidi Guderian started, the neighboring kids all wanted to join in.”

“Derwent to me is irascible, yet so different when he is with the kids … what’s wrong with him anyway?”

“He once referred to his ‘Hep C’. I know that’s a disease that could drive any one crazy.”

“Don’t know much about it.”

“Boyd said he’s always been cranky.  I don’t know him that well but it’s his back too.  I heard he fell and hurt himself.”

“Yes Daisy he told me that, and then went on a rant.  By the way, I hear there was a political event, a rally or something, did you go?”

“Yes, I haven’t seen Boyd for two weeks.  I guess he is losing interest.  He says he’s been away on business, but won’t say what … ”

“Has he found work?”

“No … it is not hard to guess what he’s doing!”  A breeze comes up and shakes water from a recent shower out of the oak leaves above us.  The stump’s smoke rising from the ground to our right thins into a hazy curtain drawn across the grass.  The breeze changes direction and the curtain falls across our path.

“You think he was organizing it?”

“Helping Albrecht organize.”

“Did Boyd or Albrecht speak?”

“No, not publicly, but I had a chat with Albrecht.  He had Boyd running around for him.”

“But Boyd is vice Chair of the Guild.  Shouldn’t he have spoken?”

“I would have thought so.  Albrecht said this was Senator Knox’s show, and we will benefit from giving him the venue.

I mean it wasn’t about Fauxmont it was about CUPA.”

“I gather Albrecht organized the thing.”

“Yes Fred, and Boyd seems to be in such awe of him … I would like to know where the money is coming from?”

“All what money?”

“For printed material, P/A systems, tents, food and drink and so on, and that car Albrecht uses now, and, I mean, he doesn’t seem to have a job.”

“I had no idea it was that big?  Here in Fauxmont?”

“Yes Fred, on the grounds of the Co-op.’  A lot of Fauxmont turned out too.  Where were you?”

“Oh, out of touch again … were bel or Lou there, Daisy?”

“I saw them both but we didn’t get a chance to talk.”

“Maybe Albrecht has PAC money?”

“Oh sure, I think so, but which PAC, Fred?”

“Lou tells me that Fibonacci Corporation has put millions into the Prune Stone Group and several others.”

“Others, Fred?”

“Is it that 527 organization called ‘Platitudes for Plenty’?”

“Yes that’s not a PAC though Daisy, it’s registered as a social welfare organization, so they don’t have to reveal their sources.”

“Fred, that’s just a technicality!  I think they are acting as a PAC … ”

“And it is tax exempt.”

“I don’t know about Prune Stone Fred, but I am sure Jake Trip is mixed up in it.  He’s been traveling around the country a lot lately too.”

“Well there’ no limit to how much he can contribute.”

“The Groups like “Platitude” have anonymous donors, so how would Lou know?”

“That’s why it’s called “dark money”.  Lou has connections and Daisy, I think Lark said something about Tinderbrush.”

Maximilian wound the extended leash around the trunk of a willow oak chasing a squirrel.  Now it is so short he can’t take another turn around the trunk in search of his quarry, which keeps to the opposite side as it climbs away from him.  Daisy walks toward the tree past the dog and tries to lead him around to unwind, but an old Volvo station wagon pulls up.  A black cairn terrier leaning out of the back window starts barking at Max which makes him pull all the harder in the wrong direction.  Daisy waves to the driver, who she knows from the Elegant Ostrich, our new local gift shop.  Two more cairns muscle their way up to the open window and all three bark at full volume.  After barely audible human voices exchange greetings, the car moves on and Max finds his way around the back following Daisy’s treats.

“How do Dante Rossetti and Gabriel get along with Max?”

“I keep them apart.”

“Do Wombats get along with dogs?”

“I think Max would be trouble.  So he stays in the front room and my gang is kept out.  There’s some communication under the door though.”

“Yes, like the Prune Stone group and dear Senator Knox.”

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

I was awake when the phone beeped early this morning. It was Jake Trip calling from Cleveland on an issue that couldn’t wait.  He was full of questions.  He asked if I knew anything about Juanita’s situation, which I didn’t.  Then he asked if I had seen Theo Tinderbrush when he visited Gale and I had, but little was said.  “When will you be back?”

“Pretty soon Fred.  Say Fred, would you do me a favor?”

“I’m listening.”

“Listen Fred, sorry to have called so early on a Saturday … would you look in on Gale … I mean you … you’re nearby and I know she is comfortable with you … Liberty is out west, and she is alone in the middle of this thing.”

“What thing Jake?”

“This whole thing with Derwent.”

“With Derwent?  What do you mean?  I thought you were talking about Gale or Liberty or Juanita?”

“Yeah, yeah, that too … but the Derwent thing … I mean you know him a little don’t you?”

“Yes, well enough to know you two have had words.”

“Derwent’s alright, I mean yes, he’s a pain in the ass, but he’s basically alright you know … I mean I am asking you to intercede for me, because right now, there’s no one else I can ask.”

“What is it all about?”

“Would you just tell him that you’ve got it from me that I’ll straighten things out when I get back.”

“What things Jake?”

“Didn’t Gale tell you?”

“No, she told me nothing about Derwent.”

“I must be mixed up … anyway see if you can find him and just tell him that, okay?”

“What’s it all about Jake?”

“Derwent’s got some material I need …  anyway this is embarrassing … sorry Fred … forget it … I shouldn’t have said anything … I am in one hell of a jam here.”

Jake hung up.  The latest Fauxmont newsletter had fallen on the floor when I picked up the phone.  I noticed that Marshall and Gerda Rundstedt and Jakie Guderian need help at the Co-op Saturday afternoon.  I went over to see what I could do.  The Co-op is a regular Fauxmont house which is used as a preschool for local children, and there is a farmers’ market held on Saturdays in the parking lot.  It is mid June with weather in the high seventies, what a change!  The sky is like a regatta of majestic billowing white clouds interspersed with infinite blues.  I walk out on to the thick grass not yet dried out to summer’s thin dry browns.  The hydrangeas are a mass of blue hemispheres and the mulberries are soaring fifteen feet up supporting cardinals, blackbirds, wrens and of course sparrows, and everything else is thick with green including the weeds.

Derwent Sloot greets me from his wheel chair when I get to the co-op’s mulched grounds.   He is pulled up to a picnic table in front of several unusual looking sheds fenced off behind chicken wire.

“Hi there … ah …”

“It’s Fred, Derwent.  I understand the Rundstedts and Guderians can use some help at the Farmer’s market.”

“Yeah ah … Fred, they’ve got all the help they can use over there.  Stick around.  This will be interesting.”

Two goldfinches streak past, one overtaking the other in their rising and dipping flight path toward the sheds.  They rest every few wing flaps and their bodies fly like momentary bullets until their wings propel them again, birdlike.  They land on the replica of a Snaz super store.

The picnic table is covered in glass objects and three yellow and black checkerboards are laid out along its length to accommodate three games.

“Thanks for pushing me along the road the other day!  I have some students of the game due here any minute.”

“I thought you played chess … ”  A loud cry drowns him out.  Hens and two red roosters live behind the wire in a spacious coop designed to look like a town house, only a couple of yards away.  His head sticks out of a window with green shutters on either side.

“Yeah, you birds get to work there … we need fresh eggs …  and yes, chess is the name of the game.”

“By the way Derwent, I just got a call from Jake.”

“You poor bastard!  Did you hang up quick?”

“No, I … ”

“Don’t talk to me about that son of a bitch!  I’ve got some important business here.”

“What are those things?”

“Vacuum tubes.  These were the things in radios before transistors and printed circuits.”  He has a vast number nested in boxes.  There are tall curvaceous cylinders and small ones with straight sides.  There are a few with metal cladding.  I pick up one of those.

“You know where to position the knights?”

“In chess you mean?”

“Yes in chess, this isn’t checkers you know.  I have some prodigies coming here too.  Well I think they are prodigious.”

“Here” he pointed at the oversize yellow and black board. “Put that thing down where the knight goes.”

I put it down, one square in from the end where the rook would be.  It sat on a number of pins sticking out from the bottom like pilings.

“That’s right.”

“You can tell it’s a knight because of the armor, right?”

“Obvious when you get the hang of it.”

He picks up another very tall one with a metal wires sticking out of the top.

“We switched to these last month after the yard sale over at the Intaglios.  Herman had a basement full of these things and the kids love them.  Where would you put this?”

The circle of metal wires coming up out of the top resemble a crown.  I point to the Queen’s square, and get more encouragement.

“How about this?”  He picks out another fat tube with complex rings of filament wound inside and a sharp pointed top.

I point to the rook’s square.  “Well that’s understandable, but we use this as a bishop around here.”

“See this?”   Derwent holds up a broad, fat vacuum glass rook.  “We use these as rooks”.  It is marked with a GE logo, on a gray metal base, designated 6080 with five white stars.  The brown center pin had been ground down to the same length as the surrounding metal ones, and it stands steady.

“Yes.”

I can hear the kids shouting as they scramble out of various vehicles parked up the hill.  Derwent points out young Alekhine who is throwing old pine cones at Jeff Petrosian.  He has positioned himself among the fir trees, with a vast supply of ammunition close at hand.  They are coming to play chess with vacuum tubes at the Co-op, under Derwent’s tutelage.  Little Heidi Guderian is first to reach the table in her yellow top and pink jeans.

“Why don’t you use regular chess pieces?”

“Because these are so cool.”  She picks up two short cylindrical tubes with brown bases and places them in front of a knight and a rook.

“These are black pawns.  The red pawns have this tape around the base.”  Heidi explains further as she shows me a cylindrical pawn with its pins up, and red tape around the base.  Derwent is grinning.

“And what is the base made of ?”

“Bakelite”

Pam Dirac walks over, Heidi’s opponent for this afternoon’s game.  Her pink jeans are topped by a baby blue jacket.

“I can use the regular pieces too”.

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

We walk out across Miletus Marsh Park on a boardwalk, in the last moments of brilliant evening sunlight.  We can hear redwing blackbirds call as they fly past and settle among the cattails.  Further along we see a pool through an opening in the reeds.  A snapping turtle surfaces to catch its breath in a sudden splashing sound.

“Look at that pile of logs and twigs up ahead, Bel.”

“Yes it seems like a random collection of detritus, yet the beavers have deliberately placed each one.”

“Millions of years of evolution have brought us engineers …”

“… and Fred, it’s hard to see how the thing works!  I mean why should all that mud and those sticks and logs hold together?”

“Why indeed.  It is nothing like a human structure where the logic is often obvious.”

“Look, for instance, at those screws or fasteners in these boards … what are they Fred?”

“Look like screws to me Bel.”

“Anyway, you see what I mean … neat rows holding the boards to the cross beams underneath.”

“You know beaver have returned to the exclusion zone around Chernobyl, and they are recreating the old marshes.”

“There was something on PBS about that.  We missed it taking Lambert out in the dark.”

“Yes, that’s where I found out, a good deal of the Marsh around the Pripyat River was drained.”

A group has gathered up ahead, looking over the other side of the boardwalk, and we join them.  There’s an open channel through the cattails about a yard wide, leading to a large expanse of mudflats beyond.

“See those weeds moving towards us there, Fred?”

Bel speaks quietly, as if we are in a library.  It is quiet immediately around us, even though the air is full of sound, most of it seems to be distant.

“It’s one of the ‘engineers’!”

“Engineers of Eden.”

“Or is it a muskrat?”

“No Fred, look at the broad tail and here’s the dam.  Look, it extends up onto the boardwalk.”

Bel pushes one of the branches in our path to one side with the sole of her Snaz ‘Wing Foot’ walking shoe.  The logo on the side of her shoe, shows the dark brown silhouette of a swallow in flight against an orange disk.

“Extraordinary how they seem to understand the lie of the land and build their dam accordingly.”

“Instinct Bel”

“Imagine trying to write them a manual!”

“A sort of Dams for Dummies you mean?”

“These are no dummies.”

“What do beavers know anyway, Bel?”

“The philosopher Wittgenstein insists that you don’t know something unless you can say it.”

“These critters aren’t about to discuss it with us!”

“No Fred, how could any one speak with that much fibrous weed in his mouth?”

“What more concrete evidence of knowledge at work could there be than that dam?”

“As you said Fred, they work out of instinct.”

“Well, isn’t that a kind of knowledge?”

“Instinct is something they are born with, knowledge is acquired.”

“Suppose beavers learn their engineering by imitation Bel, I mean from their parents?”

“I don’t know if they do or not, but even if they do they can’t tell Wittgenstein about it.”

“No he’s dead, but I would like them to explain a thing or two!”

“So would I Fred.”

“Learning by doing.  That’s the most practical kind of knowledge …  quite natural to hard workers like these.”

“Even if they learn by imitation I still don’t think it’s knowledge Fred.”

“Hard wired for dam building you mean.  While we, with claims to knowledge, seem to have little instinct.

“Fred, we have to bear the burden of working everything out … ”

“Once Eve took a bite out of the apple Bel, we were lumbered!”

“Many of the fruits of knowledge have proven to be indigestible!”

“What do you have in mind Bell? … the difficulties of self reflection and conscience?”

“Yes, and most of all, the difficulties of growing up without instinct.  That is to say out of Eden”

“You know that’s Otto Rank’s point, Bel.”

“Is it?  I don’t know Otto.”

“Yes he thinks we all suffer a deep fear of death and of life.”

“Fear of life?”

“That’s it Bel … he is saying that there is too much for us ‘to work out’, so to speak.”

“Too true Fred, there’s more knowledge available now, well more data at least, than any one person can ever get to.”

“Otto’s point is different.  He’s talking about childhood Bel, saying we are emotionally overwhelmed by life early on …”

“…  and that accounts for our fear of life?”

“Yes as I understand him Bel … he thinks that’s when people build up their defenses as it were, delude themselves, fail to see important implications … avoid difficult questions and so on.”

“In other words Fred, the deep stuff gets buried deeper.”

“What ever the ‘deep stuff ‘ is!”

“I am thinking of all the ‘fall out’ so to speak, of one’s childhood weaknesses … the ‘questions avoided’ etc. you just mentioned.”

“So we are swamped by everyday life because the boat’s not built right!”

“That’s it … we kids are such poor boat-rights!”

“So much energy goes into storms”

“Emotional reaction you mean?”

“Yes, I think one gets swamped by that at times, and then one loses perspective …”

“ … and Bel that energy is needed for boat building!”

“ … AND, perspective gets scary!”

“Fred, one doesn’t meet many people interested in discussions like this … ”

“ … trying to ‘work something out’ you mean?”

“ … and we take a big risk Fred.”

“What risk?  You mean of getting it wrong?”

“Well, yes, but also risk getting into trouble with each other!”

“… Oh the risk of getting carried away … of words giving way to violence you mean Bel!”

“Yes, have you ever been in conversation with some one who suddenly gets angry or upset, and there’s no obvious reason for it?”

“Bel that happens … and I never know what to say.”

“There you are.”

“There what is?”

“You hit on something they haven’t ‘worked out’, which leaves them sort of, ‘spring loaded’ with emotional reaction.”

“Well, the risk you pointed out also applies to one’s self doesn’t it?”

“But of course …”

“So much of history seems to be a violent story of killing and conquest.  The Greeks were in it for glory and the Romans for empire.”

“Not unlike like us Fred.”

“We do seem to have followed the classical model.”

“Conquest is a pre-classical model really!”

“Yes, too true.”

“The victors like to write about their victories.”

“There’s glory to be had there too … ”

“ … and writing it down preserves it, embroidered, for you and me Bel.”

“Don’t you find it ironic Fred, that Christian tradition which preserved the teachings of Jesus, in spite of the Romans, has over time divided into warring denominations?”

“The very thing that preserved the teachings betrayed them.”

“Like the very thing that preserves us, as Otto has it.”

“Bel, we can’t work it out …”

“No, not as the children of our parents or of God.”

“We continue to fight it out though …”

“Think of the Crusader holding up his sword like a cross.  Isn’t there something wrong with that Fred?”

“It might be the symbol of Christian ideology as opposed to faith.”

“Go on Fred.”

“The prophet’s words which led his followers away from Rome, now turned around and lead back to Rome.”

“Exactly, Christ didn’t advance with an army.  That was the Roman way.  He was deeper.”

“You mean Christ was working on another plane Bel?”

“Yes, not a battlefield … not literal one anyway.  He did it all with words!”

“… and also through actions Fred.”

“Rather puzzling words too, in many cases.”

“… ‘Actions speak louder than words’.”

“That’s always the way with oracles and prophets Fred.  They are trying to communicate from the depths.”

“Why should that lead to such ambiguity?”

“Fred I think this takes us back to Otto.  What you were saying about our building defenses, as it were.”

“How does ambiguity help with that?”

“I am thinking of the oracle’s problem, if you like.  That is to get past our defenses with her message.”

“Are you thinking of Delphi now?”

“Yes, she was always ambiguous.”

“I see, she couldn’t speak in plain or literal terms because people would not reflect deeply enough to get her message that way.”

“That’s it, Fred.  Look at the power, the influence, of her words in the ancient world.”

“Reminds me of the old saying about the pen being mightier than the sword.”

“There’s a lot to be said for the printing press too.”

“The Reformation for instance?”

“What about radio?  Where would Hitler, Churchill, Mussolini or Roosevelt have been without it?”

“Yes they were all famous for oratory, and now television Bel, think what TV has brought us.”

“I don’t want to.”

Swallows are intercepting insects, weaving acrobatic displays through the last evening sunbeams.

“I saw those birds flying around the Snaz store garage.”

“Were they trapped down there?”

“No there were plenty of openings on the first level.  They were nesting.”

“Oh, I can imagine they would have to be agile to dodge all the pillars supporting the ceiling.”

“They were noisy too.  Found a nest built on a thin pipe running along the wall near the ceiling.”

People nearby get into a dispute over whether they are looking at barn swallows or bank swallows, then someone suggests they are chimney swifts.  We walk on into a low sound, which seems to be coming from everywhere at once.

“How can any one tell now?”

“Some people can identify birds from those fleeting silhouettes Fred.”

It’s dusk.  The sun will be gone in a minute.  The bullfrogs are getting louder as it gets darker.

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

I wasn’t sure at first if it was Diddlie contemplating something on the cross walk in the middle of Maxwell Ave.  There is little traffic this early on Sunday morning and the gloom at first light leaves the figure indistinct, but for the golden rod hanging out of the top of her backpack.  Getting nearer I can see a furry corpse spread out unblemished from the point of the striped tail to the point of the snout.

“How sad … looks like it’s asleep doesn’t it Fred?  I mean its not flattened out or anything.”

“Must be a bumper … another road kill Diddlie.”  The traffic light turns amber.  The road is dry though the potholes at this intersection are full of water from last night’s showers.

“How could such a violent death leave a carcass looking so peaceful?”

“Wild life is moving back to live with us and all the hazards we bring.”

“Yeah it’s a whole new world of adaptation!”

“Don’t think this thing has been here long … no stain on the road, no insects.”

“I’ve been feeding a family for the last three years … hope this isn’t one of my raccoons … I think the foxes got one of the babies last year.”

“This one isn’t full grown.” A van pulls up as the light turns red, towing an open trailer with mowing equipment, and several bales of hay.  The driver’s hand hangs down the side of the door from the open window with a cigarette between the fingers.

“Foxes I don’t mind.  They are hunting to eat.  These cars aren’t hunting …  just inanimate casual killers!  Do you think the driver even knew he hit it?”

“It would be hard to tell what they hit in the dark.”

The light turns amber again.  A rhythmical click from the van’s engine suggests a loose belt somewhere.  The first sunlight catches the driver’s tattooed forearm as he flicks the remains of his cigarette into the road.

“Look out Diddlie, the light is going green!”

“Oh I don’t want them to run it over!”  She runs over to the van waving.  “Hey there … don’t run over the raccoon okay!”

“It’s dead lady.”

“I don’t care … just don’t … okay?”  The driver guns the engine.

“Get out of the way!”  Diddlie is slow to move.  He veers over into the oncoming lane to avoid her and accelerates through the green light.  The trailer’s small tires squash the dead raccoon’s head.

“What do you think you are doing!”

“It’s no good shouting at them.”

The faint outline of an old logo shows through a crude attempt to paint it out, in white, on the side panel.  We can see the outline of a caterpillar smoking a hookah.  The small square windows at the top of the back doors have been filled with cardboard attached with irregular lengths of silvery tape.  After the van, it seems quiet on the street.

“Death … all this death … our lives depend on the death of other living things … we live by death then we die Fred …   think about that.”

“Our eating also renews life.”

“Yeah, also renews lives like those ass-holes who have no respect.  What are they renewing by running over this pathetic corpse that some other jerk left behind.”

“Well they didn’t kill anything either.”

“They are just heedless jerks, and smoking too.”

“So what?”

“They are doing hard work for low pay.”

“Well!  would they smoke if they cared about life … like their own life for instance?  What do you mean low pay these lawn care people charge a lot.”

“Did you look at the van, Diddlie?  How much do you think they are making?”

The lighthouse gas station across the road isn’t open yet.  No bird calls, there’s nothing but our voices in the air until a faint roar comes in.  Echoing in waves of noise seem to tumble out of the billowing clouds growing louder as a low flying jet turns into its approach to the airport.

“That might be Bel’s flight.  She’s coming in this morning from Boston.”

“They shouldn’t be coming in at this time.  It is way too early.  I thought there were rules against it.”

We leave the corpse behind, step up off the road and start across the gas station past the pumps, the closed doors to the repair shop, a late model Dodge pick up and a nineteen forties’ Rolls Royce limousine with the seats taken out.

“Bel strikes me as a wise one.”

“Fred, she seems to know everything.  She has the gift of friendship.  I mean there are a lot of people in the neighborhood who trust her, and confide in her.  That’s a rare gift.  How many people do you know like that?”

“Hard to say.”

“Why?”

“Because if people confide in her, in anyone, their confidence must be respected, so how would I know.”

“Bel is about my best friend … well, I mean I can talk to her about difficult stuff … I think there are a lot of others who might tell you the same thing.”

“But how do you know? I had no idea you were so close.”

“Well it isn’t the kind of thing I would normally talk about.  Nobody would, but people say odd things.  You know, I just have a feeling about it.”

“No, I do appreciate you’re confiding in me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean just that.”

“Let’s not get into that again okay?  It really pisses me off Fred … this whole thing about you writing me and what you know … and anyway, we’ve been there already!”

“Okay, sorry Diddlie.  I am not trying to score any points.”

“Oh Fred! okay, okay … I got the wrong idea I guess.”

“Are you close to Steve as well?”

“No, not like Bel, but Steve has lots of women friends besides Artie.  He can set sex aside and talk to people as people.  I mean he’s the same with every one, male or female.”

“I have noticed Bel has a kind of detachment.  She can keep her judgments and feelings in reserve in the interests of conversation.”

“You don’t think she is always frank, you mean?”

“No I think she is genuinely interested in people and that leads her to draw them out in conversation.”

“Sounds like manipulation to me, and I don’t think she is.”

“I don’t think so either.  Its not manipulative to hear people out, any more than it is to be polite.”

“So are you criticizing her or not?”

“No, to her the conversation is more important than her own immediate impulses.  She always seems to know her own mind, even if she doesn’t spill it all out.  Not every one can do that.”

“You mean she doesn’t compete.”

“Right, conversation is give and take, and she gives a lot.”

“Bel gives by listening.”

“That’s it.  She uses a certain amount of restraint and her silence is her gift.”

“Hardly any of the men I know … no, I mean none of them can help competing!  I mean some guys can never let you forget it.”

“Forget what.”

“That they are the man and I am the woman, and it’s like they have to prove something.”

“There are women like that also.  Some women have to flirt, even if it’s only very subtle.”

“Well you wouldn’t want a bunch of sexless bodies in your life would you?”

“No, of course not.  Sex is always going to be there between people.  It’s complicated.”

“Yeah about as complicated as anything can get; and as simple when you get right down to it.”

“You mean the physical part of the conversation.”

“Not conversation, getting it on.”

“Okay, simple as in a spasm, not a thought with all its ramifications!”

“I just mean fucking, Fred.”

“Oh as in spontaneous copulation with nothing said.”

“Spontaneous copulation Fred!  Is that what you call it?”

“Call it procreation if you want, but there ought to be some understanding between the parties before the act don’t you think?”

“Fred, do you ever get out of your head?  I mean sometimes people just fuck.”

“You mean total strangers?”

“Could be, if they can get out of their heads.”

“Out of their minds you mean!”

“No, I don’t mean crazy.”

“Good grief, are you speaking from experience?”

“None of your business Fred, and I am not suggesting we try it.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“Fred don’t you ever get out of your head and just do it?’

“None of your business Diddlie.”

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

(Edited 24 Aug. 2015, thanks Francie!)

There’s a wooden ramp leading up from the roadside to Derwent Sloot’s front door in a long gradual planked slope.  The wind is gusting fresh and the cold is penetrating in the shade but it is warm as I walk into the early evening sun from the shade of a big redbud in Derwent’s front yard.  He is maneuvering his wheelchair out the door.  His head is half hidden by the high collar of a red fleece jacket, and he wears a Greek fisherman’s cap with long strings of white hair blowing out from under it.  “Hey there!  Come up here will you?”

I start up the ramp from the street towards him.  “Turn this goddam thing around.  It’s new and I can’t deal with it.”  He can’t see that one of the big narrow wheels is lodged in a gap between the planks.  I push to the right and it comes out without much effort and he turns the chair the rest of the way himself.  “What’s your name again?”

“I am Fred, Derwent.”

“Yeah!  Fred, I appreciate the help.”

“Do you want to go down to the street?”

“I didn’t come out here to twiddle my thumbs!”  I start pushing the chair down the ramp.

“I can do this.  Keep your hands off.  It’s downhill.  Too damn steep if you ask me, but you can’t tell those numbskulls anything.  Okay Ted … no … tell me again, what’s your name?”

“Fred”

“Fred, that’s it right?  Fred not Ted.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Yeah I’ve got it alright.  Damn near broke my back.”

“What happened, Derwent?”

“What happened?  What do you think happened?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I knew.”

“Just look at me … isn’t it obvious that I am old and rotten? … use your eyes Ted.”

“It’s Fred, Derwent.”
“Yeah Fred, alright, did I say Ted?”

“You did.”

“Sorry there, Fred.  Like I said I am getting old and rotten and fell on the bathroom floor and threw my back out and now I’ve got to wheel around in this chariot and find a horse where I can.  I’ve been around here too long … remember too much.  Now I’ve got to listen to all this election crap.”

“You don’t have to listen.  Turn the set off if you don’t like it.”

“I watch only as much TV as I can stand.  That’s not much, some days not at all.  There’s still a few newspapers and the Internet to stay informed.  We won the right to vote at York Town and now have no idea how to go about it.  I voted for Obama, you know.  Now I’ve got to make the same mistake again because the alternative is sheer self-destructive insanity.  Did you vote for him?”

“What mistake?  I voted for him too and don’t think it was a mistake.”

“Yeah of course you did.  Living around here with friends like Lou and Bel you must be a liberal of some stripe, or do you call yourself a progressive?  That’s what they are now.  They think they are progressing.  Progressing where?  To hell most likely, to a hell full of wealth that belongs to others. Here we are, four years after the great financial collapse.  Here’s one of the big mistakes.  The president is only now going to investigate the role of fraud in the big financial crash, and its too late.  The statute of limitations is about to run out in many cases.  Occupy Wall Street, that’s what we get!  Did you take part in the occupation?”

“No …”

“You got some sense then.  What a goddam travesty … bunch of ragged know-nothing naïve fools saturated with mind rotting media noise!  What’s the matter with organizing a movement for God’s sake, instead of sitting there on their cans until the fuzz sweeps them away like trash.”  We reach the side of Wicket Street and Derwent turns right towards the long curve that will take us to Bails Lane.  “You can start pushing now.  My arms are as scrawny as a rag doll’s and about as strong.  Now we’ve got a nut case on the Guild here in Fauxmont, that young Boyd Nightingale.  His mind was addled by his mother years ago.  He’s on the Guild … he’s ON THE GUILD!  How the hell did that happen?  I know how it happened.  I know!  Bel fell asleep at the wheel.  That’s what happened and she isn’t denying it either.  She’s no dummy.  She should have made sure there was another nomination for the V.C. besides our boy Boyd.”

“Derwent, I was at the nominating meeting.  No other names came up.  What could she do?  She wasn’t there.”

“I don’t care what goddammed meeting you went to.  She couldn’t be there any way.  The Chairman has no business at the nominating committee meeting.  I’ve served on enough of them to know.  She should have acted outside the meeting, and she knows it.”

“I …”

“Yeah Fred, I know you’re new to this Guild we have here, and I can tell you we’ve had it too easy too long.  Now here’s Boyd, oh boy!  Well Juanita Gomez was probably the only sanity he knew as a child, but what could she do?  Lark is as nutty as a fruitcake and energetic as a fast acting poison.  She can make an ass of herself fifteen different ways before breakfast, and look at the result: mindless reaction armed with a revolver no less!  If that kid doesn’t end up shooting himself he’ll end up in court for manslaughter.  I mean he hasn’t got the sense to plan a crime!”

“Dertwent, it is Albrecht who’s got the revolver.”

“Albrecht is the one packing heat?”

“That’s right.  He brought it to the Nominating Committee meeting.”

“He brought a weapon?  Was Hank Dumpty there?”

“Yes Hank was …”

“He’s lucky Hank didn’t tear that gristly piece of offal into dripping shreds.  My god, you don’t want to mess with Hank.  I saw him flatten young Charlie Tansley outside the Co-op when Charley tried to throw a punch.  That was about ‘64 or five I guess.  It took him about as much effort as picking up a shovel, and about as long.  I thought Albrecht was more on the ball than Nightingale.  His head is as empty as Albrecht’s weapon before they loaded it.  Now Boyd is loaded alright.  He’s been loaded by that goddam Clean up America movement with slogans and enough other toxic bullshit to pollute the neighborhood.  Those people are organized and ready to occupy the attention of all the lost souls in this benighted country and there are herds and herds of them wandering the urban wastes like cattle looking for pasture.  You ask that kid his opinion and all you get is a talking point.  The same utterance you can hear from any of the political commercials.  It’s no more his opinion than it is mine, the poor yawping fool is just a mouth piece.”

“Derwent, do you really think Americans are just a herd of animals?’

“Hell no!  God love them, Americans are the salt of the earth.

You remember that song Fred, ‘Little Boxes full of ticky tacky?’”

“I …”

“You may be too young, but ticky tacky is what we’ve got now.  Dreamed up by some goddammed brilliant minds too.  Those bastards are getting paid by the big money to keep the conservative herds blinded by television, stampeding towards the voting booth in November.  Well, so called conservatives.  The word is meaningless now, much like ‘liberal’, these are just noises made by scripted talking heads.

Cyber puppets I call them, digitally manipulated, pixel by pixel, right into your home sweet home.  I told bel, that Boyd and his buddy Intaglio are the beginning of the end for Fauxmont.  ‘You better move fast’ … and she can.  Bel is a smart cookie.”

“Yes I …”

“Bel knows how to listen, and everyone else wants to talk.  Like me.  Yeah!  I admit it.  I am a loud mouth talking son of a bitch, and she just goes along with me like she’s debriefing an agent or something.  That’s why she knows this neighborhood so well.  Hey! turn here.”  We have reached the turn on to Bails Lane.  It is narrow and unpaved.  “Mind the rocks, will you!”

“Okay Derwent.”

“We are going to that house there.”

He points down the lane through the avenue of hickories to a house half hidden by purple azaleas. An inchworm floats by on its strand of silk, and settles on his shoulder. It measures its way across the fabric on course to become a geometer moth, arching its back, stretching its front out, then bringing its back end forward to recreate the arch.

“I need to talk some sense to Guderian, about his daughter’s prospects as a chess prodigy.”

“Are they expecting you?”

“They invited me to dinner.  How’s that for expecting?”

“Very nice.”

“Very early!  I have to eat early because of my stomach.  I’ll burn up all night otherwise.  They understand about my goddam stomach acid.”

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

Bel and Steve left Lambert at home because dogs are not allowed in the National Gallery.  They want to look at some paintings in relation to Artie Bliemitch’s work before we go on to her studio.  Steve is embarrassed to find the works he is looking for, Rembrandt’s portraits of Jacob Trip and that of his wife Margretha Geer, are in London’s National Gallery not here in Washington.  “Sorry about this Fred, I felt sure they were here!”  He strides past the museum guard in the doorway who seems to be looking past us, unmoving like a statue, and then reappears from the next room.  “No more Rembrandts in there.”

“Here’s Lucretia, Steve, about to commit suicide.  Look at that dagger.  Can you tell where the point is?”  Bel has also pointed out to me the big faceted jewel standing out from its setting in heavy impasto.

“She was raped you know Fred.  A most consequential rape too.”

“So that’s the point, is it?”

“Oh Steve!”

“It was Sextus Tarquinias, Steve.

“So the story goes Bel.”

“Who was she Steve, beyond being Rembrandt’s subject?”

“Don’t forget, Fred, that rape and suicide led to the over throw of the Roman monarchy.”

“I can’t forget poor Lucretia.  Rape seems more important to me.”

“But Bel, Steve is talking about a basic political change in Roman life.”

“Yes Fred, and men have gone on raping women ever since. We don’t find that historical lesson if we only look at the political fall out.”

“This argument could go on and on Bel.  Rembrandt is provoking us.  What is it about the Trips Steve?”

“For one thing the old man is sitting with his night cap, dressing gown and walking stick, which strikes me as surprisingly informal, because Trip was a very wealthy weapons merchant.  I would have expected something formal”

“Sounds like he ran the ‘Interarms’ of the 17th Century.”

“Yeah!  Too bad Sam Cummings didn’t have the big “R” to immortalize him.”

“And who may I ask, Steve, is Sam?”

“Bel, you must remember he operated Interarms here in Alexandria for years.  One of the biggest weapons dealers around.”

“Oh Steve, how could it have slipped my mind?”

“Okay Bel.”

“Steve your interest in those warehouses on South Union Street has always worried me honey,”

“And to reassure you Bel, I keep telling you, it was strictly professional.”

Bel points to her leg.  “Pull the other one big guy!”

“What else Steve, why did you want to show me the Trip portrait?”

“It’s the texture Fred.  He used an unusual mixture of yellow and red lake pigment bulked out with smalt which left dark translucent ridges of impasto.”

“Smalt, did you say smalt?

“Smalt is the oldest form of cobalt blue pigment.  He sometimes used it as an additive to speed the drying time of the paint.”

“You remember Artie’s ‘Van Rijn’s Express’ Fred?”

“Yes vividly Bel, that swooping stroke bellying across the bottom with those exaggerated ridges of translucent impasto.”

“So guys, shall we get away from Mr. Trip and his wife, as the relevant dismal brown oily residues are all hanging on the other side of the Atlantic?”

“Bel, I take it you’re not into Rembrandt.”

“Not to the extent Steve is, Fred.  I prefer the bright lights of impressionism and much that followed.”  We move on to the East Wing where Bel points out a work in front of Steve. “What do you make of that Fred?”

“It hangs like no other!”

“And we are out of candle light and into day light!”

“We are Bel, but it is just a grid with bits filled in, some in color some in gray.”

“Up, down, and across, along with the primary colors.  Those are the basics here Fred.”

“I see Steve, but what am I supposed to be looking at?”

“You might consider the balance of masses and the proportions of the grid.”

“It is the only painting around here that hangs as if it were diamond shaped, with two corners pointing up and down and the other two pointing left and right.”

“It’s Piet Mondrian’s Lozenge Composition.  Artie found it inspirational.”  We stand silently regarding the proportions and masses held within black lines of the grid.  Some lines are heavier than others.  The lightest most luminous gray shape is also the only true rectangle.  Its upper right corner touches the edge of the canvas where two of the black lines describing its sides run off the edge.  All the colored the shapes look like triangles and the others rectangles until you notice one corner snipped off in each, making more than four angles.  Bel leans too close and the voice of the guard calls out.  She draws back, undistracted.

“You can’t see much of brush work.  See his signature down here?”

‘Where, I don’t see anything written there, Bel.”

There’s a faint ‘P.M.’ hidden in the black down at the bottom, see?”

“You notice the colored shapes are off center on the sides Steve?”

“Bel, most of the painting is gray, like the sky outside.”

“It is Steve, and those subtleties seldom show up in reproductions.”

Steve is anxious to move on and get over the Artie’s studio.  He apologizes again for his memory lapse and leads us quickly out of the Gallery to the car for the forty minute drive out of the District and over the Potomac  to Northern Virginia.  As we look left down the river we can see a gleeming silvery building in the distance. “What an irony.  That’s the DIA building.”

“Where’s the irony in that Steve?”

“The irony is that DIA stands for Defense Intellegence Agency and it is a secret intelegence organization.”

“Some secret! … shiney as a mirror.”

“Yeah, they reflect the world in ways we shall never know.”

When we get to Artie’s above the Pie Shop on Maxwell Avenue, Bel and I sit down on the old couch and Steve walks over to examine the work on her bench.

There are ten wooden boxes lying on their sides across her workbench, all about three feet long but well under a foot in width and height.  They all look triangular, most are painted, in subtly different shades of gray, and there’s one in each primary color, red, blue, yellow.

Her cat sleeps cradled in a warped piece of mat black cardboard.  Its fur shines next to the aloe plant at the end of the bench.  Artie wears an old white damask tablecloth cut into the shape of a lab coat and sewn with bright purple stitching.  It is splashed with the primary colors she uses in her latest work.  The left side is torn showing her black jeans.  Bounder has the edge in his mouth trying to tear it further, but she stops him with her hand around his long graying nose and pulls him away from her side.

“Down Bounder, Down!”  The old golden retriever pants when she lets go.  His tail swishes across the floor like a soft brush, and when raised becomes a blond banner waving through the sunbeams.   After looking up at her panting, he sinks down to the floor with a squeak and a few grunts.  He has trouble getting his tail comfortable as he settles at his designated place on the shredded remains of a blue Kilim by the wall.  It has turned cold today after so much spring-like warmth in February.  We smell baking dough from the ovens below, when the heat comes on, blowing warm air out of a vent near the dog.  Bounder gets up again and presses his nose to the vent.  He runs his paw across it as if to remove the obstruction to his interest, but Artie steps over and settles him down again.  Sfumato is roused for a moment, stretches and looks across the room at us blinking with feline composure as she relaxes again by the aloe plant.

“Congratulations on the show at Gentileschi’s Artie.”

“Thanks Bel, I made enough to last the rest of the year.”

“We have been worried about you.”

“You were, Steve?  What’s to worry?”

“In a word Artie, Tassi.”

“Augustino, that jerk!  Steve I don’t care if he is in or out of jail.  I don’t know why Daisy got so wound up about it.”

“After what happened to you we thought …”

“Steve there was nothing between me and him.  I got mugged in the alley behind Donna Tuzia’s.  Donna spread it around that he raped me or something.”

“Why?”

“Because she hated his guts.  She had a friend on the police force and thought she could get him arrested or at least embarrassed.”

“Why didn’t you explain when we saw you in the street that horrible day back in Florence?”

“I couldn’t explain anything at that time.  I was having personal problems and then been mugged.  I mean it was all too much at once.”

“So Artie now we know it was nothing to do with Augustino.”

“Bel it is none of Daisy’s business any way.  I told her to shut up about it.”

“ ‘nuff said Artie.”

Artie has picked up a black not quite triangular box and looks it over before waving it at us.  “This one is called “’Box of Lozenges” and here’s a lozenge.

“So Steve do you recognize anything?”

“Yup, I remember.  Did you put Piet’s initials on there Artie?”

“Oh Artie you have moved him into three dimensions!”

“No Fred, I put my own initials on there.  Moved from the ‘Neo Plastic’ to the plastic.  Like pulling out a drawer Fred!”

“What do you mean Artie?”

“Fred, imagine you are standing in front of that painting.  Now imagine that each shape has a handle on it that you can pull on.  If you could pull it out you’d get a shape like this box.”

“Or I’d be apprehended for pulling down the masterpiece!”

“That’s why I said ‘imagine’ Fred.”

Artie has put the box into a framework like a chest of drawers with an opening to receive each of the boxes on the table.  It sits on a couple of sawhorses cut down to half height.  “Okay Steve, you want to give me a hand here?”  She places the black triangular box in the bottom opening, and it is a perfect fit.  They keep loading in the drawer-like pieces until every opening is filled reproducing the colors and shapes and proportions of Mondrian’s  Tableau No. IV on the rectangular face of their chest-like container.

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

The bar is full. I am standing in a crowd under the thin light from overhead halogens having a drink with Lou in the H-Bar. The lights tend to localize their illumination immediately under the bulb while leaving an impression of dimness overall.  The duct work stretches across the room high up, in darkness under the black painted ceiling.  I haven’t seen Lou since the gathering at his house to watch the Spin Show with Albrecht and the others.  Also I am curious as to his reaction to the discussion that evening, given his confidence in the cooperative spirit of Fauxmont.  It didn’t seem to me we reached any common ground.  Where was the spirit?  In fact the differences between Frank Dumpty and the Albrecht and Boyd faction seemed all the more irreconcilable.

Diddlie walks over unexpectedly as we lift our first beers.  Her face is flushed.  Lou steps forward to put his arm around her shoulder.  His thick stubby paint stained fingers spread across the upper arm of her royal blue blazer.  Diddlie speaks without looking up, leaning gently against Lou.  A bounding silver rabbit leaps from her lapel broche toward the white silky scarf around her neck.

“Where’s Lark?”

“I don’t see her Diddlie.  Are you expecting her?”

“Lou I came in with her a few minutes ago and didn’t see you at first.  Hi Fred, sorry didn’t realize you guys are here together”.  Diddlie speaks softly holding her right hand in a tight fist up by her cheek.

“What is the matter Diddlie?”

“I am very angry.  I am, and I don’t know what to do Fred!”  She opens her fist spreading her fingers palm up as if to offer me something, though her hand is empty.

“What is it?”

“You mean you guys haven’t heard?”  She pulls away from Lou and rubs her eyes.

“No Diddlie.  Oh there’s Lark.  She’s over there talking to Tinderbrush and someone else … see over there.”

“No Lou, I can’t see over all these people.  Oh! I am so disgusted!”

“Shall I go over Diddlie?”

“Theo!  What’s he doing here?  No no, don’t interrupt them.”

“So what happened Diddlie?”

“Lark came over right after I called this morning.  We’re going to have dinner here.  I mean I called her after all this, and she dropped everything.”

“ All what Diddlie? I didn’t know Lark was around.”

“She’s occupying DC.  Spending time down at Lafayette Square organizing a library in a tent for them.  Well I have her cell number.  I mean we needed to catch up anyway, then this happened”.

“Oh it’s something about Tinderbrush and the Washington Monument thing with … ahhhh … what’s his name Fred?”

“Congressman Bean … no no, I mean the artist was Tarantula wasn’t it?”

“Is that what you’re so upset about Diddlie?

“No Lou, listen this is different.  I heard a lot of doors slamming outside at about four o’clock this morning.  It was down at the Trips.  I mean a SWAT team was invading their house … seemed like a whole lot of them.  It was overcast and dark except for their flash lights.  I mean what happened to all those security lights Jake has? Anyway, I went out to see what was going on and Mr. Liddell went out before I could stop him.  Then it started raining.”

“Were they real police or Jake’s rent-a-cops?”

“I couldn’t tell Lou.  Well, I think these were real government types.”

“Diddlie, Mr. Liddell has run off before but we always find him.”

“I know, this time he may have be run over by those SUVs.  I don’t know.”

“Did you look around when it got light?”

“No those creeps were still there and they won’t let me near the place.”

“You mean they are there now?”

“I don’t know.  We have been out most of the day.  Lark and I just wanted to get out of there Lou.”

“So you have lost Mr. Liddell, okay.  What was the SWAT team doing at the Trips?”

“Lou there were all these flashing lights, and I could hear Gale yelling  ‘Juanita, Juanita’ over and over.”  Diddlie stops and sobs and stares silently down at our feet.

“Do you mean they arrested Juanita?”

“I am sure they took her away, Lou.”

“It must have been ICE.  Have you talked to Gale or Liberty, Diddlie?”

“I was talking to Gale about Juanita’s status here not long ago.”

“Oh, what was that about Fred?”

“It just came up in conversation.”

“I am sure all her papers are in order Diddlie.”

“Maybe not Lou.  Is that what she said, Fred?”

“No she seemed rather vague about it.”

“There it is Lou.  See!  They have taken her as an illegal.”

“It must be a mistake.”

“Lou, mistake or not, now she will have to prove she’s legal.  It’s making me crazy, I mean so many things are screwed up these days.  It’s like spring already in February and these Gestapo types raid my neighbors in the middle of the night, and this is America?  Can this be real?”

“Relax Diddlie, enjoy the nice weather!

“Don’t you find this early spring kind of creepy Lou?”

“Yes when I think about it.  I kind of enjoy a big snow.  It slows things down and people can’t use their cars so they come out and walk around.  It brings on a ‘spring’ in social contact“.

“That’s right, remember how we all caught up during the big snow a few years ago, helping to shovel Derwent’s driveway?”

“Oh that was quite a crowd by the time we finished.”  Theo Tinderbrush walks towards the exit.  It looks like Congressman Bean is with him.  Lark squeezes toward us past a large group standing around a nearby small table.

“Why aren’t all these folks down in DC supporting us?  We need a crown like this!”

“Lark, what happened to you?”

“Nothing, I was talking to Theo and you disappeared.”

“I told them about Juanita, Lark.”

“Yea Theo says they can’t even find where Juanita is being held.”

“How did Theo get involved?”

“Lou he’s been trying to get hold of Jake Trip, but Jake has been out of town, and now Liberty is away too.”  Diddlie looks up at Lou and gently runs her finger along his right eyebrow.  “Why don’t you trim these things Lou?”

“It just makes them grow more.”  Lark puts her arm around Diddlie’s waist.

“Diddlie, leave the poor man’s face alone.”

“Somebody’s got to take care of him.  I mean those …”  She trails off and starts again.  “Wait a minute.  What about Gale?”

“What about her?”

“Is any one with her.  I mean she must be freaked out Lark.”

“Theo has gone back over to Gale’s. He saw the convoy of SUVs leaving on Wicket Street when he came over.”

“Why can’t they come during the day?  You know, a couple of guys in business suits.  What’s with the terror tactics?”

“Diddlie, they think it’s drugs.  They always do with Hispanic illegals, so they come in prepared for a shoot out.”

“Juanita Gomez selling drugs!  Can you imagine?  Lou, that’s absurd.  There’s nothing to stop them calling up or writing first.  Who’s to say Juanita is here illegally anyway?”

“Diddlie, they want to catch the fugitive at home, before they can get away.  Besides things were a lot more relaxed when the Macadamias first brought Juanita back to the states.  No one thought about papers that much.”  Lark smoothes back her thick grey hair with its shock of black flowing in the front wave, but stops in mid motion with a hand above each ear.  Her bony elbows jut out like two horns pointing at Lou.

“Lou Juanita is not a fugitive. That’s a police state mentality.  Don’t talk that way. This is what it’s come to since 9/11.  We get our homes raided by thugs in the name of homeland security.” She pushes her hands further back completing the motion she had started, and brings them forward spreading out her arms with palms up to each side of her waste.  “That’s another reason to get out there and organize and protest, and get the country back from these finance crooks, and their cops.”

“Okay Lark, okay …

Lark brings her arms down to her side and presses her palms against her thighs bending slightly towards Lou. “Come on Lou, don’t okay me, join in!

Looks like I’ll have to catch up with Lou some other time about our gathering to watch the Spin Show.  The lights flicker.  We all look up into the black beyond, as if we could see what is going on.

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

I happened to meet Bel Vionnet and Steve Strether walking Lambert, on Wicket Street.  Lambert has been preoccupied with the scent on a twig in the ditch for some time and I catch up with them up while they wait.  Steve bends down to pet him.  Lambert looks up suddenly at Steve’s touch and moves on with us.  It is nearly seventy degrees in the late morning sun, mid winter, and daffodils are showing among the snowdrops along the hillside above the roadside ditch.  Daisy comes out of Derwent Sloot’s place as I join them.  She waves at us with her bowler and as so often happens, something floats to the ground from her hatband.  Lambert runs towards it on his expanding leash, with a low growl, as if he is muttering to himself.  He sniffs it, where it lands on top of the ivy.

“Lambert, you leave that piece of paper alone honey.”  Lambert pushes it with his nose and it slips out of sight among the ivy leaves.  Lambert follows it burying his head among the tangled vines and foliage.  Daisy steps in toward him and he looks up, fur covering his eyes with a white curtain, the paper in his mouth.

“He’s going deaf Daisy.  It’s no good talking to him.”

Steve walks into the ivy too.  Lambert’s short legs are hidden in leaves and he appears to be floating in the viney green deep.  Lambert looks up at him with a dead oak leaf swinging from the fur under his jaw and some leaf fragments cling to the bushy white hair on his ears.

“When did that happen?”

“We first noticed it around his thirteenth birthday.”

“Oh, wasn’t that last month Bel?”

“That’s right”.  Steve trades the paper for a treat, which Lambert then drops.  “Daisy you need a more secure place for your money.”

“I know.  It keeps falling out.  I want to tighten the band.  It’s come loose.  Does Artie know yet Steve?”

“Know what, Daisy?”

“That Augustino Tassi is out?”

Lambert is nosing around trying to find his treat under the leaves while we all gather around to chat in Derwent’s front yard.  Steve hands Daisy the ten pound note that had dropped from her hat band. “Yuk! he really soaked it.  At least he didn’t chew it, Steve!”

Steve seems to have forgotten her question about Artie.  “No I have never known him to eat money.”

“You mean he just savors it and spits it out?”

“That is the first time he had any sterling.  He doesn’t even pick up dollar bills.”

“Who is Tassi Steve?  I remember there was mention of him at Artie’s opening, but it was the wrong moment to explain anything.”

“Fred, he’s a painter and was close to Artie in Florence when she was studying there.  We all knew him, Bel and I, and Frank Vasari who was teaching there at that time.”

“To answer your question Daisy, we don’t know if Artie has found out yet.”

“Bel, it has been several weeks.  She must know, but I haven’t seen her since the opening.  You know Tassi only served nine months and … ”

Lambert has run back on to the street and circles us following a scent trail, and also winding his expanding leash around us as we move on along Wicket street from Derwent’s.  Daisy tries to step out of the loop but he pulls hard to move back the way we came, tightening the line.  Bel reaches down and grabs Lambert’s collar to hold him still. The slackened line catches in the top of Daisy’s shoe and instead of stepping over it she pulls it taught again with her extended leg.  Steve stands outside the loop laughing at Lambert’s maneuver.  “Daisy just stand still and I’ll come around and unwind it.”

“Steve, I’m not moving.”  Daisy throws her arms out trying to regain her balance holding back on the momentum of her broken stride.  She stands awkwardly with legs wide apart.  “I think Artie had a thing going with Tassi for a while.”

“I was never sure about that Daisy.  I mean what kind of thing it was.”

“Well I wasn’t there Bel, but got the idea they were ‘an item’ from odd remarks Artie’s let drop.” Steve has got the line out of Daisy’s way.  We are released to move on.  He walks around us while Lambert protests under Bel’s restraint.

“They may have been an ‘item’ to each other but I don’t remember going out with them as a couple.  It wasn’t something she put out.”

“No Steve, Artie was discreet about her personal life.  Always has been.”

“True Bel, she was always talking about her latest discoveries.  She seldom used a guidebook and liked roaming around the city talking to people.  Remember San Miniato?”

“Yes, Minias, the old Roman Saint.  I remember those endless steps up to the basilica and the heat.  Bel, what were we doing, climbing up there in summer?”

“Steve, I remember you looking at the girls who suddenly drove up on Vespas after we got to the top.”

“I’ll never forget them Bel, all three of them, right out of Botticelli’s Primavera, with faces of Simonetta Vespucci, their blond hair blowing in wavy strands … oh and their jeans … “

“Alright Steve, its Venus’s hair that is spread out, but we get the picture.”

We are walking slowly west along Wicket Street as Steve reminisces. Slips Lane and Boundary Circle are ahead and around the corner, where the young chess players Rundstedt and Guderian live.

“Artie told us we had to see the view of Florence. There was supposed to be a cooling breeze up there too.”

“She also took us through to see the terracottas by della Robbia up in that vaulted ceiling.”

“Daisy I’ve never known her to talk about her love life and have never felt I could ask.  You must be her confidante.  Besides it is none of my business.”

“It isn’t our business Steve, but we were concerned about her.  We are now.  She was ragged that afternoon we met her in the street holding that apotropaic trinket in both hands.”

“Well I guess we were all closer back then…”

“ … and younger, Bel!   but as close as we were, it was obvious something had happened.”

“What did you say she was holding Bel?”

“A trinket, some kind of statuette I think.  Don’t really remember Daisy.”

“No I mean what is ‘apotra …’ what ever it was?

“Daisy that’s apotropaic, something that wards off evil.”

“Bel, do you mean her clothing was ragged?”

“No Daisie, her lip was swollen and she had bruises on her arms and hair all over the place.  She had difficulty speaking.  Like she was holding something back.”  Lambert starts barking and pulling ahead towards the bend in the road.  He walks along the middle where the camber is highest.  Occasionally darting to one side, to sniff, and that sometimes takes him around a tree from which Steve has to unwind him.

“Didn’t she tell you what had happened Bel?”

“No, she came over the next day Fred.  Steve left the room so we could talk, but she tried to make light of it, said something like ‘men are impossible.  I’ll go with art’.

“But you knew she was talking about Augustino?”

“I asked her about him Daisy and she looked away and changed the subject.”

“So how did he ever come to trial?”

“It was Donna Tuzia.  She had a friend on the police force and convinced her to see him that night.”

“She was rooming with Donna’s family you see Daisy.  They got very close.”  Lambert has stopped ahead at the full extent of his leash.  His ears are up, his tail points straight back in line with his body and he is still barking down the empty road.

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

Diddlie walks over with the two boys both drinking from cans.  She greets Niels with a hug telling the boys to get back in the car, but they run towards the Trips’ open garage.  They are trying the doors of Jake’s Hummer, which are locked.  One of them comes out with a huge flashlight.  The other is following with a traffic cone.  They set up the cone in the middle of Oval Street opposite the driveway, and stand beside it flashing the light as if to establish a checkpoint.  Diddlie shouts at them to get out of the road.  A large SUV with smoked glass windows comes down the hill, black and slow as a hearse.  It stops and a man in a black flak jacket and baseball cap gets out, and walks towards the boys at a funereal pace. One boy standing by the cone and flashes the light at him as he approaches.  He seems to be talking to the boys but I can’t hear anything.  The other boy has moved over and stands next to the ditch on the far side of the road.  Liberty has stepped away from her van to watch and says to Niels facing away from the street looking at her.  “Niels, the boys need your help.”  Niels looks around.  “Shit a brick, what the fuck’s going on?  Who are those assholes in black?”  He bends down into his car, exposing the crack in his but above his belt, and turns off the engine.

“That’s Dad’s security service.”  Niels stands leaning on the roof of the car staring toward the road.  “How about calling off his goons, okay?”

“They are your sons Niels you deal with it.  Those guys don’t know me anyway.”  Niels yells to the boys to get out of the way.  The boy by the ditch jumps across and scrambles through the gap between the fence rails and disappears into a yard overgrown with wisteria, vines, hollies and bamboo.  A woman in a black flack jacket and baseball cap, runs from the SUV past the male guard, who is preoccupied with his phone.  She reaches for the flashlight.  He swings around to keep the flashlight from her but she grabs his other arm above the elbow, lifting him off the ground.  He tries to hit her with the flashlight while yelling in protest, but he is off balance and easily disarmed.  She starts toward us on the driveway, pulling him along.  The flashlight rolls across the road and into the ditch.  The boy says no more but tries to hold back.

“Anyone tell me whose child this is?”

“His name is Tron, and he’s my son.  Get in the car Tron.”  The woman doesn’t let him go.  “Age?”

“Tron get into the car.”

“I can’t she won’t let go!”  Tron tries to pull away but he is yanked back sharply.

“Let the kid get in the car will you!”

“Why is this boy blocking the road?”

Diddlie interrupts: “Look its okay they were just playing.”

“Are you his Mother?”

“No I’m … ”

“I need to talk to the parent.”

She addresses Niels.  “My partner has called the police.  I am holding your son until they get here.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Irma Standov, Suburban Safety and Security Solutions.  Your name sir?”

“I said let the kid go!”

“Sir, he has been blocking the road and endangering his life and that of others.”

“The hell he was.”

Diddlie steps close to Irma, putting one hand on her arm and the other on Tron’s sholder.  “He’s been out there for less than a minute.  I mean you just turned the corner at the wrong moment.  Come on! we can take care of this.”  Tron takes hold of Diddlie’s wrist with both hands.  “Diddlie, get me away from her!”

“Tron, honey, just a minute.”

“The police will make that determination Ma’am.”  The security man has picked up the flashlight and walks over.  “The police will be here in a couple of minutes folks.”

Niels moves toward his son. The male guard moves toward Niels and stands in his way.  “Will you get the fuck out of my way!”

“Stand back sir.”

“You rent-a-cop bullies have no right to hold my kid.”

“This is private property sir and we are contractually bound to protect it.”

“Yeah?  Well when you pulled him off his feet in the road over there you were on public property.”

“You are responsible and you are standing on the property sir.”

Niels stops, and stares at him with his face so close they could kiss.  The guard doesn’t move and remains facing him, blocking his way, his eyes hidden behind wraparound dark glasses.  Diddlie breaks free of Tron and tries to get between them, pushing Niels away toward his car.  “Back off Niels.  Why are you guys calling the police over this?  Its just two kids.  There’s no crime here.”

“That’s for the police to determine Ma’am.  Our procedure is to stay in place and await proper authority.”  The male guard mutters code numbers into his phone.”

“Sir, you’d better find his brother.  The police are going to want to talk to both boys.”

“Well that’s too bad.  You scared the hell out of him and now he’s run away and I don’t know where.  “I’ll find him Neils.”  Diddlie walks off towards the fence on the other side of Oval Street.  Tron starts pulling away from Irma and shouts “Diddlie come back, get me away from her!”  She throws the cone into the ditch.  “Won’t be long now honey.  I am going to find your brother.”  The male guard yells at her to leave the cone where it is.  Diddlie steps over the collapsed rails up from where Tron’s brother disappeared, and walks behind the thicket leaving the cone in the ditch.

The guard turns to Liberty.  “Are you Miss Tripp?”

“Yes I am.”

“Welcome home Miss Tripp.  You can go ahead and unload.  We will take care of this for you.”

“So they do know who you are!  Where’s our liberty?  Miss Liberty?” Niels has backed away from the guard and moves towards his car shouting his taunt.  He sits in the car doorway with his head down, looking at the ground between his open knees, and spits.  The SUV is moving up the driveway behind his car blocking the way out.

“There’s no need.  Don’t you see how trivial this is?”

The male guard pulls a business card out of his pocket and hands it to Liberty.  She looks at it and puts it in her back pocket as he goes on.  “Miss Tripp we are following standard procedure as specified in our contract to protect your family.”

“Yes I appreciate that, but I don’t need protection from those two kids. This is a neighborhood thing, okay.”

“Do these boys live nearby?”

“No they live in DC.”

Niels looks up.  “Liberty don’t tell those assholes a damn thing about me.”

“Sir your uncooperative and abusive manner has been noted.”

“Niels, shut up!”

“No Liberty.  This is a fucking travesty and … Oh great here’s the god damn fuzz!”  Niels spits again and sits staring at the ground.

A police cruiser pulls into the driveway next to the SUV.  The cop is talking on his radio.  The male guard walks over to the car.  Tron breaks away from the female guard and runs for the fence.  She tries to chase after him but Niels jumps up and runs in front of her saying “Excuse me ma’am”, giving Tron time to get away.  Tron disappears into the thicket beyond the fence like his brother.  The cop is out of his car, and he and the two guards surround Niels.  Liberty walks over.  “Officer can we just forget this whole thing?  This is Niels Planck.  He’s a friend of mine, and a business associate.  I am really sorry about the kids in the street okay.  It was wrong, I know, but we can take care of it.”  Niels stands facing the officer but looking at Liberty.

“Liberty I said …”

“Niels keep out of this.”

“Ma’am he can either identify himself or I’ll take him into custody.”

“Like I said, I’ll talk to the officer, not these goons.  What about my boys?”

“Sir you have not been paying attention.  Your boys have run away.  They don’t listen to you.  Your friend has gone to find them.”  Irma Standov takes Liberty aside while Niels greets all questions with silence.

Liberty walks over with Irma.  “Fred, looks like this mess is going to take a while.  There’s nothing you or I can do now.”

“Are they going to arrest Niels?”

Another police cruiser pulls up on the hill with lights flashing.  Two cops get out leaving the doors open.  Their car blocks the driveway and the open doors block the narrow street.  “If he calms down she says he will probably get a citation.  Otherwise the police might take him for a while.”

“He’s going to need an attorney the way he’s going now.”

Liberty mops her hair back.  “For what?”  Irma doesn’t answer.  She is walking away toward the cruiser. “I guess he’ll be held responsible for his kids blocking the street.”

“How do they know who you are?”

“They know a lot more about who comes and goes from this house than I thought.  It’s part of their contract, not that I’ve read it.  They’ll kind of keep track of me as long as I live here.”

Walking down the hill towards home I see Rank Majors sitting in his car with the window open waiting to get by.  “What’s going on?”

“The security people have called the police on Niels Planck.”

“Are those feral kids of his raising hell again?”

“Again?  What do you mean?

“I mean Niels doesn’t control those twins.  Its good to see “Suburban” is patrolling around here.  They are the best.”

A third police car comes down the hill and parks facing the one already there with its roof lights spinning.  Two more cars are waiting behind Rank’s to go up the hill.  One of the new cops comes down and starts directing traffic away from Oval Street.  The late afternoon sun glints in his dark glasses and he casts a long shadow down Wicket Street.

“They have certainly taken control up there.”

“Those kids have been in trouble before.  You know what scares me is there’s lots more of these little crazies out there.  No parental control.  You know.”  We can hear sirens in the distance.

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

We are standing behind Liberty Trip’s rented Dodge van in her Father’s leaf littered driveway.  There’s a dented old blue Ford Taurus stopped on the narrow slope of Oval Street opposite.  Liberty has unloaded her amps and a few boxes, and kicks one of them towards me with her snakeskin running-shoe.  “You want to buy a carton of CDs?”  A redbud leaf cartwheels on to the box, yellow as her yellow jeans.  “I don’t want any more stuff, thanks Liberty.”  The blue car suddenly turns into the driveway animated by its flashing headlights.  Her metallic silver shirt shimmers with moiré under the lights. Niels Planck opens the window to speak as she walks toward the car, still creeping up the driveway.  It bumps Liberty’s carton of CDs before stopping.  Liberty jumps aside.

“Run me over.  Why don’t you!”

“You’re too fast.  Stand still will you!”  Niels backs up the car and starts up the driveway towards her again.  He stops abruptly, well before hitting her, and the kids in the back seat are pitched forward losing hold of the I-pads they were using.  They yell, but I can’t understand what they’re saying.

“Don’t be such a jerk!  What do you want Niels?”

“I’ve come to help you unload.”

“Bullshit Niels.”  The car has stopped.  Niels is grinning at us from behind the wheel.  “Such a friendly greeting, partner!”

“Niels, what do you want?”

“Just dropped by Lib.   So, are you in court yet?”  She explains to us both that the suit brought by Prestige U. against her band, Toxic Blob, is going to court.  The trial is to start next April.  Her father Jake assures her it will all be settled out of court in the end.

“Who’s your friend?”  Liberty turns to me.  “That’s Fred.”

“Peace, brother … ”  His thick blond hair is tied back in a ponytail.

Ignoring the kids who have started wrestling behind him, he gets out of the car leaving the engine running and stands with an arm over the top of the door.  “So you’re moving in with Mom and Dad.”  Liberty shrugs, and looks up into the trees where the sun is getting low, silhouetting branches and rooflines into a single shape against the sky.

“Fred, are you new around here dude?”

“Moved in last November.”

“Cool, it’s a groovy neighborhood.  You met Diddlie yet?”

Niels points up the hill toward her house next door.  “Yes she was the first person I got to know after moving in.”

“Now you hanging with Lib huh?”

“Having a neighborly chat about the ‘bug’ litigation.”

“So they are going to drag your ass into court Lib.”

She seems far off still looking into the flat expanse of distant shadows.  My question is intended to bring her back.  “Didn’t you say your Dad has one of the best litigators around?”  Liberty frowns and with a hand on the back of her neck.

“Yeah he’s hired Sherman Shroud, but you think the school doesn’t have a barracuda of their own, with all their funds?”

“Shroud will bury them, that’s his thing Lib.  No sweat.”

“‘They will be persuaded after a few weeks in court’, is how Dad put it.”  Gray-brown leaves falling from the white oaks in Diddlie’s yard are blown into the open back of the van in a sudden gust.  As she speaks, she turns and reaches into the van to throw them out, one leaf at a time.  “I don’t know how he can be so confident.”

“You’re expecting a tough contest then?”

“I just hope it doesn’t drag on for years.  I am afraid Dad could go broke.  We are all looking for work.  The band is over.  This thing has killed us, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be much help any time soon.”

“No way your old man is going broke Lib.  He’s got Macadamia behind him.  You’re talking deep pockets there baby.”

“I hear that settling out of court is Shroud’s specialty.”

Liberty has picked up a carton containing her plastic stage gear that gives her the insect look.  “That’s right, and he is very well connected.”

She stands there, leaning back slightly, holding the box in front of her.

“I thought Toxic Blob was doing pretty well.”  More yellowing redbud leaves, broad and limp, stick to the black driveway.

She notices me regarding the faint green and orange streaks in her hair pulled back and held in place by a plastic lizard shaped clip.

“How do you like the streaks?”

“They were awesome on stage baby.”

“Yeah it’s faded a little more with every shower since our last gig.”

“How did that go?”

“Not good.  We didn’t release anything but soap bubbles and got booed.”

“That wasn’t even a crowd. Your publicity for that concert wasn’t worth shit.”

“Well they were probably expecting exotic insects or hornets perhaps.”

A strand of orange hair falls across her face.  She blows it away from her mouth.  It spreads, brilliantly catching the sunlight for an instant.  Another redbud leaf falls on her shoulder in the stillness between gusts of wind.

“So what’s next Liberty?”

“Lib’s going digital dude.  I’ve got it figured.”  Niels gets back in the car and talks to his boys.

“Dad says I can work at Snaz, but I want to get away from that.”

“What are the others doing?”

“Nobody can find work.  They’ve all gone home like me, or staying with friends.”

“I think one of your members is working at the H-bar.”

Niels gets back out of the car with one of the I-pads his sons were using.  “Listen baby, pretty soon you’ll be able to download from WitheredLizzardMusic.com.”  He hands me the I-pad but the site doesn’t come up.

“WitheredLizzard?  I thought you were Toxic Blob.”

“The band didn’t change its name but we have a deal with WLM. That’s Niels’s thing.”

“Fred I want out of construction and into music.”  She lifts a box of books down from the van.  Copies of Shrink Wrap magazine are on top.  The wind fans the pages open and one copy blows onto the ground.  Niels picks it up, leafing through it.  “This is old, Lib.

We are going to have an ad in Shrink Wrap.”

“When Niels?  You’ve got to fix the site first.”

“Yeah I know.  I’m going to kick some ass.”

“You need a hand with any of that?”

“No, I can handle this.  My life is in here.  I need to unload it myself”.

“Niels look at your sons.!”

The two boys in identical orange jackets are out of the car chasing each other up the hill towards Diddlie’s.  “I’ve got some Cokes in the fridge.  You boys want to come in?”  Diddlie is standing in her doorway shouting towards them with her back to us.  The boys veer sharply tripping through ivy vines under the fallen leaves, and disappear into her open door.  Niels ignores them.  “Fred, you into the music or what?”

“Don’t know, I haven’t heard much yet.”

“You are going to hear a lot more soon, buddy.”

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction. Click on Archives on the right.

Dead leaves have blown clear from around the picnic tables, leaving a flat dry expanse of earth. I am sitting at one of the tables, watching squirrels under the bare trees on a clear still day in Fauxmont Park. They chase each other through the complex crossings of branch shadows that look like a map projected on the smooth ground. Three squirrels run across and up the trunk of a nearby white oak. They move around to the back of the trunk out of sight.  Someone’s coming slowly, getting closer and closer.  A shadow gradually moves up the table jerking up its width, in small increments, with each step forward.

“Don’t turn around”.  It’s Diddlie’s voice.  She must have come through the woods at the other end of the park behind me.  Saying nothing further she waves two wands in the air and their shadows give the impression of her having a feathery headdress.  Looking ahead into the trees for the wrens I can hear, I don’t turn around.

“Have you seen Mr. Liddell?” she asks by way of a greeting.

“Hi Diddlie, can you see those wrens?”

“No, they’re in the bushes.  It’s too thick.”

“Why are you sneaking up on me?”

“You saw my shadow didn’t you?”

“Yes but you seemed to be moving stealthily.  I couldn’t hear your tread or anything.”

“I am not sneaking around.  I just like shadow games especially in this warm wintery sun coming through the trees.”

“Shadow games you call it.  No, to answer your question, I haven’t seen Mr. Liddell lately.  When did he run away?

“Haven’t seen him for weeks.”

“I saw a white rabbit near your house back in August or September maybe.”

“Got him back that time.  Lou caught him eating his garden lettuce and brought him back.  Said I owed him thirty bucks at the going rate for all he’d eaten.”

“You going to sit down Diddlie?”  She doesn’t answer but stays behind me slowly waving her shaggy weeds as if she were taking part in a ritual.  Ignoring my invitation she asks,  “You know why they didn’t build a house here?”

“No it hadn’t occurred to me.”

“I think some one bought the lot.”

“Isn’t it community property?”

“That’s what people say.”

“So why didn’t any one build here?”

“That’s the question.  It’s valuable land.”

“Have you been writing about it?”

“Writing? What do you mean?”

“Remember you said you were going to write because you were not happy with events in Fauxmont the way I am writing them.”

“Yes but no one can see it.”

“Why, is it written in invisible ink?”  I start to turn around but she puts a hand on my shoulder to restrain me and steps away to stay out of sight saying, “Don’t turn around okay?”

“Okay I won’t.”

“Listen, I am not ready to show any one.”

“But you are working, right?”

“I’m writing about a different place.

“Where?”

“I realize what I write isn’t going to change anything here.  If I show it to you then it will just be part of your thing.”

“It will still be yours.  I am not going to plagiarize.”

“No it won’t.  I know you’re not going to plagiarize!  You can never see it because if you do, you make it yours.  You’ll be writing it, attributing it to me, but that doesn’t really make it mine.”

“Yes it does, that’s the meaning of attribution.”

“If you quote me in your FAUXMONT blog then it is yours.  It is yours because you chose to put it there.  Same as anything else you quote.”

“Are you going to let anyone read it?”

“I’ve never written anything for an audience before.”

“Oh you mean it’s a matter of confidence and …”

“Yeah right, its kind of scary letting some one else read what I’ve written.  I am not ready yet.”

“Surely there’s some one you would trust to read it.  What about Lou?”

“No, Lou wouldn’t be interested.”

So who’s going to see it?”

“You may never know.”

“Are you saying you’re never going to show it to me?”

“Well maybe, eventually, when I’ve got the goods on you.”

“What makes you think there’s anything to get?”

“All the trouble you make around here for one thing.”

“What else?”

“Well, I’d like to know who you bought your house from.”

“Why?”

“I’ve checked around and it was never listed.  No one has lived in it for years.  In fact I don’t know who owned it before you.  Never met them.  I think there have been some renters though, but I didn’t get to know them. They didn’t stay long.  It was kind of a spooky place hidden behind all those hollies by the road, and your azaleas have grown up in front of the entrance and windows so you can’t see much of the house except the roof. Never saw any one fixing it up either.  It must have been in bad shape having been rented or empty all this time?”

“Were you trying to find out about this park at the same time?”

“I have been checking out a number of things.”

“My house wasn’t listed because I bought it from the owner thanks to Lou who introduced me.  It was a deal between us.”

“Well that explains some things and not others, such as who did Lou introduce you to?”

“The owner was represented by an agent.  Never met them in person.”

“Yeah, and wasn’t this around the time Lou sold his business?”

“It was, so what?”

“Never mind.”  I try to turn round again wondering why she is keeping herself out of sight, but she insists that I mustn’t.  Diddlie gives no explanation but goes on about who might read her work.  Maybe Daisy will read it, or Arty, but Arty is too busy.  I don’t like to ask her.”

“Is it on line?”

“Yeah but I haven’t given any one access yet.  Think of it as an alternative universe.”

“You wouldn’t be stringing me along would you?”

“Ha ha, very funny, no.  Besides I don’t think that stuff works on our scale of existence.  String theory has to do with things smaller than an atom.”

“Who told you that?”

“One of the scientists from Prestige U. who hang out at the H-bar.”

“I thought there is supposed to be a multiverse.  That is, multiple places like this in other dimensions inaccessible to us.”

“I’ll believe it when there’s experimental evidence.”

“You’re very hard nosed Diddlie.”  Her shadow has moved off the table as if she stepped away.  Turning to look it is obvious she has moved on.  The golden rod growing at the side of the field has small fluffy seeds in circular arrays on the end of the dried and dead brown stalks.  Hers is usually in full bloom.  Diddlie might have walked behind the shed on the lot next door, or did she go back through the woods the way she came?  Watching the shed I don’t see her emerge beyond it.

 NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

The Trips have invited me again to enjoy their hospitality and a tour of the new house. Being an informal neighborly visit I ignore the grand entrance on Wicket Street and as usual Mrs. Gomez lets me in through the gray painted service door by the garages. Walking up the driveway towards the massive stone blocks facing Oval Street, I feel I am about to enter a castle keep, but there is neither portcullis nor guards with pikes.

Inside two miniature silver porpoises leap from a small golden wave in the sconce over the mirror.  Mrs. Gomez greets me in dim yellow light from the small bulbs in their mouths.  “Ahhhhhh, Mr. Fred, yes ooooh! good morning Mr. Fred”.  She sings her words at a cheery high pitch, drawing out the sound and getting a little higher with each successive word of her aria ending with an “oooooooooooh” that falls in pitch with the last of her breath.  She invites me in with growing maternal warmth and closes the door after me.  We walk down a long narrow corridor with proposes lighting the way at intervals.  Mrs. Gomez’s hard sole slippers slap on terracotta floor tiles in time to her slow and careful tread.  She reaches for the dorsal fin of a metallic goldfish which turns off the light at the enterance.  Her thick black hair is graying, cut short above a round face and a wide mouth.  Her round eyes seem tired and care-worn yet they sparkle under heavy lids when she looks up at me to speak.

Mrs. Gomez opens the door at the far end onto a wide landing.  She beckons me to step past her into blinding daylight and leaves me alone, closing the door behind her with a quiet scrape as the bottom brushes along the thick pile carpet.  I am on the grand staircase that curves up the back wall of the great room over the formal entrance.  The wall around me is painted with roses and Clematis perpetually climbing their trellis and blooming in trompe l’oeil.  Together they conceal the closed door to the narrow hall with shades of green pink yellow and purple shadows behind brilliant petals and all without bees or flies or any blemish.  Only a swing of the door occasionally breaks the stillness.

From the rail on the landing I can look into the massive cylindrical aquarium on my right where sea horses rock, like animated chess men, near broad leaf weeds agitated by a column of tiny silver bubbles growing bigger as they rise.  Beyond the tall windows, hollies break the line of Derwent Sloot’s roof.  Its overhang shades his living room like a glowering brow. Gale’s voice rises from somewhere below.  “Juanita, was that Mr. Fred?”  I can’t hear any response, but Gale soon comes into view, and invites me down to the upper part of the great room.  The floor descends from there toward the deck outside in three wide curving terraces like a small concert hall.   The upper level is lined with bookshelves across the back wall.  Sports trophies are interspersed with books and framed photos.  Blues, reds, and creams glow in the pile of Afghan war rugs covering the bottom level.  Each level is arranged with white leather couches, and deep armchairs with marble and glass side tables.

We move along the upper level past the aquarium column and into the kitchen painted in tones of lavender.  Mrs. Gomez has her back to us.  She pours coffee at the island counter top, which is too high for her to work at comfortably without the convenient dark wooden step carved in the shape of an alligator.  She has changed into a lavender sweat suit with yellow and white piping and a heavy enamel Snaz logo hangs from the zip like a jewel.  “Oh la” she sings acknowledging our entrance into the kitchen.  We sit down at a glass table in the bay window looking out toward the gazebo.  She brings us coffees in white porcelain cups and saucers with the golden Glitz logo printed on the side.  She leaves a faint lavender scent in the air after ambling away with a slight limp I hadn’t noticed before.

“Juanita, Juanita, Juanita,” sighs Gale.  “I keep telling her she should retire, but she won’t.  I know that leg hurts too, we’ve had her examined at the clinic.”

“You’ve had her examined?”

“Sure we take good care of our Juanita.”

The swirling eddies settle in my coffee after it is poured, and the aroma strengthens as all hint of Juanita’s lavender is gone.

“She has a brother up in Troy NY but she doesn’t want to move up there because it’s too cold.”

“What about Mr. Gomez?’

“Hector was killed by leftists when we threw out Allende.”

“How horrible.  In the wrong place at the wrong time I suppose.”

“Yeah, he was working for us.”

“Oh, were you living in Santiago?”

“No I mean working for the U.S. against the commies.  It’s a long story but they ended up bringing Juanita home, you know … I mean she was left with nothing.”

“Who brought her home?”

“Oh the Macadamias.  They had a very nice place down there, and a vineyard too.”

“So Juanita started with the Macadamias.  What made her leave?”

“You know how it is with them.”

“With whom?”

“Hispanics”

“How is it with Hispanics?”

“I mean they flood in for jobs. It is becoming a big problem.”

“Yes working here without documentation has been dangerous since 9/11.”

“Oh they don’t care.  You know, they’re happy go lucky people.”

“I understand it is pretty grim in the detention centers.”

“Well they have broken the law.”

“Isn’t that rather a technicality these days?’

“No the problem is they are taking American jobs, not paying taxes and using our schools and everything for free.  Jake used to talk about ‘wetbacks’ and all that but we do have to watch our language now.”

“Yes it pays to be more respectful.”

“You know she could go down to our place in Beaufort and take it easy.  It’s warm down in North Carolina and we don’t have time to go there much these days.  All she’d have to do is be caretaker.”

“Sounds like a generous offer.”

“She won’t go.  Juanita prefers it here.  I don’t know why … but we’re all glad because she’s such a part of the family, and so cheerful.”

“Didn’t she work for the Nightingales at one point?”

“Yeah, Juanita was on sort of long term loan I guess.  I don’t know.  She says she just about raised Boyd by herself.”

“Yes, he had two very busy parents.”

“Yeah, Lark is an out and out radical, kind of anarchist or something and Juanita says Harper was never around much.”

“Have you ever met Lark?”

“No, I don’t even know what she looks like.”  The phone on the wall rings and Gail gets up to answer.  “Professor who? … Tinderbrush, are you sure you got that right Juanita … I guess so ….  what does he want?  Okay Juanita you know where we are.”

Tinerbrush strolls into the kitchen stepping in front of Juanita to introduce himself. His trench coat is open, a back-pack hangs off one shoulder and he holds his brief case in both hands.  “Hi Gail, I have just got off the plane from Ontario.  Is Jake around?”

“No, Jake is away until tomorrow.”

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

“Bel and I used to hang out here a lot.”

“Used to, Daisy?”

“While Steve was away for months on some hush hush mission.”

“I didn’t know he was a ‘spook’.

“I don’t think he was spy. Come to think of it, the trick or treaters were coming round at the time. He may have been ‘spooked’ this one time. By the way, that’s an unfortunate word to use.”

“It is?’

“Don’t you know it’s racially offensive?”

“I have heard, but didn’t think it was all that sensitive.”

”Oh it can be.”

“Where did Steve go?”

“An undisclosed location.”

“There must have been quite a crowd!”

“Yeah, imagine Steve, Mr. Progressive from Woollett Massachusetts, with all those Bush/Cheney people!”

“Bel used to joke that he was having an affair.”

“A trophy girl friend?”

“No with the Neoconservatives!”

“Oh an intellectual affair, the most dangerous of all.”

I am sitting with Daisy Brisco reminiscing at a table in front of the big bay window at the H-Bar, waiting for Bel Vionnet and her husband Steve Strether to join us for lunch.

“We’d talk about the Guild a lot.  Trying to get the community together.  Once we had to reschedule an important business meeting to raise the water fee because there wasn’t a quorum.”

“It’s livening up now though.”

“Oh Boyd is stirring things up!  Why do I love that idiot?  I don’t think any one is going to take him seriously do you?”

“Yes lots of people.”

“Not in this neighborhood.”

Daisy springs out of her chair pushing it back against an empty one at the next table.  The couple sitting there doesn’t notice. Their empty dishes are pushed aside.  He is texting and she is facing away towards the window with her phone up to her ear.  Bel has walked up behind me.  Without turning around I hear Daisy exchanging high pitched affections with Bel.  Bel sits next to me without Steve, greeting me in her gentle voice.

“Hi Fred, good to meet our newest Fauxmonter.”

“No Steve today?”

“No Daisy he’s with Lambert.”

Daisy leans over the back of her chair in front of the window, looking down into to Bel’s face.  “Is something wrong with him Bel?”  Daisy’s long straight black hair hangs slightly forward down past each cheek leaving her face in deep shadow.

“We don’t know yet.  Lambert didn’t eat his floor food.”  Bel is talking through a slight smile.  Her face is round with eyes far apart.

“Floor food!  What’s that?”

“Lambert is a Westie Fred.  He likes to hunt for his food, so Steve spreads his kibbles around the Kitchen floor and puts a few in the hall.”

Daisy sits down awkwardly, first bending her long legs to the side and moving her knees around under the table without bumping into Bel or jogging the table.  “How about water?”  She doesn’t look up to speak.

“We have a bowl for him, and there’s a bowl of canned food next to his water.  He likes his branch water when we’re out in the woods.”

“Are you taking him in Bel?”

“Daisy, Steve is going to watch him for a while then we’ll decide about the vet.”

A waitress is standing by Daisy who has grabbed her hand looking up at her.  She introduces us with a slow sweep of her arm over the table pausing and  opening her hand at mention of our names. There’s a clatter of dishes and I miss the waitress’s name but she plays drums for “Toxic Blob”, Liberty Trip’s band. She nods to each of us as we are indicated by Daisy’s open hand, takes our orders for lunch, and moves off quickly.  Daisy is reluctant to let her go holding on as long as possible and leaves her arm outstretched for a moment after she’s gone.

“Daisy will you let the girl do her job!”

“I’m not thru with her yet Bel … want to hear about the band.”

“Lunch would be nice.”

“Bel it wouldn’t have taken long.”

“She doesn’t have long.  Look around.  It’s filing up in here.”

Daisy takes off her bowler puts it on the table and a small piece of paper falls out of the hat band.

“What is this?”  Bel has picked it up from the table.

“That’s my lucky ten pound note.”

“Not your usual shopping list.”

“No it’s a reminder.  I’ll spend it in London, if I get over there.”

“Are you going to visit your aunt?”

“No Aunt Agatha is long gone.  I still have her stories though.”

“I spent time in London as a kid.  My best friend in boarding school invited me to spend a summer vacation at her grandparent’s.  Funny how vivid some of it is now, and the rest most deliquescent. ”

“Deli-what Bel?”

“Deliquescent Daisy, as in melting away.  I just heard Julian Barnes use it on the radio.”

I asked about the school, and found it was in New Zealand where her Mother was born.  Her Father was from Cote d’Ivoire and worked for the World Bank. Daisy puts her hat back on.  Opening the zip on her purple leather shoulder bag she rummages for her phone, but its not hers.  The sound is coming from the next table.  She stretches a long arm around Bel’s shoulders.  “We are so lucky to have her Fred.  Here you are then face to face at last.”

“Have you been waiting long for this moment Daisy?”

“I have heard a great deal about you chairing the Guild meetings.  I asked Daisy when and where would I meet Bel?”

“Fred I am lucky to be here.  Half my Father’s family have been killed in the rebellion.”

“I am sorry, are you close to them?”

“No I hardly know them and only got this news by chance.  My Father let much of his past fade from his mind.  He joined the World Bank and regarded himself as a World Citizen.”

“You’re closer to your Mom’s side aren’t you Bel?”  Daisy released Bel’s shoulders.

Bel draws back from Daisy.

“Don’t pull me off my chair, okay!”

“You’re safe with me sweetie.”

“I am half white and wholly devoted to this community.”

They are both laughing.  Bel’s heavy breasts shake under her turtleneck and she raises her slender hands to give a single clap over her head.  Daisy does the same, which leads to a moment of solemn silence regarding Steve’s empty chair. They seem to be following a ritual shared by close friends and known only to them.

“Fred, I find a lot of folks in Fauxmont just want some one to listen to them.

It’s an important part of my job on the Guild.”  Daisy has folded her arms on the table with the rap and rattle of gold bracelets and bangles.  She leans toward Bel.

“I know you’ve spent a long time listening to me.”

“If people want to talk to me I’ll listen.  Folks talk to themselves when they talk to each other.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever told yourself something new when you’re in conversation?”

“Oh yes, it can be a clarification too.  I know, but some people get into endless monologues.”

“That’s something else Daisy.”

“What are getting at?”

“When talking to other people I am also talking to myself and sometimes

that’s revealing but it’s not a monologue.”

“You make it so easy Bel.”

“I do like to ask questions. You can say a lot with questions.”

“Bel honey, that’s what therapy is all about.”

“You know I am skeptical about that.”

“I know Bel, and I don’t get it.  You’d be such a great therapist.”

“Daisy did your therapy help? Can you sum it up?”

“Oh it’s complicated, and more personal than I want to get into here.”

“I know honey and if it helped you I am delighted.”  Bel looks down at the table quietly, her face relaxed.  Lunch is served.

NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction.  Click on Archives on the right.

“The Spin show with Leticia Lantern is brought to you by March Hare Brand Products.  Turn to us for things you need.  The Spin Show, the show that covers all points of view including yours.”

The TV is on in Lou’s big white living room.  I am sitting with Albrecht Intaglio and evening light fills the clerestory windows with rich yellows and deep greens in the surrounding pignut hickories. Daisy Briscoe and Boyd Nightingale are expected too.  Lou’s tells me he invited the whole Guild, but none has shown up so far.

Since Boyd is now vice chair of the Fauxmont Guild, Lou wants to get to know him better and let him share his views in discussion, watching this show together as an icebreaker.  I admire him for trying to bring those with opposing views together, but feeling runs high and I have my doubts about this working out constructively.  Lou is confident in what he calls ‘the spirit of Fauxmont’ insisting we can get beyond the ‘heat’ to find each other’s deeper common interests.  We are watching some of Albrecht’s favorite ‘talking heads’.  He thanks Lou for the opportunity to ‘educate us’.

“This week on ‘The Spin Show’ we bring you Congressman Lee Leavenworth Knox chairman of Select Committee on Aesthetic Crime.  He also leads the Congressional CUPA caucus.  That’s CUPA, the movement to Clean Up America.”

“Congressman you have said it is time for a frank public discussion about politics, the economy and CUPA.  Welcome to the Spin Show.  What is the first thing you would like to say to America tonight?”

“Leticia, it’s a pleasure to be back on your show.  I believe in a free market for  free Americans.  That is what I stand for.  Another thing, we on the Committee on Aesthetic Crime want to thank our supporters.  With your growing support we can eliminate the scourge of Modern Art that is polluting our museums, and young people’s minds.”

“Congressman your opponents are asking, how free are we going to be, living with the unregulated power of huge multinational companies?  Isn’t profit going to be more important to them than our country?”

“March Hare Products proudly sponsors the Spin Show for the new millennium. Stay tuned to the Spin Show and see where Leticia will shine her light,” says the male voice before Leticia can acknowledge the Congressman’s remarks.  Now we see a merry-go-round slowly turning, to the tune of Yankee Doodle played on a fairground organ.  The carousel displays March Hare kitchenware rising and falling in place of carved wooden horses.  A friendly animated hare is depicted dancing with a casserole as it moves up and down on its pole decorated in red white and blue windings that spiral up its length.

Lou invites us to help ourselves to iced tea in tall glasses on the side-board.  The spin show is back by the time I sit down again.

“Leticia let me add one more point to my opening remarks.  How many of you out there know of the plan to take down the Washington Monument?  How many of you have heard of the artist Tarantula who is leading this insidious attack on our values in the nation’s Capitol?”

“Congressman those are important questions, and we shall get back to them, but what about the economy?”

Yes Leticia, let me say this, even though we have had a financial crisis, more people have more goods and services all over the world than ever before in history.  I want to see that go on.”

“Don’t you think the worst of the bank failures might have been averted with  regulation and better enforcement?”

“More from Congressman Lee Leavenworth Knox after the break,” says the friendly male voice-over with his bright emphasis on the word ‘more’.

Hank Dumpty stops on the threshold and leans against the door post listening, apparently unready to join he group.  He shifts his weight and hen remarks that there must be some regulation by government to keep companies within bounds.  “I can cite historical facts to demonstrate that necessity and …” Albrecht breaks in “The facts don’t matter big guy.  You’ve got to tell people something they can believe, or better yet something they want to believe.  Just keep it simple.”

Lou looks up from the couch across from Albrecht.  “People want to believe all kinds of crazy things, have you no respect for truth?”

“The truth is what happens when America acts.”

Hank is no longer leaning.  He steps into the room, “No no no, not for this American, this is about facts not acts.  I am talking about the basis forreasonable discussion and argument.”

Lou is squeezing his jaw between thumb and forefinger looking more and more grotesque as his lips part bunching under his nose and his cheeks are stretched and distorted. He suddenly let go and mutters “Get real Albrecht, that’s nonsense.”

“Hey big guy, we make our own reality.  Listen, politics is emotional, not factual. You need that emotional rush to get attention and make it happen.  We’ve got to stoke those big emotions”

“Albrecht, my name is Hank, not ‘Big Guy’.”

“Touché, Hank!”

I ask Albrecht if he is interested in reasonable argument but he goes on.

“Timing is everything, who cares about argument.”

“I do.  That’s how disagreements are worked out.”

“Fred, this isn’t a country of professors.  America extends way beyond the faculty room.”  He sits up, and lifts and spreads out his arms bending his elbows out gradually and finally opening his hands and spreading his fingers all in one slow flowing motion.  “It’s a nation of free people.”  He brings his arms back down and pumps his fists out back and forth out in front of his chest.”  You have to keep up the momentum, get them so angry they’ll get up and vote.”  He leans forward with his hands on his knees.   “You know what voter turnout is?”

Lou is squinting. He releases both palms pressing against his cheeks.  “I know it’s low.  60% is regarded as high.”

“Right and you can’t advance liberty’s agenda without votes.”

“Liberty’s agenda?”

“The agenda for a free America with free markets and free people.”

Hank is pacing near the entrance looking at the floor.  “Lou I don’t have much time for TV as you know.  It is not the best source of information and this isn’t my kind of show anyway.”

“Wait Hank!  Don’t leave yet.  Aren’t you proud to be a free American?”

“Yes Albrecht I am.”  Hank pauses, looks up at Albrecht, without anger. “I don’t think you have any respect for that freedom whatever.”

“Listen Hank, the source is the thing.  If we can discredit the negative socialist sources, no one will care what they say … you know what Hank?  All you do is attack the personality.”

“Not me.  Don’t include me in that.  I don’t want any part of it.”

“You’re falling behind the power curve Hank.  Wake up to America and join the party celebrating freedom.”

“I don’t hear anything to celebrate here”

“Look its all personality now.  Don’t you see?  Personality and celebrity, show biz and politics are merging!”

“Albrecht you seem to be saying you want to distract people with celebrity away from the substance of sensible policy.”

“There’s nothing sensible about it Lou.  For one thing nobody’s going to listen to a lot of abstract intellectual theorizing.  Also I am telling you, government regulation is always after the fact.  It is bound to be a drag on the market.”

“There’s got to be some basic rules and enforcement from outside the system.  We learned that from the great depression.”

Albrecht ignores Hank’s remark and shouts enthusiastically, pointing to Lou’s huge TV screen.  “Listen to the man!”

We have been so intent on our own discussion that our attention has moved from the screen to ourselves.  Albrecht brings us back to the image on the screen.  Congressman Knox, still as a bust carved in stone, is sitting opposite Leticia Lantern in her red blouse, red lips, gleaming teeth and pearls around her elegant neck.

“You can’t second guess it.  A free market makes its own rules.”

“Thank you Congressman.  We will be right back” says Leticia.

An animated hare dashes across the screen towards the carousel.  As the fairground music grows louder he leaps doing a summersault in mid air and lands, sitting on a flat cheese grater.  A ski resort appears with chalets of Swiss cheese, and a yodeling voice sounding over distant cowbells.  The hare rides his cheese grater like a bobsled down a mountain of grated white cheese coming to a stop in a modern kitchen.  He gets off the cheese grater, and stands up in front of a stainless steel refrigerator smiling with his whiskers askew. He bends down and picks it up with a paw on each side, and taps the base on the floor to get loose cheese off.  Then hands the ‘sled’ to a happy blonde girl making macaroni cheese with her mother, all to the tune of Yankee Doodle on the fairground organ.  “March Hare has the right tool at the right time” says the joyful male voice-over.  The hare stands aside smiling, while mother and child put the macaroni in the oven and look up from their work, to smile at us too.  Leticia is back.

“Congressman, haven’t recent events shown unregulated markets tend towards meltdown?”

“History is full of meltdowns Leticia.  We are still here, aren’t we, better off than ever?”

Hank speaks up “Yes after many belated government interventions.”

“Yeah Hank, socialism always comes back to cause more trouble.”

Lou has folded his hands behind his head. “The social cost is too high to have another meltdown now.”

Albrecht is talking over the Congressman’s voice on TV.  “Lou, you’ve just got to see that is the inevitable cost of doing business.  There’s always going to be a lot of people who don’t make it.  That’s the free enterprise system.  More people are more prosperous now than ever in history.”

“Hanky!” shouts Daisy Briscoe walking in, arms out stretched with multiple thin brass bracelets rattling along their length.  She embraces Hank with one arm around his neck as he spreads his huge left hand across her long back.  She holds her bowler hat in the other hand extending straight out beyond Hank’s shoulder. Her shopping list flops down over the band nearly falling out.  Boyd greets Albrecht with a mock military salute.  Lou gets up to greet his new guests and offer them tea.  “Sorry we’re late Lou.  Have we missed that horrible TV show, I hope?”

“Daisy you have missed an educational opportunity.”  “Oh I know that’s what Boyd said Lou, but TV is not my idea of education.”

“You are in good time.  The show is ending.”

“Catch the Spin Show Friday nights and if you miss that see us Saturday mornings.  Use March Hare products to cook something up for yourself.”