Patch

The rain was coming down hard now. It had started light and at first might have been mistaken for a small drizzle blowing through, but by now it was clearly a downpour. Those unlucky few that had been caught off guard by it were now trudging through the rain with newspapers and jackets over their heads. The sound of wet tires rolling through puddled streets were only a faint muddied sound in comparison to the drumming of the rain on the roofs of the melancholy houses and the porch of the woman sitting in the large arm chair.

After sitting with her eyes closed listening to the sound of the of the rain, she opened her eyes and was glad to see that the roads had cleared and the sounds of tires were more distant than before. The woman reached down and pulled up a very old box that had been brought back from Asia. She let her hands rest for a moment on the carving of birds and trees with flowers on them. Sliding the bottom corner of the wooden box to the right the box unlocked and she opened it slowly. All the items were as she had left them arranged neatly, fitting well, each in its own place. She took a pipe out of the box that was also engraved with a pattern that circled the bowl. Reaching back into the box she readied the pipe and packed the bowl gently with a tobacco whose name she had never learned to pronounce and had never truly cared to. The rain had let up for a moment, but only a moment and it was back again dumping more than it had before. The woman held the pipe with her left hand as she balanced the box in her lap and reached in for the embossed lighter.

Once the box was back on the small round table that stood next to the mighty chair, she took her time lighting the pipe slowly, the way she had seen him do so many times before and the way she had come to be familiar with. She would always sit in that thick arm chair, in fact she would hardly look at the cushioned rocking chair that sat on the other side of the round table. The tobacco was stale but she liked it, it had a strong taste and a warm odor. The woman breathed deeply from the pipe and sat watching the smoke bellow through the air and curl as it met the rain. When the wind was still, like it was this day, she would always sit on the porch and smoke. It was almost like tradition, only it held more weight than tradition, I think. She would lean back into the chair and sink into it as she breathed the smoke slowly and let the taste sting and fade. Then she would take a moment and listen to the rain, then breath, then listen, then breath, then listen.

Grandma would sit there for hours Peter would explain, though I was too young to remember, which is not true. I could swear of memories of Grandma on that porch in that chair and the smell of smoke in the air. Peter would assure me that I would have only been three, maybe three and a half and doubtfully remembered much of anything about her. I trusted Peter, I had no reason not to, and still the memory though faint as it was, was still there.

Peter would talk about Grandma for quite a while at times and it would make me sad because I knew it had been hard for him to let her go. I wanted it to be hard for me too. I wanted to tear up when he would start remembering her to me. I couldn't though, and really I hadn't known her at all and I never would.

The Thailand story, part two. I promised this a while ago, and by a while ago I mean maybe I dreamed it, I don't remember. It ends suddenly, and that is because I stopped writing. Hemingway always said to stop while you were still inspired, so that it starts easily again. He better not have been lying...

II
She knew when he came in last night. She had heard him come in, smelling like cigar smoke and whiskey, and it infuriated her but she lay still, pretending to sleep, fuming while breathing steadily. She half hoped he would try to wake her up so she could ignore him. He didn't though, he just crawled into bed and started snoring almost immediately. This morning was no different, and she pretended to be asleep long after the sunlight began drifting over her face through the crack in the curtains. She heard him get up, shower, and get dressed. Then she felt him sit down on the bed and move her hair out of her face and then she didn't hear anything for a while and finally he left.

He came back several hours later and woke her up with some more of the pastries he had brought the other day. When she got up, he noticed the ring on her finger, and asked her where she had gotten it. “Oh, from the market,” she said, a little pleased with herself. He said that he was glad she went out, but she shouldn’t go alone, not at night. “It was fine,” she said. “These people are so friendly, and I just went across the street.” She was annoyed at how protective he was, and pleased that he was irritated that she went out. He didn’t say anything then. “What do you know about the Golden Triangle?” she asked, and he told her that it was a giant market, like this one, but because it was on the border of Burma, Laos, and Thailand, it was much, much bigger. “How far away is it?” she asked. He said that she probably wouldn’t like it if she didn’t like this, but “how far away is it, actually?” she asked, becoming more irritated that he had said she probably wouldn’t like it. He said that it was probably a two hour bus trip from Chiang Mai. “Could we go, do you think?” she asked. He said he would find out.

The van taking them to the Golden Triangle appeared the next day in the alley behind the hotel and she was impressed with how Jeremy seemed so capable of handling everything, but it wasn’t anything she expressed to him. The little van was comfortable and the driver was friendly enough and they rode out of Chiang Mai and into the jungle. Several times she caught glimpses of elephants moving slowly through the foliage and Jeremy would point them out. He said they could probably go for an elephant ride if she wanted to, but she only shrugged and stared out the window.

They rode in silence, and she felt him looking at her as she stared out the window. They stopped a couple of times to use the awkward squatting toilets at the rest stops, and sometimes by armed guards as they got farther up north. They were waved past once the guards carrying AK-47's saw that they were white. She enjoyed that, deep down, and the giant Buddha statues that sat proudly atop the hills, staring across the thick green valleys filled with rice paddies. She fell asleep with her head against the window.

She woke with a start as the van pulled to a stop. Jeremy said he had been talking with the driver, and they needed to get some fuel here. There was a market nearby that he recommended, and only warned them that there were pickpockets that they should watch out for, children that infested the market looking for tourists who kept their wallets within easy reach. They would beg from the tourists, and then when the tourists pulled the money out, they would know where they kept it and follow them and steal from them. Very crafty, said the driver. They said they would be careful, before stepping out into the damp, hot sun and making their way across the street. The people who saw them smiled and pointed, and she waved back at them.

The market was under a large tent, and it housed a large variety of booths, mostly food. There were pig heads and fresh fruits and candy, and it smelled like spices and meat from all of the vendors who were cooking. Jeremy got them some Pad Thai from one of them, a squat old man who had a flat face, and who piled their plates high, with glass bottles of Pepsi which had PEPSI written on one side, and the odd-looking Thai equivalent printed on the other side. He opened the cold bottles for them, and Jeremy explained that it was sort of like the milkman system in America several decades ago. The vendors were visited by the soda merchant, who exchanged their empty glass bottles for full ones every day, so they had to return them when they were done. She only ate a quarter of the food, and then they kept moving through the market.

They were on their way back when they saw the child, a small, gaunt boy wearing a t-shirt that was far too large for him, and a pair of loose shorts. When he saw them, he approached them cautiously, and held out a baseball cap. She smiled at him

i mostly blame david.

DON'T PANIC

We're not dead yet, we just lost all inspiration and motivation. Mostly I blame Asher, for writing things and then not putting them here, where they belong. Part of it is my fault though, for not actually writing, like at all.

a warrantee and a vacation abroad

And when he began again, I hung there like a shawl flung over her shoulder, all intuition subsequently residing in an attempt to win him over. And the calm cold arrived--gray as the floor, or the rail, trim,drapes,chair, or door... or anything, to avoid the gray tone in his eyes. Or the gray breath from his mouth, disturbed by a flicking tongue, and minced by chattering teeth, then met-- by the cold gray calm... I become disembodied, smeared, lost in a stroke to thin. So I hide, blend, sink in a bed to small. There my skin is all remaining every fold redefined and cemented in a ball.

Cabin Fever V

Jacob and I grew up together, at least as much as I grew up with anyone. I guess he was my oldest friend, to put it in more straightforward terms, but we didn't see each other for a long time for awhile, as his family left when he was about twelve.

Before then we were great friends, and when the carnival passed through town we would try everything we could to get in without paying and sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't. One of the times Jacob got in and managed to get his fortune read, too, but after that he was convinced he was going to die in the street, right outside of the bank. I always made fun of him about that, but he avoided that place like a pox no matter what I said and when he came back into town, all grown up, the first place he went was the bank to deposit a whole lot of money I guess. He was a changed man, and I didn't talk to him, but Old Man James who ran the bank told me he opened the biggest account he'd ever seen that day. He'd said something to Old Man James about finally making his fortune out west.

I guess he was planning on staying, but a couple of weeks later he was walking to his hotel room with Joanne and she said he just dropped, stone dead, right there on the street, right in front of the saloon. I didn't think much of it until the saloon moved father east of town, and Old Man James took the opportunity of renovating the old one into a new bank.

Asher's illustrations for my as of yet untitled story.