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Feliz Cumpleaños

The winds blew in from the south.  Never a good thing, she thought to herself.  The last time her father was hit by lightening and their whole lives changed.  Today Alice is 13.  What a day: 13 years old on Friday the 13th and a rain head gathering south over the Podocarpus.

Five years the family has been in the jungles of Ecuador.  He brought them — Madeline and the three children — here to the selva, to doctor the poor and downtrodden natives.  But much to Dr.  Edgar Munko’s surprise, and perhaps dismay, the indiginos didn’t need his saving.  In fact, they treated and, more than likely, had probably saved each of the family’s lives during their tenure.  Dr. Munko was a proud, competent and confident man, so it took some adjustment for him to realize his pedigree, his Ivy League training, had little relevance in this environ.  

Once the good doctor met Casimero Mamallacta, the ancient and mysterious Ashuar shaman Edgar Munko’s entire raison d’etra changed.  He went from maestro to apprentice overnight.  Of his three children and wife, Alice was the one that really perceived his profound and spontaneous transformation —and from early on she was fascinated by Casimero and his shamanic ways.  Whenever Edgar allowed, she joined her father and the old healer on their sojourns deep into the jungle — walking, observing, sampling and learning about its thousands of medicinal plants.

But just seven weeks ago, the wind came up from the south and lightening struck her beloved father, taking him away from them all.  Family and tribe mourned his loss as one cohesive community, sitting in prayerful ceremony for 49 days.  At the end of it Alice knew what she must do.  

On Friday the 13th, today she turned 13.  This morning Alice approached Casimero to propose he continue — with her as his disciple, where her father had left off — that he take her as his student, now teaching Alice the old sacred knowledge.  Passionately prepared to argue her case to the end, Alice was astounded when he responded, “But of course, niña, what else?  You are the one we’d been waiting for all this time. It’s not tradition, no, not at all — you, being an outsider, and also a girl child besides.  But it’s been dancing in the dreams of the elders for some time now.  

“And now . . . you can stop writing your endless notes, there’s no need.  No, you must start talking to, and listening directly to the plants.  They will tell you all that you need to know as you need to know each of their secrets and powers.  This is the work to be done now.   Welcome, little sister Alice, welcome home.  Feliz cumpleaños!”

Jessica Fields © July 11, 2018

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[fieldsjessica]

Finn, Fiona and Imogen

“Good day, young fella, what may I do fer ya?” asked the sweet faced old woman at her door.

“I’ve come seeking a room to let,” I said in reply.

“Ay then, ya’ better have a look. Follow on.” Turning she added, “If’n you’ll latch the door behind.”

Up three dark shabby flights we treaded and at the top a single door. From her ample bosom she pulled a single key and applied it with a tug. Inside a surprisingly light drenched room with a sink, water closet, a lumpy looking bed and the skyline of Dublin gloriously splayed below.

“I’ll take it now, if I may. How much do you need?”

“Four pound a week, 12 if you’re wantin’ breakfast and dinner,” she replied. “And no cookin’ other than tea in here, ya’ understand?

“Yes, ma’am, I’d rather take my meals with you, and are there others?”

Yes, yes, you’ll see. Supper, then, is at six sharp and I’ll not beg nor even call you to sit. And, I’ll be wantin’ the money now, in advance. What is your name, lad, how d’ya come to be called?”

“It is Finn ma’am, and you?”

“Oh, oh!!!” she shouted while running out the room, “ me roast, it’s Ovenwith!” She’d left without her money. Trusting I’d see her at six, I closed the door and tried the tap for hot water. A little chunky and decidedly brown, it sputtered and spat then ran somewhat clearer but not in the least bit warm, so I pulled some and put on the kettle. Preparing to pour a bowl of nearly clean water in which to wash I stripped my shirt, just then a soft knock fell upon the door. Assuming it to be Mrs. Ovenwith, I opened. To both our surprise, there I stood half naked before the most breathtaking red headed woman I had ever laid my eye upon. Her eyes lit on my bare chest while simultaneously she blushed. Turning, she scattered off without one word. I called after but to no effect. Ah well, perhaps I’ll see her at dinner, I surely hoped so.

It’s only even barely begun and I’m awash in a sea of questions, clues, perhaps even half rememberances. Dare I think so? The house, the skyline, an ample fragrant grandmother smell, a beautiful redheaded woman with lily white porcelain skin and soft cloud blue eyes looking in at me. Ah, well, only time shall tell.

The water kettle began to whistle. I cleaned up, then tried out the very lumpy bed. Though travel weary I could not sleep so I set out for a long walk, lunch and a pint at the furthest pub along my sojourn way into the back streets and allies of the ancient city. Sitting there in the dim room over an empty plate and half full mug I observed, well eavesdropped really, three old fellas fast at a game of one-ups-man-ship . . . tall tales and outrageous lies, so they implied or perhaps I inferred.

I couldn’t believe my ears as one recounted the occurrence, not thirty years ago, of three mysterious disappearances all n one stormy night. A certain wealthy landholder, his squire son and also the child of a beautiful young commoner — all vanished that night without a trace, never again to be seen. The story unfolded thus: the young squire bedded a commoner, a young widow of uncommon beauty known as Imogen, who hence bore a son. The coward would not step forward to take responsibility or even quietly acknowledge his offspring and heir. Of course, the poor young mother was besmirched, ostracized by her community and broken hearted. She truly believed it to be true love and just once let down her guard.

Imogen’s mother, who had been abandoned by her husband in childbirth, took great pity on her daughter’s plight and, despite the town’s abject disapproval, allowed Imogen to keep the child and raise her at home with her young daughter, Fiona. They lived with the mark and refused to be beaten, until one storm torn winter night in a terror of wind and rain the door to their domicile was blown down. In all of the clatter and scramble and confusion neither mother nor daughter saw the boy stolen away into the night. Throughout the following days, weeks and months the mystery was never solved, and furthermore, on that very same night both the landholder and his son had gone missing with obvious blood stained signs of struggle and dastardly doings.

I longed to stay longer, to ask questions and to determine the possible whereabouts of the alleged estate but, even more, I wished not to miss my first dinner, to pay Mrs. Ovenwith and to meet her guests, so I took my leave. All the way back his story made me think, could this thing actually have happened?

Something’s brought me here that I’ve not yet told you, so I suppose now’s as good a time as any. I never knew my mother and my father was a stranger in a strange land. You see, I grew up from the time I remember in New Orleans, Louisanna, USA. My father was an elegant man, aloof and superior. He never would tell me about our family except that we were from Ireland which, of course, was obvious by his manner of speech and mine to some extent. We lived well but estranged. Everything about him was remote, and he was filled with an emptiness that could never be dislodged, even to his dying breath. Yet, he held me, always, close to him, not wanting me to grow up, to become independent. When he passed I was left a small fortune and the ample home in which we lived, and also an empty orphaned feeling of my own, inside. I searched his belongings for clues to our past and only this did I find: an address in Dublin and a photo of the most beautiful young woman and her carbon copy girl child.

Reaching for the latch, the my lodging door flew open and once again, this wonderful creature! “Oh, here we are agin’, she exclaimed. “At least, this time you are not naked.”

“I was not! Am I on time for dinner and will you attend?”

“Go right through,” she replied on her way out.

In the dining room, seven guests were taking their seats while Mrs. Ovenwith carried in two giant platters of fine smelling fare. “Oh, there ya’ are, young fella. Welcome, sit yourself and we’ll get started. Make your acquaintances around . . . ha, here you are Fiona! Have ya’ made acquaintance with Finn?”

Back in my room at the top of the stairs, with full belly and swirling head, I began to reel and feel woozie. I lied upon the lumpy bumpy bed and pulled out the one relic of my past, the tattered black and white photograph. Surely this could be none other than Fiona, I thought. She looks exactly like this mother in my picture some thirty years past. Impossible! Improbable to be sure, but if it is so, could it mean that the story in the pub actually is true? Could it have been my own father who disappeared on that stormy night, could it have been me who was stolen from this very house, the same child that was stolen from under Imogen and her mother’s noses? And where did the old man go? My head throbbed in crashing, clashing thoughts and feelings, questions and inexplicable posits. Somewhere deep within, I nearly remembered my mother, my grandmother, my sister, my home. They’ve thought me dead and gone, I’m sure, but here I am quite alive, and wanting nothing more than to transcend my orphan story — to reconnect, to reknit the fabric of my life, my people — to rewrite my destiny, not as a lone and lonely solo soul, but as a thread in an Irish family quilt.

Over the next two weeks time I got to know Mrs. Ovenwith and Fiona a bit better. We became friends, I would even say. One day I screwed up my courage and asked about the story of the missing child, the landholder and his son, the squire. Mrs. Ovenwith’s hand froze in the sink as I watched closely. Her back grew straight and taught, slowly turning to me the old woman said, “It is the great heartbreak of our family that our tiny Fion was disappeared. My daughter Imogen died of the grief of it long before her death. At first, we were accused of devil’s play and all sort of evils. Now Fiona and me’s all there’s left but we make the best of our lot and life, in any case.”

From my breast pocket I pulled my precious relic saying only, “My father died two months ago, and all I am left of my history was your address and this picture. What do you make of it?”

Jessica Fields © June 6, 2018

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[fieldsjessica]

Wanda

Even now, when I peel away the layers, I can see no more clearly than before.  

She wears lips of silver and gold.  She’s bedecked in curls and bows.  Wanda trips in and out as though she has nowhere to go.  And then at three, she lies down anywhere, and falls into a deathlike trance-slumber. When the clock strikes midnight she’s up again and off she clomps in her high-heeled boots, to wander the streets again ‘til three.

I follow Wanda for many an afternoon and evening, wanting to see where she belongs, and does she have a home. Never in three weeks do I determine either.  What I find, instead, is her affect on others.  Wherever she goes, Wanda enchants every living being.  Not only the kind of enchantment you’d call charm, for it is more.  No, I mean magic — a spell — white or black, I really can’t tell.  But when she arrives on the scene, even the light changes to a gossamer sheen, and all beings drop their pursuits to lightly dance and float about, smiling, laughing in mirthful decadence.

As Wanda passes on, each then fades back to something similar to their former being . . . but sweeter, more soft and beautiful, more kind, more alive than before.

How am I able to stand outside her spell?  I can’t say, but on I go, also strung on her magnetic pully line.  Wanda seemed, all the while, to not know of my presence; not until the night she came to life exactly, as always, at the strike of midnight to stare me squarely in the face.  “What do you see, Witness?” she asked.

“I see a magnificent angelic being,” I replied.

“Do you recognize it?”

“Recognize?” I blinked. “It? I don’t understand.”

Up she jumped and clopped away, “Then follow another three weeks or decades, a millennia if you need.  It will come when you are ready.”

“But I am ready now!”

“OK, then do you recognize . . . It?”

“How about a hint,” said I with wrinkled brow.

“Oh no, that would be going backward!”  she replied.

“But, I thought by choosing his path I’d be further ahead by now.”

“Ahead of what?  There’s actually no such thing.  It’s an illusion, you see — all pretend.”

Jessica Fields © May 23, 2018

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[fieldsjessica]

Yes, Thank You

“Yes, thank you, the conditions are sufficiently deplorable.” The tiles from the roof dropped past the window two and three at a time. She set down the receiver and crossed to the bathroom. “Just a short soak should steel me,” Nora said aloud just as the hot water handle exploded in her hand. “Good grief! What the hell?!” She had just one hour before her trial. No time to change hotels, or even rooms, so Nora dressed again, now in the conservative blue suit her lawyer hand picked against her protests of “That’s just not me!” The lawyer replied, “Unless you want to be wearing orange for the next 30 years, you’ll follow my advice . . . to the letter, Nora.”

She had lived a bit on the fringe but finding herself accused of murder was simply absurd, incomprehensible. Nora met her clients alone, usually in a hotel room, but truly it was all very innocent, all on the up and up, completely. Nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide.

Nora’s clients had, in one manner or another, discovered their feminine sides and to a one, they were each confused, afraid — flummoxed on how to deal with it. She was simply there to help them through the process of their new-self discovery. Some roleplaying, lots of listening, guided imagery and even more reassurance that this made one no less a man.

Payton was one such fellow. He had come to Nora when his life was in utter crisis. His wife of 15 years had left for reasons she would not divulge. It threw him into a circular pattern of questioning, guessing and rejecting everything, especially himself and his masculinity. Had he been unattentive? Well, maybe. Was he unmasculine? Well, maybe. Was he actually effeminate? No way! Well, maybe. As a teen, Payton, had feelings for a classmate. Martin was a beautiful being and Payton was inextricably drawn to him. He never let on but he always tried to be near Martin even though it made him feel uneasy, queasy.

So when the wife left, Payton became distraught beyond all reason. There in Room 1344 on August 25 he ended their session early, abruptly asking Nora to leave immediately. Two days later the knock at her door ultimately carried the message that Payton was dead and Nora was the prime suspect. How could this possibly be?

In the end, the burden of proof fell on the accused, not as they say. Unable to prove her innocence, Nora has a new life dressed in orange yet, still, the same life motto as always, “Love all, trust few, and do wrong to none.” Nora is up for parole in another four years. Shortly thereafter she’ll have her law degree and a whole new plan.

Jessica Fields © April 18, 2018

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[fieldsjessica]

Getting to Know You

Anthony stepped from the restroom and said to the two ladies sitting at the first table, “You know, there’s an epidemic of loose toilet seats here in this town!  I tell any owner or manager the simple solution — that is, if they understand English.  I’m an old maintenance man, you know.”  The woman in day-glow looked at the other and back to him.  “It just takes a second nut.” continued Anthony.  “And you wouldn’t have to bother again for 15 years.”  

Dayglow then says to him, “Well, it’s our lucky day! Sounds like you’ve found your calling here in this village.” Anthony looked at her and then the other, carefully considering.  Was it all the possibilities, or was it a question of her sincerity he contemplated?  

The quiet one chimed in, “Then you’d probably be known as Mr. Double Nut!  Or would that be giving away your trade secret?”  Surprised eyebrows rose throughout the the small restaurant — three beats and titters all around.

Tony, noticeably crimson around the ears, quipped, “Why, that’s the silliest thing I ever hoid!?” With an air tap of his virtual cigar, Tony picked up his rucksack and hastily made his goodbyes.

Dayglow turned to the quiet one, “You know, he seems to be coming out of his shell, and that was quite a debut!  He really is quite a charming fellow, it turns out!

Jessica Fields © May 9, 2018

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[fieldsjessica]

The Lone Star

Ruff was a country boy at heart, but when the Lone Star offered him a gig in New York City he packed his bag and hitched across the country.  Arriving in early spring before the snow’s melt, Ruff was appalled at the mountains of garbage filling the streets, a three-week workers’ strike being the cause of it.  He was beginning to experience a particular kind of loneliness that only a city can provoke.  

The Greyhound bus he’d spent nearly his last $10 on dumped him in Times Square around 2:00 a.m. Wandering the lonely night streets, Ruff finally wearied around West 98thand Broadway.  Cold and wet, he climbed upon the warm hood of a ’75 Volvo and directly fell into exhausted sleep.

I came down to find him there on my hood at 7 a.m. on a Monday morning.  Alarmed when I grasped him by the boot, the stranger jumped violently, falling to the curb.  Right away I could tell he was a fish out of water, a true cowboy in New York City.

“Where’s the Lone Star, do you suppose?” he inquired.  

“Oh, it’s down in the Village,” I said, “The East Village, but they’re closed on Mondays. Meanwhile, you better get yourself a better place to stay.”

“What can I get for $10, do you suppose?”

“Well, you could stay in the trunk of my car, but it doesn’t have a lock.”

That’s how I came to live, in 1978, with a real Texas cowboy in New York City.  Ruff was a darned talented musician and singer, it turns out. He started up at the Star that very next weekend.  His cowboy poetry warmed the hearts and tickled the fancy of many a New Yorker. The opening act for big, well-known country stars, he sometimes outshined them even.  Week in week out, Ruff showed up with new material for bigger and bigger crowds.  His success was nothing short of spectacular.

Several times I asked him to find his own place but he always said, “I really can’t afford to.” He actually was no trouble so I let him stay.  After about a year, Ruff announced it was time for him to move on.  I found I was sad about that.  The next week he handed me an envelope and said, “You’ve been more than kind to me.  Please keep what you want, and if there’s any left, maybe you could go down to the Bowery and share it around.

It’s been decades since Ruff returned to wherever he came from, but often I remember his last words to me.  “The best thing I ever learned is to never turn down the opportunity for generosity, whether given or received.”

Jessica Fields © April 25, 2018

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[fieldsjessica]

Bartholomeaux

The bulbous bibliophile bobbed his head like a sea cast buoy. There he sat, 22 rows back from biographies and four tables from her desk. By the time her crimson rimmed mouth crooned, “Nine o’clock, the Library is now open,” he was off to the races. Books to the left of him, tomes to the right, Bartholomeaux could read faster than any human alive; and he adhered to the saying, ‘live every day like it is your last.’ What a week! Bart had gone through 3,492 volumes. To what end, you might wonder, but upon questioning the ever so rotund little man, he could recite line and verse of every one. He only stopped to cast an eye toward the lady in rose, indicating his readiness for the next cart to be delivered and one taken away. As she approached, each and every time, Bartholomeaux would lean her way, rubbing his hands together and whisper, “My hands are still tingling — as is my mind.” She would ever so slightly blush and reply, “Are we ever the same person as once upon a time?” turning toward him just enough to catch the glint in his eye.

Bartholomeaux Bodelere moved himself from deep in the south to Washington when he was just 16. Forty years later, his mission was near complete. He’d spent pretty much the whole of his life here inside these archives except Saturdays and Sundays when the giant doors were unyielding to his desires, obsession really.

Bart never felt he was special or peculiar. He simply knew his unusual raison d’être. When introduced, Bart would most elegantly say, “So pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Bartholomeaux (with an X) Antoine Bodelere, and in 14 more years I’ll officially be the Complete Living Breathing Library of Congress. You may ask me any question.”

Jessica Fields © April 25, 2018

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[fieldsjessica]

From My Deathbed

I’m old now and on my deathbed, so it’s a good time to tell you before I go  . . . I once knew a fellow who hiccupped for 15 years. It was tragic really. Can you imagine? Such a condition is exhausting. He could barely eat, his work became compromised and so he was downgraded from his management position. Everyone felt deeply for Hector but the boss had an assembly line to run, deadlines, the big bosses to answer to.

Hector had a family to raise and a rather difficult wife to keep satisfied. She had less and less compassion for Hector as his condition advanced.

I met the man in the cafeteria one day — he couldn’t carry his tray across the room. I could, so I did. We sat down, he thanking me profusely. From that time on Hec and me were buds. I could understand him between the eruptions and empathized with his situation. Management noticed our friendship and stationed him next to me on the hydraulics line. There’s where we worked together, ten ours a day, six days a week, for almost 12 years. One day Hec looked at me and said “Can I (hiccup) buy (hiccup) you a beer (hiccup) after  work?” “Sure,” I replied “Why the heck not?”

Well, one beer led another and to a friendship filled with long philosophical conversations and, ultimately, a dark agreement between us, the likes of which I’m reluctant to reveal the exact details, but suffice to say what Hector Huckaby wanted of me was the ultimate test of friendship. You see, on our part of the line there’s one unbreakable rule, a great danger. Should the pair of workers fire their arc welders at EXACTLLY the same moment — one, if not both, are sure to fry. You have to work in rhythm, first one then the other, one then other, a dance so to speak. But how to do this properly, so Hec could go and I could stay — that’s the ballet we had to work out. Improperly done, his family would not collect his life benefits and mine would. 

Hector was quickly unraveling into a broken man, his nerves were shot. His greatest fear — a fade into insanity, a fate far worse than a clean crisp death with benefits. He implored me to help him make the final act a private little Academy Award worthy one.

When it finally came to pass, only Hec and me were the wiser. To my utter surprise it never occurred to anyone that it was other than an unfortunate accident. One thing for sure, I never did have another friend or friendship anything like that with Hector Huckaby, the hellacious hiccuper.

Jessica Fields © April 11, 2018

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