Ruby in the Rough: A tribute to Jimmy Dunn's

The faded wooden walls of the bar exuded the aroma of a pile of seaweed washed up on shore and allowed to dry in the sun, only to be reconstituted by the piss of a vagrant

alcoholic. On the west wall there was a large rectangle stained glass window; dusty and nicotine stained, still letting in chunks of prismatic red, blue and yellow. Behind the massive wood bar was a counter cluttered with the year’s bills, tabs, invoices, and miscellaneous paperwork. The wall of mirrors along the back counter reflected the dinginess of the bar and the patrons themselves.

   The patrons inside didn’t notice Celeste as she waved good-bye to the man in the maroon Ford Escape Hybrid. No one flinched as she pushed her petite stature through the cumbersome redwood front door. Clicking on five inch heels across the uneven floorboards, she came to perch on a barstool next to Scurvy Ivan. She winked at him attempting a perky gesture through mascara thick eyelashes. It still smarted though the plum- purple circle around her eye had faded to a greenish-yellow.

    “I’d be delighted,” said Scurvy Ivan when the slender Latina asked if she could take the empty stool next to him.

    “Aren’t you kind,” said Celeste and turned his direction. His bulky body was covered in Levi, from his jeans to his jacket over the faded red flannel. His rubber boots were crusted with now dried bits of once gooey fish; the soles resembled dangerously bald tires. A navy blue beanie sat upon a salt and peppered wad of sweat matted curls. His face was dusted with the white whiskers of a five-o-clock shadow, sprinkled atop deeply tanned skin. She took a long look at his face waiting to catch his eye. His gaze remained straight ahead only darting to catch snippets of her eyes scanning him.

    She hooked her heels on the rung of the stool, anchoring herself in place and ordered a strawberry Pucker with milk.

    “I’ll get that, Jimmy,” said Scurvy Ivan and pointed to his stack of cash lying on the bar.

    “Do you make a good living crabbing?” said Celeste.

    “It ebbs and flows,” he said and laughed a chuckle deep inside his barrel chest.

    “You are funny,” Celeste said and introduced herself, shaking his catcher’s mitt of a hand.

      He smelled the same perfume on Celeste as he’d smelled on the most popular girl in high school. The teen girl’s long hair brushed across his flannel sleeve and as she passed he was left to linger in the intoxicating aroma of strawberry shakes and lilac bushes. Sitting in Jimmy Dunn’s bar he was a helpless fish strung between two times in life; one thirty-some years ago, the other in the immediate soft glow of the suns setting rays filtering through the stained glass window.

    Customers came and went, all the while Celeste and Scurvy Ivan stayed, and stayed. Celeste had seen him in the bar many times when the other fishermen were in for drinks to ease the pain of the solitary lives they led on the sea. He would play pool against some of the young Yurok Indian men that worked in the fish canneries, but he mostly kept to himself. He’d mostly sit staring at the news as it squawked from the t.v.’s. She felt as if she was let into an exclusive club that only the president knew the criteria to enter.

     By the time “last call” was bellowed their way, ten hours had flown by and they were in a tight embrace after sharing one of many lingering kisses. Scurvy Ivan was no longer averting his eyes, he was staring intently at her as he asked her to marry him. He wound Scotch tape around the band of his ruby class ring and slipped it onto her finger. They’d decided then and there they’d head out to sea on his modest fishing boat to return to Celeste’s fishing village in the Gulf of Mexico. The night and the next morning would be the only thing between them and their future.

    Scurvy Ivan returned to Jimmy Dunn’s at precisely 3 o’clock; the predetermined time. When 4 o’clock came and went he began to feel a bit queasy.

    Returning to old habits, he turned and fixed his eyes on the 5 o’clock news. The top story bared a gruesome find. An early morning jogger had seen her arm dangling from under a dumpster lid and said that the glint from a ruby ring had caught her eye. The news anchor noted the woman had a history of drug charges and was a known prostitute.

    Scurvy Ivan numbly slid from his stool and turned toward the heavy front door.

    “Where you going?” called Jimmy.

    “To get my wife. I’m taking her home to her family in Mexico,” he said sliding his beanie from his sweat drenched hair, and crammed it into his Levi’s back pocket.

    Written by: Fawn Rich, January 2010

                                                       In the Middle of the Night

      I heard the front door handle creak its way open to let the sticky old door release to let him fumble past the gap. His body weight, heavy on the door, pushed it back into a secure position. I can’t see him but I can hear his uneven breath struggle to escape his lungs. I know he’s still leaned there against the front door, trying to gain his bearings to fully enter the house. He’s, no doubt, slightly spinning after peddling uphill on the two mile bike ride home. This wouldn’t be that big of a deal except its 2:30 in the morning and he’s had far too much whiskey downtown. He’ll be trying to gather a normal semblance of a persona to take on now that he’s left the loud, laughing, swirling freedom of the barstool next to his friends.

     The fresh smell of bleached sheets and the cinnamon-apple spray I spritzed on the bedspread earlier lingers in my nose. I found the small silver canister of the spray in my bedside table earlier today after I’d put the freshly washed linens on the bed. It’s the beginning of summer so the scent is slightly out of place but I’d picked it up really cheap since it’s a Christmas aroma. Who decided that apples and cinnamon are for winter and things like peaches and ocean scent are for summer? I’m not sure which odor would relax me now anyway.

    His size 13 basketball shoes hit the linoleum on the entry way and his shoulder nicks the key holder that hangs on the wall. I can hear him mumble something derogatory toward the inanimate oversized key with its row of hooks to hold the other smaller, real keys. I sit up slightly so I can strain my ears to hear every little movement he makes downstairs. My heart beats a hundred miles an hour in anticipation of what will happen next. It might be nothing. His feet fall like work boots thick with oppressive mud, into the kitchen.

     Rolling over, I try to settle my head into the cool pillow resting next to the one my head lies on. It’s no use, though; I readjust with my neck craned at the door. The rubber edging that circles the door of the fridge peels open in a sticky release and allows the door to let go of some of its precious cold air. In my mind I can see him grabbing random handfuls of grapes left in a bowl on the middle shelf, trying to focus on what can be consumed with the least amount of preparation. The squeak of a Styrofoam to-go box and I know the microwave will soon be beeping, full of a heaping plate of leftover biscuits and gravy from today’s breakfast. He rattles the plates in the cupboard way too loud and that always annoys me.

         This is a boring ordeal to wait for so I let myself fall into the crisp clean scent of our bedding and gently dose off. It seems as if I immediately begin to dream; I’m cramming a fat Rainbow trout into the drain of a toothpaste-green sink. It’s one of those sinks that are from the 50’s, when you had a choice of that weird baby pink, powder-blue or the green. The fish is about the size of one that you could slip into a frying pan and cook up and it has three smaller fish with it. The bathroom in my dream is the sort that has midnight blue shag carpeting that had soaked up I don’t know how many years of toilet over flows, dripping bodies from the shower, and hairspray residue. The sea-foam green bathroom rug set does nothing to mask the mildew odor. It has that familiar smell of a bathroom that just needs the whole dang floor torn out and replaced.

         I stop trying to force the fish down the drain and take a seat on the toilet. As I’m sitting on the toilet, I face the sink and there’s now a fat little baby with his legs wrapped around the main large fish. I can feel this is very disturbing to me in my dream and my mind searches for a reason why the baby would be in the sink with the fish. Quickly as that- I’m in a bar, in the same foreign small town where the house with the stinky bathroom is located. This town, where ever it is, is rural and warm, almost humid. The vegetation is lush with numerous varieties of ferns and mosses all in the slightest variation of green hues. Perhaps the mugginess accounts for the state of the bathroom.

      Apparently, I am hopelessly in love with the local tough-guy. I can feel the yearning and lust for this man deep in the pit of my sleeping stomach. Though I never see this man, I try hard to gain his attention and soon I’m drunk in my dream. The bar is completely made of dark wood with large wooden furniture made out of logs. I sit at one of the tables that stand about four and a half feet high. The beer I drink is in a mason jar with a handle. Somewhere behind me country music seeps from a juke box that plays 45’s.

    The desperation to impress this unknown man of my affection comes to a head as someone in the bar tells me he’s on his way to the bar. With that tid-bit of information, I take a nibble off the rim of my jar of beer. I slowly start to chew up the glass, I know it’s risky, but I have a strange feeling that if I do it just right there shouldn’t be too much blood and I will be able to swallow the glass. Instinctually, I know the guy is just outside and I take an even larger bite and as I chew the glass I can feel it making tiny cuts on the inside of my lips and around my teeth on my gums. I try to hold back the blood but it begins to leak from between my lips in a tiny stream.

     Then I wake up. My head lifts suddenly from the white pillow case and I’m disturbed by the image of myself in the dreaming world. My lips still have a slight stinging and I run my tongue across them to sooth the odd feeling away. I flash on the fish and the baby. Rolling over, he walks in the bedroom and I look at the digital clock that reads 2:58.

     “How was it,” I ask. “Did you have any fun?” I always ask the same questions when he gets home after he’s gone out.

     “No, not really.” His speech is slurred and has a tinge of annoyance behind the answer.

     He falls onto the right side of the bed, the side where he sleeps. He smells like fermenting beer and a hint of whiskey mingling with the sausage gravy. His jeans don’t come off because he used the last bit of energy he had to eat and drag his 6’ 4” frame up the stairs. I want to ask him if anything funny or strange happened. I want to know who he talked to and if he saw anyone he hadn’t seen in a long time. I want to ask where he and his co-workers drank and if they played pool. Instead, I decide to let him pass out and I roll over and pull the light bedspread up around my shoulder. The pillows feel so soft and comfortable and I imagine them as little clouds surrounding my head, lifting me slowly up off the bed and into a deep sleep.

     

Brides Gone Wild

So, I've returned from the 6th annual bridal fest 2010. My teeth hurt and my tongue is raw from the array of cake samples.My feet are achy from walking up and down the rows comprised of 186 booths of every wedding need a gal might have a hankering for. Wow! Unbelievable! 


When I say something for everyone; I'm lying.There's not much there for an enterprising woman on a small budget. If you have any sort of imagination, this is not the place for you. It is a wonderland if you can't think for yourself and you like your things to be like everyone else's things.It's a jackpot of overpriced look-a-likes.


Women who book fancy photographers have nothing better to spend their money on. I have never been in anyone's home where they have a poster sized portrait of any part of their wedding day hanging on the wall. Never. In this day, when every person is packing a camera phone and even the cheapest digital camera can take superior photo's, what's the point of hiring a pro? Instruct the guests that photography is strongly encouraged.Ask them to send them your way, and viola', cherished wedding memories.


On to venues for your special day: come on, you don't know anyone with a pretty backyard, a lovely FREE park, a V.F.W. hall? When you decorate it isn't it to your specifications and is a chandelier that important? D.J.? It's called a c.d. burner, now get to making a list of all your favorites and find out who has a kick-ass sound system and BORROW it. Really, you don't have a hammy friend who could play the part of d.j for one night? I bet you do. 




None of your friends bake? Is a traditional three tiered white cake the only thing you can come up with for the dessert part of the festivities? My friends Tom and Toni had a massive crispy creme doughnut tower instead of the usual cake. Genius and delicious. By the by, the newest trend- which bakeries don't want to tell you about- is the fake cake.That's a piece of Styrofoam (as big as you want) covered in fondant. The guests eat sheet cake and marvel at the massive wedding cake you have set up on a fancy table.Easy and inexpensive.

This is memorable...

This is not.

You are seriously going to pay a bunch of money for invitations? We live in a world in which senior citizens are computer savvy, I'm sure one of your computer geek friends would be happy to personalize something awesome for you.




Without going off; I could totally go off! The list in my mind is annoying purely because I can see the simplest ways of achieving whatever fantastic wedding you can dream up. If anyone is looking for a wedding planner at half the price of whatever a-hole you've hired, well look no further. I'm not sure that's my best sales pitch, but it's true. Don't be cattle trussed in white taffeta, being herded down a rose petal littered carpet toward the pulpit. Do you want it to be a memorable day, or a day that looks eerily like everyone and their monkeys wedding day?

This is interesting...

This is not.

For the record, I had a great time today with my girlfriends and my daughter. We had laughs and snacks and the girls got their faces airbrushed. The fashion show was a G-rated Chip and Dale's show- LOVED IT. I'm also not engaged; just a professional tag-a-longer.I strongly encourage the indulgence one of these events offers; to just to be a girl dreaming of a dream wedding.Whatever your vision of that may be.

First Thoughts in a Car Wreck

Through the fragmented windshield I can see different people swooping in and out of the scene. I’m the only one left in the cab of the crumpled racecar yellow pick-up truck. Frantic faces of women with confused, panic stricken expressions. They look as if they don’t want to alarm me but just can’t help themselves.

“Oh my God, she’s impaled,” one woman says loud; too loud- I don’t want to know that truth. Why can’t I continue to believe that my pelvis is merely broken and the fence post is tightly pinning me in the uncomfortably dangling bare- footed pose?

No matter how I squirm, I can’t break the death grip the two-by-six has against my foolish nineteen-year-old body. The body I was never extremely fond of and now it wasn’t going to ever be the same. There would always be the chunk of missing bone from my pelvis that wouldn’t be returned or even mentioned again by any doctors. The hole the board would leave in my stomach and lower back would only be sealed by time and many bandage changes; no stitches would ever be sown where the wood tore through my soft susceptible body.

I’m thoroughly upset at the inconvenience the whole situation places me in. The pain reverberating through my bones is like a wild violin song with the strings being rubbed vigorously and repetitively. Vaguely I can see the blood on my arms, but it seems insignificant, it’s dripping from my hair down my forehead and I can see a dark maroon circle forming where the strange pinning board has me in its grasp. The blood ring on my Levi’s cut-off shorts doesn’t look like enough to really be concerned with; it’s kind of camouflaged in its dark red mingling in the dark blue.

The thing that’s irking me most is that I’d just customized the shorts a few days earlier with shiny green sequins following along the edges of the pockets. I’d be mad at the loss of those shorts for a very long time. At the hospital they handed my clothes in a bag to my family. My mom, brothers and sister took them to the rusty burn barrel made from a 55 gallon drum in the back yard of my mom’s house. They later told me that they stood there and cried as they tossed my black bikini and shorts into the flames. Apparently there’s something mournful about your loved ones blood and excrement encrusted clothes that makes you happy she survived.

I just want out of the cab of the small Chevy S-10. I want us to get on with the plan that was moving along so smoothly, albeit a touch too fast. We are going to the ocean; we don’t have time for a car wreck. A small one- fine, I’ve been in enough of those. I do not want to be stuck in this smashed beer can of a truck with my life hanging in some sort of you’re-too-far-from-the-hospital limbo. I have a brown paper sack of illegal fireworks from the Rez, and I want my California friends to see how beautiful bottle rockets are exploding in the waves.

And my body wants to give up.

But I can’t.

 I want more than life itself to be cut out of the wreckage. I continuously tell anyone who gets in my vision from behind the half busted out glass crystals.

“Cut me the Fuck out!” It’s like my disgusting new tunnel vision mantra. It seems like a simple solution; I’m impaled inside of a truck, board all the way through me and plunged firmly into the seat behind; cut me out. Eventually it happens, but it’s not as easy as all that. When you're nineteen everything seems easy until the day it isn't anymore.