Beautiful Things

I finished my riding lesson and changed my clothes to reduce the "horsey" smell so I could merge with the public. As much as I enjoyed the horse ride, and as much as I'd like a nap afterward, I just wasn't ready to go home. It's a beautiful house on lush acreage with a pond. Big rooms paneled in oak, sumptuous furnishings. But there is tension there, along with all of the chores I've felt too paralyzed to complete. Home is a place of things caught up in the air, unsettled spirits.

It was rare weather for Western Washington, sunny and hot. Where to go? I thought of Fairhaven and it's tree shaded downtown, which is tucked between the south side of Bellingham and the Bellingham Bay. There's lots of charm in this place. Always interesting. It's close to Western Washington University, so it has that eclecticism college towns are known for.

Fairhaven is a very old town (although now it is part of Bellingham), and it's history is preserved through renovation of old buildings and covenants that require any new construction fit the 19th century style of the architectural treasures, such as Sycamore Square. This particular building is one of my all-time favorites. It was originally built to be the Puget Sound terminus of the Great Northern Railroad, but has had many lives and uses since those days. I love the big atrium that is the center. I walk up the stairs and marvel at the woodwork and the views from each floor. There are old photos in frames that tell of Fairhaven's days as a transportation hub. Besides the railroad, there were and still are a bus depot and the southern end of the Alaska Marine Highway. You can start here and go all the way by ferry to Dutch Harbor at the end of the Aleutian Island Chain. Cruise ships come and go, too.

My usual course is to park in front of Sycamore Square, and walk down to the harbor, feel the cool breezes from the bay as I watch the activity and the boats, then walk up the opposite side of the street and return to my car. It's a an hour or two of good diversion, and I get lunch some where on the journey... so many interesting choices.

On my way down the street, I peeked into shops. There is fine art on the first corner, and I imagined a big acrylic painting of sailboats at rest in dry dock hanging in my living room. And small brass sculpture of wood ducks on the fireplace mantel. Beautiful things of water and air. But such things are hard to place in a restless atmosphere.

I looked in a consignment shop filled with festive gowns and colorful ensembles "pre-loved" and marked at bargain prices. I imagined where they'd been. High school proms, wedding receptions, cruise ship dining salons. In and out of suitcases, in and out of the closets of people unknown to me. And I thought, these beautiful things are mementos of other peoples' lives.

In the window of a jewelry store I saw a gold and amethyst pendant. A beautiful thing I could picture around the neck of a younger woman of high spirits and hopeful future. A gift from a lover, perhaps.

Inside an antique shop I found two nicely seasoned cast iron skillets. Beautiful things I could take home and put to good use. The clerk put them in a reusable cloth shopping bag with the company logo printed on it for just a dollar extra. So "green" they are in Bellingham. Through the door and on the sidewalk I thought about how I used to enjoy cooking, but haven't found much joy in that or anything around the house, and why in the world am I now carrying heavy skillets around with me?

I continued my walk to Squalicum Harbor where I gazed at the choppy water and the sea gulls dipping from the blue of the sky to the blue of the bay. And I said a prayer for the beautiful things and my loss of connection with them. Then back to the sidewalk and the uphill walk returning to my car and the freeway and home.

Just past the Persian carpet seller I sat down on a bench and rested for a moment. The bag of skillets was heavy and I had several blocks left to go, and uphill, too. I rose to start the trudge. Just then a young man appeared and said, "That bag looks heavy, why don't you let me carry it for you?" Surprised I turned to him and saw the bluest eyes, blue as the summer sky above us. And he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, "Here, you can hold this if you think I'm going to run off with your bag." Amazed at the stranger's friendliness, I took the wallet in dumb reaction. He took my bag. We introduced each other, he said his name was Michael.

He looked inside the bag, "Perfectly seasoned skillets, beautiful things. No telling how old they are.  Do you like to cook?"

"Oh, I used to," I answered him, "Not as much these days. I don't know why I bought them. Right now they're just heavy."

Michael said, "If you think hard, you might remember something about them."

"My grandma used pans just like these," I said, softly. "She showed me how to fry chicken, make the perfect grilled cheese sandwich, and how to keep the skillet seasoned. She made it look so easy."

As we walked, I studied the young man. I saw a very kind face with just a few lines. Hard to guess his age, maybe 25, maybe 35. Average height, slight of build, but I remember his eyes best, the bluest eyes, the color of calm seas.

"Where are you going?" I asked Michael. And he said,"Anywhere, everywhere. I travel light, and don't stay in any place very long. The world is big and my needs are small. I find good company where ever I am. I'm thinking of boarding the ferry and exploring the stops along Alaska Marine Highway."

"All the way to Dutch?" I asked him.

"No particular destination." He smiled. "There are beautiful things all along any route, or any wandering. I always find them. Some might call me a drifter, but it seems to be my calling."

"Look!" he said, "Cupcakes!" We were alongside a small shop that sold cupcakes, only cupcakes, with good coffee and tea. Beautiful things as seen from the window, very inviting. I asked if he'd let me treat him to one and he said sure. We went inside the store, decorated as you might expect in pastel colors with whitewashed chairs and tables. He chose Black Forest and I chose Very Vanilla and we sat down to enjoy. Michael's blue eyes shone as he sipped his coffee, eyes as blue as royal velvet.

On the wall, hung high, were some badly done acrylic paintings of dark content. One was a very disturbing landscape with a chilly blue house on the far left. Dayglow footprints led from the house to what looked like a child in pajamas lying down before a long-toothed bear that might eat him. Two "Red Riding Hoods" stood smiling passively nearby, while a wolf hid behind a tree.

I pointed it out to Michael, and I said, "What on earth is that doing in this place? So parents can bring their children here for a goodie and a nightmare?"

"It is an interesting contrast," said Michael. "But notice that it's hung pretty high up on the wall. I doubt a child would notice anything but the clashing colors and harsh brushstrokes. A child's eye would rather consider the glass cases of cupcakes and the delight of eating them."

"A parent should notice, you'd think one would suggest that the owner take that horrible thing down," I said. At the next table sat a daddy and a beautiful little girl. He sipped coffee and chatted with her while she took apart her cupcake, eating the cake first and then the icing. Michael clearly enjoyed watching them. After the treat was all gone, the father and daughter stood up and started for the door. The daddy glanced up at the awful painting, then reached for his little girl's hand. She smiled at him and hugged his leg. They left, laughing.

I returned my attention to Michael and my cupcake and the good coffee. Beautiful things. His blue eyes, as blue as Ceylon sapphires, the aroma of the Columbian coffee, the softness and sweetness of the confection, the easy companionship.

"The most beautiful things are personal," said Michael, "And those things beheld and shared with another are the most beautiful of all. Even the ugly falls away when that beauty is present."

As we got up to leave the shop, I remembered Michael's wallet and gave it to him, smiling. I picked up my bag.

"Well, you go on with your travels, Michael. This bag isn't so heavy and I've only got another block to my car."

We gave each other goodbyes and best wishes. He went back down the street toward the waterfront, and I found my car where I left it.

And the bag wasn't heavy at all.

Yellow and White

Jake and I arrived at the garden wedding just five minutes late, so we sat down quickly in a couple of the plastic chairs at the back of the lawn. It was a beautiful spring day, just after a rain, everything fresh and bright for the new couple to begin their lives together.

There were about a hundred people there. I knew some of them, and waved my hand at the few who looked our way. I knew Jake and I looked good together. He was so gorgeous in his new suit (and looked even better out of it). I put my arm through his, and squeezed his bicep. He kissed me on the top of my head.

The ceremony began and I aimed my eyes forward.

Yellow and white were the colors the bride chose, the groom and his men wore medium gray. Daisy bouquets with just a dash of emerald green fern and gray-green eucalyptus. Perfect for a such a day in Sonoma, I was thinking. I was half-way listening to the words the pastor said to the young couple and half-way remembering the ceremony Jake and I enjoyed just three years earlier. Almost to the day.

The couple was pronounced man and wife and the guests began to stand up to applaud the union.

A round-ish boy about seven years old suddenly appeared and pushed me over backward. My chair tipped up and my purse flew out of my lap as I fell hard on the lawn. The kid grabbed the bag before it hit the ground and he ran fast behind the lattice fence and hedge, tripping over an azalea bush.

"Stop!" I yelled, as Jake rose to his feet and looked toward the boy with puzzled expression.

I rubbed my elbow and noticed I was bleeding a little bit. There were grass stains on my new dress. I pulled myself up while people stared at us.

"Get him!" I yelled to my husband, who had one foot in the aisle. He took a hesitant step. "Come on!" I said, "He's getting back up!" The boy arose and began to run again. Chubby legs not moving him as fast as they might have on a lighter frame.

Why can't he catch that kid, I wondered. I watched the two of them round the corner of the block, Jake still not even with the boy.

I ran to the car, which was parked at the curb, and started it up. I found Jake and the boy talking to each other not far from where I lost sight of them, with the boy still holding my purse. He was gazing up at my husband, face all red and eyes all teary.

I got out of the car and stood with my hands on my hips between the two of them.

"Who do you belong to?" I demanded of the boy, my face showing anger and disbelief. The boy looked down and did not answer. His fists were clenched and his face was red with rage. I wrenched my purse away from him, glancing inside to see if anything was missing. He tried to kick me. I asked the boy again where he lived. Still no answer.

"Ah, Jenny, he's just a kid. Don't be the heavy. You got your purse back, let's let him go."

"The 'just a kid' assaulted me and took my purse. Get in the car, Jake, and put him in with you. We'll go to the police station and get this sorted out. He can't get away with this. Why shoud he?" Jake took the kid by the arm and steered him into the back seat. As I drove the half mile or so to the station, I glanced into the mirror and saw that Jake was letting the boy play a video game on his i phone. Huh? No time to ask, we'd arrived and I told Jake to hold onto the kid's hand while we entered the building. The boy made a sudden break and ran down the sidewalk and through a hedge.

"Just let him go, Jenny. It's not worth chasing him." He saw the expression on my face and said, "OK, I'll go find him." How's he going to do that? I wondered, but Jake was well-underway in the direction the kid fled, so I went back to the officer to make my statement.

A half-hour went by, and Jake appeared with the boy, who now had the name Danny to identify him. I saw Jake's suit coat open and noticed he wasn't wearing a belt. "You got dressed without a belt this morning?" Jake looked down and smiled, shrugged his shoulders and yawned. "I hate getting dressed up. You know that."

"Do we really need to go through all this, Jenny? Danny is ready to apologize for what he did and I think he's too little to be so tough on." Jake gave me his most charming smile, and yawned again.

He's looking pretty relaxed, I thought to myself.

Jake sat down on a bench. The boy, Danny, sat next to him and glared at me. "How did you find the little criminal?" I asked Jake. Jake told me the kid told him where he lived when they were in the car. So he simply went to the house and got him. "Where is his mother?" I asked. Apparently, she was still at the house. "Well, dontcha think we should involve her?" I was feeling a little incredulous.

"Oh, Jenny. She's a nice woman. She works two jobs and she's all alone with Danny. I told her I'd sort this out for her."

Now this was getting bizzarre.

"Give me her name and address and I'll go deal with her myself." So, I took a slip of paper from the officer with Loralee Shultz's address on it, got in the car and drove the five blocks to her address. Yellow house with white shutters. A short, pretty brunette opened the door the moment I knocked. Her smile faded quickly when she saw me standing there.

In her hand was Jake's belt.

(fiction)

Poker Face

I remember very well what the fortune teller said to me last week. But I did not understand when she held onto my hand and repeated, "You must now make your eyes see clearly what your heart does not want to acknowledge."

I know my eyes got wide and I could feel a little butterflies in my stomach. "See what? I don't know what you are talking about."

"I think you do," she replied. And that's all she would say.

Cecil and some friends were still playing cards at a picnic table shaded from the hot tropical sun by ironwood trees. There were five middle aged men drinking beer and eating boiled peanuts, like they did every Sunday after mass. My husband usually lost whatever money he brought to the table, but it was only ten or fifteen dollars, nothing to worry about. Good cheap entertainment, and it kept him busy while I had time with my own new friends making the dinner.

The move to Kahului from Honolulu had been sudden. Cecil had gotten into some bad company at Matson Shipping where he worked in a warehouse. Between my job as a waitress and his job as a team leader, I thought we were doing pretty well. We put some savings aside, and we'd bought a house last year. No sickness in the family, children growing strong.

Some guy Cecil worked with knew we had that money put aside and talked to Cecil about investing in a plate lunch restaurant near the Matson building they both worked in. The friend, Brian, was so sure this idea would make them both rich.

"We can work the plate lunch from five a.m. to two p.m. then we're done for the day, man. And we can write off any food we take home for the family. Business expense, yeah? And think of all the cash that comes in. The goverment doesn't need to know about all of it."

"Cecil," I said, "I don't like this dishonest stuff. If we owe taxes, we should pay. What do you know about selling food? What does Brian know?"

No matter how many good reasons I had for staying out of this partnership, Cecil and Brian, and then Brian's wife, Angela, had winning argument.

"Ok," said Angela. "I don't like two sets of books either. Let's you and me run the books and we can keep it honest. There will be plenty of income to keep us and the tax man happy."

And worn down, I consented. I liked Angela. She was energetic, optimistic, and wanted to be my friend. Soon, we did everything together, and it felt so good to have that closeness. We called the plate lunch restaurant Pa'uli, or Blue Plate.

But just in case, I found an accountant who would oversee the set up in the office, and who would teach us organization. I'm not afraid to say when I don't know something that I need help with it. Angela said she was pleased that we were learning alongside each other. We worked hard. We made good product and we made good sales. Angela and I got tips, too, and we put them in a jar for splitting at the end of each day.

The men both quit Matson and worked in the kitchen.

One time when we were making dinner at Angela's house, I saw a bag of rice like the kind we used at the restaurant. She cheerfully admitted that she'd taken it home.

"It's a business expense. You should take some home yourself." I wondered where the pork came from, and the sodas she gave to our children. I asked Cecil about it when we got home.

"If Angela says it's ok, it's ok. She and Brian are very smart business people. You could learn a lot from them." I'm sure I looked shocked, but Cecil did not seem to notice. Angela this, Brian that, it's all I ever heard from Cecil. The three of them were thick, that's for sure, and I felt a little like an outsider.

"Brian says there's a store for sale on Kaneohe side. If we jump on it, we can buy it for almost nothing." I told Cecil I did not want to do that. I explained it was too far away, and we hadn't been doing what we're doing long enough to know if we could take on more.

Cecil said, "It's a goldmine. We have to do this. Don't you want to have nice things? You could visit you mother in Manila twice a year instead of just once a year. We can go on cruises and send our children to private school."

I said it was just too soon to take on more. Then Cecil lowered his eyes and said that the store was already under contract, he'd signed my name to the purchase and sale agreement. Brian had said he should do that because it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission in these cases. He thought I'd be grateful in the long run. It's good business.

Angela came over about then with a bottle of champagne.

"Isn't this wonderful?" she said, "We're going to be tycoons! I've been talking to a banker all week about how to pull this off, and he says we can borrow for the new place on the strength of our working restaurant. He's impressed with what we've done so far. We just put them both in one corporation. We'll show the store to you in the morning. I want to know what you think of the color swatches I've picked out."

"Why didn't you tell me about this before?" I asked, my heart pounding. What did I feel? Hurt? Anger? Shock? I wasn't sure. My husband loves me and these are my friends. They all believe this is a good thing.

Cecil explained since Angela has such a head for business, that they thought she should noodle the whole process out and present it. Cecil handed me a copy of the contract with my signature in his handwriting.

Three days passed, while I tried to sort out what I thought was making me feel afraid and unsure. Angela and I continued to work side by side at Pa'uli. She worked every bit as hard as ever and was every bit as cheerful as ever.

At the end of the day, I brought the tip jar to her. "There's no tip money in here," I said. "What happened?"

"Oh," she smiled, "Cecil and Brian said I can have the tip money to compensate me for all the work I did putting the Pa'uli Two deal together. I put a lot of time into that. Didn't you tell Cecil it's ok?"

I didn't answer, but turned my back and shrugged my shoulders. I had to leave quickly so she wouldn't see my face. "Bye! See you tomorrow!" she called after me.

Cecil was at the kitchen table with a beer. He smiled at me, then frowned when he saw how red and angry my face was.

I stood squarely in front of him and said, "You and Angela and Brian can have Pa'uli Two. I will go along with it. Then on the day after the closing I am going to file for divorce and I will not be nice." I left Cecil with his eyes bugging out and got in the car. I drove down to the beach and parked the car. I took my shoes off and put my bare feet in the soft sand along the shoreline. The cool water felt good and the tradewinds felt like comforting arms around me. I must have walked two miles up and down before I went back to the car and home.

I'm glad I have the CPA and a current copy of the books, I thought to myself.

I found Cecil crying in the living room. "Don't leave me," he said.

"Do you want me to unplug this deal?" And he nodded at me. "Alright then." I reached for the phone.

"Angela, this is Carmen. I will not sign anymore anything. You let us out now. Otherwise, I go to the county courthouse first thing tomorrow and file for divorce from Cecil. You will not have clear title on Pa'uli One and you'll lose your earnest money. If you want to buy us out, you'd better do it fast."

And that's when the real Angela and Brian revealed themselves. They yelled, they cursed, they screamed. Violent acts were promised. They said they would ruin us. Our friends told us they'd visited each of them and said we'd cheated them and were bad people. Of course, our friends knew better.

So, long story short, the lawyer got our money back plus some gain and we moved to Kahului. Matson agreed to hire Cecil at that warehouse complex. I still look over my shoulder because I don't know how far Brian will go with his rage.

"We made money on that," says Cecil, "It turned out well in the long run."

Yesterday Cecil brought home a motorcycle. He told me his friend, Pat, said it was a good deal and after all he works hard for his money. Pat's going to buy a motorcycle, too. They should spend sometime riding together because Pat doesn't have it too good at home. He has an unhappy wife who complains that Pat thinks he's right all the time. What's Pat supposed to do? Be wrong?

And I was thinking about this as the five men set up their card game today. Gabriel was there first. He's the guy who seems to get Cecil's money each week. I asked him how he plays cards so good.

And Gabriel said,"Well it's statistics and human nature. A study of both. Some of us are pretty good at it."

"So you're saying you can read Cecil but he can't read you?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's about it."

I think I see something now. And my heart is no longer standing in the way.

En Tequila Veritas

About five years ago, my family took a four-day vacation in Cabo san Lucas. Not my first choice of destination, but it was a free stay. A friend had a timeshare he couldn't use that year.

There's not alot to do in Cabo. It's a beach of party-goers and sunbathers. There are watersports off the beach, but the water is dirty and the undertow strong.

On the third day, I sent the others off on a fishing trip. They found a boat and skipper that looked fairly seaworthy, and I said I'd just go wander the town. I had a late breakfast at a marina-front restaurant. Very tasty tortillas and eggs, something I haven't been able to duplicate at home. I walked to the end of the touristy strip and looked toward the town square. Seeing the police with their machine guns walking the edge of the demilitarized zone, I changed my mind and rejoined the herd of tourists.

One must find one's own entertainment in these situations.

I walked back toward the cruise ship landing where the famous Cabo Wabo is. The cantina is above a patio and souvenir emporium. I walked up the few steps and to the far end of the bar to inspect the restrooms. Yep, Sammy was keeping it authentic. There is nothing more appalling than a public restroom in Mexico.

Maybe I'd sit at the bar and watch the tourists fresh off the Carnival Elation discover the "real" Mexico. I was fortunate to find a seat with good sight of the restroom doors, and looked at the menu. It boasted of the fine tequilas you can only buy in Mexico, nothing like that industrial solvent called Cuervo. It was shortly after noon. Ok. I'll try a sampler.

Videos of Van Halen looped on tv monitors around the bar. Some with Sammy Hagar, some with David Lee Roth. Roth is better.

"Sip it like brandy," said the barkeep. "It doesn't need lime, it doesn't need salt, it doesn't need ice. Those condiments are for bad liquor to hide the taste."

I looked at the five small shot glasses half-filled with liquids ranging clear to amber he set in front of me.

"Take a breath and hold it. Take a sip. Let the tequila slip down your throat, then exhale." It took a few tries, but I could appreciate the quality of the drink. Fruity, kinda, and certainly smoother than the Cuervo Gold we'd passed around in our youth.

I suppose a half hour had passed when I finished the fourth sample. It was about then a dark and very good looking young man dressed in a white blouse, bolero, black pants decorated with silver, and a serape around his shoulders came to sit beside me. He handed his pistol to the bartender and ordered a Budweiser.

I recognized him from the old posters I'd seen in Calaveras County Museum when I was in grade school.

"You have your head," I observed. The Bandit Joaquin smiled with perfect white teeth.

"Never lost it," he replied. "That was some other guy. What a joke."

There are many stories about the bandit. One was that a Stockton lawman gave a public speach about the vicious outlaw and nailed a poster to a tree. $100 reward for the body of the Bandit Joaquin, dead or alive. The people watched as an individual strode boldly out of the crowd , wrote something at the bottom of the document, then went to his horse and rode off. The inscription read, "I will give $1000. Joaquin Murrieta"

But things were getting too hot for the bandit. The once vast California territory was becoming more populated and government more organized.

"I got a good idea," said the bandit to me. "I had an acquaintance named Harry Love. Big phoney lawman, easy bribe. We decided he would go to the governor to say he'd find me and kill me for $1000, and he'd deliver my head in a jar for $5000. Love came back to our camp in Fresno and gave me the go-ahead. Five of us armed ourselves well.

"I'd told my brother-in-law many times I didn't like the way he was treating my sister. If he put his hands on her one more time, I'd kill him. He laughed at me and said with the price on my head, I'd better watch out for him! Timing was bad for him, good for me, so that's Carrillo's head floating in the brandy. And I threw in the hand of that whiner, Three Fingered Jack as a bonus. Harry might as well get the bounty on him, too. I didn't need a partner any more.

"Take these to your governor and keep the cash." That's the last I saw of Harry Love, but I heard he made good use of those body parts. Carrillo and Jack toured the state of California and for $1 any man, woman or child could view what remained of them. Harry could never tell the truth, or his gravy train would end.

"And so I disappeared," concluded Joaquin. "Very successfully."

I thought of the stories my babysitter told me when I was very little. "You see that hill? That's Brushy Peak. The Bandit Joaquin is still hiding up there. He killed hundreds of men with his knife and his gun. Stay in the yard so he doesn't see you!"

"Where did you go?" I asked. "Were you at Brushy Peak?"

"Just think, senora. If I were at Brushy Peak when you were five, I'd have been a hundred and thirty years old. I have to say I was pretty far from there."

The bandit set down his empty beer bottle, put some silver coins on the bar and took his pistol back from the bartender. He nodded toward my empty tequila glasses.

"Get the lady an agua fresca."

He touched his forehead and bowed slightly. Then he was gone.

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