Spokane Inhabitants

The shimmer of a far off sun ready to peek its head into the new day threatened to mess with Jay's mental state. He had been wandering back streets for an undetermined amount of time. He couldn't even remember when he’d started off last night and now his mind felt fidgety and a slight bit liquid. It had taken on this cherry jello form that rocked back and forth between his ears, yes he could actually hear it as it slid to and fro.

Even though the summer was completely gone, and the late autumn air reminded his gloveless fingers of that, he traipsed around the city with only the protection of a hoody worn thin from many washings. His fingertips were threatening to lose their circulation so he jammed them into the front kangaroo pocket on the navy blue sweatshirt. He thought it was odd that the rest of him was so warm, perhaps from the long ambling walk he’d been on while the rest of society slept. He’d make sure that he kept his fingers safe from the notorious morning frost that the inland North West was so generous with in late October.

Earlier the night before he’d felt fine and slid out the front door as his wife and four month old baby slept in drowsy-dream land. He just couldn’t sleep was all. That was what he was telling himself as he pulled the hoody over his head and leaned down to tie his black, recently unused work boots. He told himself that he just needed to shake a little pent up energy, then he’d come home, slide between the covers already warm from his girls and float into nothingness. After a little walk he could sleep and wake up right as rain.

Now, the sun was shooting golden daggers into his eyes, not full blown daylight but frighteningly close to. He didn’t feel right, he knew it. Jay was trying to think rationally though the night as he walked past one house after another, each one sending him a minute message that only Jay could hear. The hot anger, the white madness, the ultimately alive rush of excitement was welling up in him; he knew it was out of his hands now.

He already knew when earlier, in the small hours of the morning, he’d started to hear the Halloween displays telling him what to do. Six blocks from his apartment the slow breeze pushed its way through the decaying corn husks a scarecrow now used as arms. It caught Jay’s eye and when he looked he could see the smile grow from the pumpkins mouth. Subliminally, it said hi. That’s all. Jay knew what would be coming next; more conversations growing more in-depth as he trudged past more and more yards with macabre inhabitants left out in the cold.

He was a little shocked at how many people in the Spokane Valley really went all out in decorating their homes. The thought of carving a pumpkin had passed between him and his wife, but they decided against the mess of a rotting pumpkin that would need to be thrown away if it didn’t get smashed on their porch on Halloween. House after house held expertly carved pumpkins, swaying ghosts and grey eyed ghouls suspended from porches, many had tombstones with names of favorite fictional characters’ on them: Freddy Kruger, Jason, Michael Myers. It was the displays that had scarecrows incorporated in them that really spoke to him. The husk of an imaginary man; now just some dried hay and rotting clothes, so incredibly susceptible to incineration, somehow Jay understood.

Jay moved his right hand into his Levi’s pocket and found his lighter. Ordinarily, he’d take one of these walks and it would end with him standing in an alley next to some unknown garage, confused and yet focused. He’d be unsure how he got there; he just knew what he was there for. Tonight had resulted in an orange and now pink morning sky, a distant dog monotonously barking in someone’s yard down the street, as if he was the lone alarm calling out for no one to understand his barks.

The lighter slid from his pocket now poised above Jays head, with a flick of the turning wheel he’d lit it and held it close to the straw farmers had that sat atop the scarecrows burlap sack head. It quickly went up, engulfed in flames with small black pieces of charred shirt releasing themselves to the wind.

N N N

Jay sauntered into the kitchen; his hair still wet from the shower and kissed his daughter sitting in a baby bouncer chair on the kitchen table. His wife smiled over her shoulder as she tended two thick cut pieces of ham sizzling in the cast iron skillet.

“When did you get in, Hon, I didn’t even hear you,” she said.

“I walked in just as Jimmy Kimmel came on, so not all that late,” Jay said.

The small television cut from the national news into its local news spiel for five minutes on the hour every hour. Nadine Woodward had a grave anchor-woman expression as she read the day’s top stories.

“A series of unexplained arsons continue as the toll of scarecrows burned tops forty-eight today. Though, the police have no solid leads they do ask that anyone with information please come forward and call crime checkers. The suspect is believed to be a teen (way off, went through Jays mind) and he may also have been responsible for the mysterious garage arsons that have plagued Spokane for over six years (bingo). We now go to Othello Richard who is live at a Spokane Valley home where the arson struck just last night, Othello,” Nadine said.

“Thank-you, Nadine. As you can see the house behind me had two scarecrows last night but the inhabitants woke to see them on fire around 6 a.m. apparently their dog had been barking and the family looked out to see what was going on, that’s when they saw the frightening scene. It’s just too bad we don’t speak dog, Nadine,” said Othello with a ridiculously serious look on his face.

“Thanks Othello, now we turn to Tom Sherry with the weather. Tom, what’s it lookin like out there?” her body angled to send a silly smile Tom’s way, he sends the same goofy grin back.

Jay’s wife turns around with the skillet in her hand and slides the ham onto his plate, joining the two over-easy eggs. They both sit to eat breakfast together, shooting each other Tom Sherry and Nadine Woodward smiles over steaming mugs of homemade cappuccino.

“What is on the agenda for today, Honey?” she asks.

“How about I take my two best girls on a little neighborhood cruise? It’s sunny and crisp and we can look at the cool Halloween decorations people put up in their yards?” Jay was smiling with enthusiasm and held one tiny baby foot in his hand, looking at his daughter as if she’d give the okay.

“You are such a holiday man, I love it,” she said and cleared their plates. “Spokane is a wonderful place to live.”

Escape

Oddly, as I walked through the light tinkling rain, I was overwhelmed by one of those brain nagging tunes that repeat itself to near madness. I have never been an adamant fan of the Beatles work, I just grew up with parents who listened to them and so by default I know all the words to all their songs. “Dear Prudence” kept rolling over and over without even the courtesy of including any more words than those two. The tune flickered in from some unknown place in my psyche and dug its heels in for the remaining five blocks to my front door.

Only damp from the precipitation, I slithered out of my parka before it had time to soak into my sweater beneath. My canvas jogging shoes didn’t fare as well and they, along with my soggy socks, were left to dry by the entry to my cozy home. I had burned incense and sprayed copious amounts of concentrated pineapple orchid spray around the living room before I lit out on my daily walk; it’s one of those self-serving pleasures that go a very long way in enhancing my day. Barely scanning the living room and adjacent kitchen area everything seemed in a relaxing order- then I noticed the pale yellow piece of stationery on the kitchen table.

The front door was securely locked behind me as it always is, so the probability of someone coming in and leaving a note was out of the question. None the less, there it was, and as I approached it I could see that it had some type of odd scrawling on the front of the first page and that whomever had left it had needed part of the reverse to get their message across. It was a letter penned in a hand writing I was not familiar with. For the most part, a letter lying on your kitchen table is usually recognizable after only a quick glance, but not this one.

It started out with an odd introduction and got weirder from there. As I read what appeared to be shaping up to be some strange form of a dear-john letter, I found it almost impossible to finish the note seeing that I was being distracted by a repetitive thud, thud, thud against my garage door. It may possibly be a neighborhood kid messing around near the door. The noise sounded steady and persistent, yet in no hurry, whatever it was. I continued to read as the letter held my attention much stronger than the low pounding on the rolled down metal flap.

The letter read:

To the Family That Has Held Me Hostage,

After living a somewhat dull little life in the living room of an elderly woman, I have given up at trying to transition to the “next chapter in my life”. I was a child of the 60’s and most of do not live on to see too many decades. I was in impeccable shape until recently-- your family has changed me forever.

Once, my curves were smooth and velvety; now I’m literally worn bald in places! The amount of abuse I’ve withstood at your children’s hands is nothing short of a miracle. If I am jumped upon anymore I’m afraid I will just give out. I’ve been pushed and pulled all over the place, and right when I think you will leave me alone, you move me again.

I have been scalded by your hot coffee for the last time, Madame, and for the record I’m allergic to dogs!

Sincerely,

The “Oh, That’s a Cool Crazy Green Couch”

p.s. I have always detested leopard print and thought that it was a very tacky thing to pair me with.

Then my head jerked back in the direction of the garage door—thud…thud…thud...

Scrambled Eggs

Margret Mallory sat beaming down at her plate of sunshine. That’s what she’d called the heaps of canary yellow scrambled eggs mother would serve her weekend mornings for as far back as she could recall. Her mother had this magical secret recipe she’d tell Margret was filled with at least twenty-four ingredients from all corners of the Earth. They each had an exotic name and now that Margret was in her late teens she realized that these names might actually be made-up. It didn’t matter where the recipe came from, and certainly it didn’t matter if it were part of an elaborate tale her mother had concocted many years ago for her little girl. Knowing that only made them taste better to her.

She propped her elbows onto the gingham table cloth and let a foolish grin cover the lower half of her delicate face. She was a slight girl with one of those heads that held up features just a bit too large for the face they resided upon. Eyes that bulged surrounded by lashes like feathers batted the stardust from in front of her face. Her cheek bones swelled out like enormous bee stings still rosy from the flying insect’s assault. Protruding below her cheeks in a perfectly tied bow, were her lips wrapping up an over sized set of cloud-white teeth all standing at attention in two neat rows.

The fork in her hand caught the Saturday morning light briefly as the fog started its coastal routine of burning off before noon. Margret dipped her fork into the eggs, not stabbing because that might deflate their puff; instead she chose to gently lift them up from under where they practically hovered above the plate. The misty steam preceded the eggs and climbed into Margret’s nose almost heavy from the spices that created the heavenly aroma.

“Tell me the main spice- just the main one, the one that tastes like the kitchen smells?” Margret asked.

“If I tell you that then you won’t need me to make them for you anymore." Margret’s mom held back a sly grin at the silliness of the power she possessed over a mundane breakfast food. She heard her daughter give up a little laugh of defeat, then the sound of the fork lightly scrape her teeth. She kept her back to Margret cupping her coffee in its “Worlds Best Mom” mug and went over the days mental check list she always made as the fog turned to mist then laid down as dew on the Redwoods.

First off that's not my kid!

Why is it that the little one can't get along with the big one; the middle one is arguing with the grown-up one and the female parent is pissed at them all! Sound familiar? Unfortunately it's all too familiar at our house. The best laid plans just blowing up in tears and screams- sorry Nigel.

While he is the level headed parent, that only means I get the extreme pleasure of being the total ass. I get to be the tyrant on a rant; as it were. It's all exhausting and usually ends with someone saying they are sorry to me. The end is fine, I suppose, but can't we just avoid the whole rigga-more-o?

To sum up these frequent interactions: it's like doing downward facing dog, keeping your mind clear and beautiful, slowly you open you eyes and there's the toddler smiling up at you from inside the curve of your body in it's positions. The most Zen places make the most wonderful spots for insane amounts of, well, insanity. Namastae.