#Palm Beach Gardens Fire Department

[larryshapiro]

Palm Beach Gardens, FL - Pierce Impel

[goblin-writer]

What Wonders Could Summer Hold?

Summer, lovely summer.

A season that promises sun filled mornings and long, pastel evenings.

And where better to spend summer than at the beach. That wonderful place where the dark blue ocean meets that golden sand that sparkles as you walk along it. Your foot sinking into the sand, as the cool air brushes your hair off to one side. The salt in the air, noticeable from that familiar tightness of your face.

Today the evening came quickly. Carried in on the waves and the wind as they dance all about you. Behind you, the desert stretches out behind the town. Palm trees line the road closest to the beach, and in the distance, you can see the last of those lounging packing away their towels. But the waves are growing as the tide promises its return, and you can see people approaching the beach with surfboard in hand and joy in their stride.

There is something magical in the evening air. Caught between two deadly expanses, you can watch the sun set across the windswept waves as the moon rises between the tumbling dunes. Clouds wander aimlessly across the sky, shepherded by flocks of gulls and pelicans.

Lights start reflecting off the waves as ships turn on their lights and the beam of the Swakop lighthouse flares brightly against their ever-moving geography. Clad, halfway up, in red and white it stood proudly far above the palms and houses. It was a testament to its construction that you could see it from far along the beach.

You watched the ocean turn that dark purple as the sun struggled to stay above the waves. Looking out behind you, the moon had crested the dunes. Its pale face staring longingly at the departing sun. Watching the two celestial bodies as you had so often, you could only wish that those last moments of the summer sun would hang on across the ocean.

“If only the evening could last forever.” A man had walked up next to you, surfboard in hand, “Summer evenings are one of a kind.”

“Everlasting summer sounds like a dream.”

“If only we had that pleasure. Permanent evening would mean all the time in the world to jol.”

You had to admit that it sounded nice. No responsibilities for just a bit longer, as the sun resolved itself to set. Still, you loved the sun filled mornings along the coast.

“Shame, that’s a beautiful sight. Well, I’m off to catch some waves. Totsiens.” With a wave the man started running toward the ocean and proceeded to swim out on his board as the water teemed with others enjoying the last of the daylight. Off in the distance you could see a windsurfer returning to shore.

But it was late and you continued your walk along the beach. Music started playing from up the beach. Deep in the desert some friends lit a fire.

This pastel evening drew, slowly, to a close. The next morning would soon follow on its heels. But tomorrow was still a long ways off. As the deep blue of night covers the sky, far off stars gleam in their fury, you can’t help but think of what comes next. Summer has only just begun, and it has so much to offer. Windswept days on top of dunes. Calm days lounging in the garden under that pale blue sky. And trips down the coast to see flocks of flamingos, numbering the hundreds. Their pink plumage a stark contrast to the white of the catamarans, and the black of the cormorants and seals.

To paint by the sea, read in the desert, and braai the sun away with friends. It is the best time to get away, and enjoy life on the sea side. Maybe even with ice cream on the sweet side.

-- A/N Some words used that are non-standard:

                Jol – to have fun, to party                 Shame – an exclamation that ranges from “I’m sorry [for something that happened to you that I did not cause]” to, “I think that is cute/sweet”                 Totsiens – good bye/ see you later                 Braai - Barbequeue

--

Thank you @flashfictionfridayofficial​ for a wonderful prompt. I was tempted to horror it up but felt we all deserve some soothing scenery from me for once.

[marvel-ousnesss]

The one with all the theatrics (Zuko x reader)

Summary: Following your escape from the air temple, you and the rest of the gaang made it to Ember Island. This gave you and Zuko the chance to make up for lost times. More specifically, camping, training, and a night at the theater. 

A/N: This was meant to be a shorter follow-up for this fic, but can be read on its own. As always, enjoy 💜💜💜

Word count: 3k (???)

masterlist

The group eyed you with curiosity as you sat down in front of the pot full of rice and water. Zuko and Aang settled by your sides and the others sat around, closing a circle. Zuko lit a small fire on his hand, and you stretched out a hand to transfer the hit to the pot, closing your eyes and enriching your breath. In a matter of seconds, the water had boiled and the simple meal had begun to cook. 

You gushed about the nice weather for a bit, and told them about the few times that you and your father had gone camping as you grew up. You were about to tell them about the time you learned how to climbed, but were interrupted by Toph’s stomach roaring. 

As if on cue, you took a deep breath and sniffed the main course, takin no time on announcing was ready. 

Aang helped you fill the plates and Zuko took care of the tea department. When everyone was served, you began eating what was left on the pot. 

“You know, I’m glad you guys are here,” Sokka spoke as he stuffed his mouth with rice. “Food had never cooked so fast.” 

“Well, glad you found our talents useful,” you laughed, still with one of your hands under the clay dish. 

“And Zuko”, he continued, “who would’ve thought you’d save us from Azula after continuously trying to snuff us out.” 

You softly shoved him with your shoulder, noticing a light blush gracing his cheeks. 

“I can't believe I'm saying this but, today, you're our hero! To Zuko!”

You put the pot down and grabbed your tea, happily toasting with the others. 

“I’m touched,” he hummed, “I don’t deserve this.”

“No kidding.”

Zuko’s gaze fell immediately. He didn’t want to confront Katara, but you weren’t about to let her treat him like that any longer. 

Afraid of making it shatter, you placed the cup in front of your crossed legs and boasted, “I’m sorry, last time I checked, none of us would be here right now if it wasn’t for him.” 

“Yeah, who would’ve thought he could do more than just destroying people’s lives.” Katara stormed off before you could say anything else. 

 Defeated, your eyes followed Zuko as he went after her. 

Knowing he was gonna need some space, you went to sleep right after dinner. A few hours passed and he still hadn’t entered the tent, so you headed out and ignited a small flame that began dancing on your right palm. 

You closed your hand when you didn’t see him around camp, putting your fire out. When you were about to get in the tent once again, ready for another attempt of calling it a night, he dragged himself out of Sokka’s tent, awkwardly bumping into Suki. 

You snickered at the awkwardness before approaching your friend. 

“Wanna talk about it?” you offered. He just walked past you and into the tent. 

You could only picture how difficult this whole redemption thing was being for him, so you didn’t push him. Instead, you followed him inside and laid down next to him, honey eyes meeting your own. “She’ll come around,” you whispered. 

“It’s not just her, Y/N.” He sat up, letting the blanket fall off his upper body. His raven curls covered his face, and his shoulders fell lifeless and burdened. 

You mimicked his posture, and leaned in to grab one of his hands with between yours. “You can talk to me. You know that, right?” 

“I do,” he offered a smile, but it didn’t reach past the corners of his mouth. When you squeezed his hand, he exhaled and dropped his head further, ashamed. 

“It doesn’t have to be now, if you don’t feel like it.” 

As he remained silent, you gathered he was processing whatever had his head spinning. When he lifted his head, you could see the grief and remorse that radiated off him. He took a deep breath before he voiced his thoughts. 

“Everything I believed in, how proud I was of being my father’s son. It- it was all wrong.” 

You trailed off, “Zuko…” 

“I believed all the lies that they implanted on my head. The war, the killings, the burnt villages. I can’t believe it but-”. He sighed. “-Katara’s right. The only good thing I’ve ever done is joining the Avatar and after tonight I know that even that won’t give me my honor back.” 

You meditated over what to say, scanning the your surroundings while trying to chose your words. “She needs time to heal, and closure. You know, better than anyone, that honor can always be restored, but it has to be earned back. Maybe if you help Katara get the closure she needs-”

“The southern raiders,” he recalled. 

“What about them?” 

“Their commanding officer killed Katara’s mother. If she confronts her mother’s killer, she’ll get closure!” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, violence won’t help this time, Zuko. If she does anything, she’ll blame you for it when she regrets it.” 

He thought about it for a moment, but shook his head. “It’s the only way I can think of earning her forgiveness. I have to take her to them.” 

Zuko’s lips were purses and his brow was frown with conviction. There was no way of talking him out of this. 

“Guess it’s settled then.” 

They left the following night, so the rest of you decided to take that time to move into the fire lord's beach house on Ember Island. As you wandered through the halls, flashbacks of toddlers running around bragging about little fires and sandcastles flooded your mind and you smiled, wishing for better times to be back. 

The first night at the house, you went to bed early, eager to get rid of the memories. Although you woke up early the following day, and took a look at the gardens, the kitchen, the library and the guest room that you used to call your own. When you had walked around the grounds for a bit, you decided to join the others, who —you assumed— were hanging by the porch. 

The day had practically come to an end, as the sky was a tone of orange and the sun was laying on the sea. You crossed paths with Katara when you headed to the dock, offering a soft smile. You had seen her interaction with Zuko and Aang from afar, and couldn’t be prouder of both of them for coming to terms. 

Aang followed her shortly after, leaving you and Zuko alone on the dock. 

“I’m assuming it went well.” You stepped forward and sat at the edge, silently inviting him to do the same. 

��She almost killed him, then did nothing.” 

You shrugged, turning to face him. “For better, I guess. What’s important is that she got what she needed and that you were the one to help her.” 

After a moment of contemplative silence, a smirk made its way to the prince’s face and you quirked a brow in question. 

“Aren’t you gonna say it?” 

“Say what?” You knew what he meant, but were eager to hear him say it. 

With a huff and an eye roll, he granted your wish. “That you were right all along. “Violence was never the answer, Zuko; you have to forgive, Zuko; focus on your chi, Zuko; bla bla bla...” 

"Why would I say it if you already know I'm right."

"We both know you wanna get it out, this is your moment. I'm all ears."

"Fine, then-." You cleared your throat. "-As always, Prince Zuko, I was right and you were wrong," you gloated teasingly. "And, not that it’s nice to hear you mock my wisdom,” you taunted, shoving his side, “but I'm really happy for you.” 

————

Your eyes were glued to the Avatar as he mimicked your every movement. You had lost count of the times either you or Zuko had performed the basic bending sequence with Aang. In general, his steps were calculated as he crossed the beach house patio, and his technique was not bad. But his movement lacked precision; not to mention, the flames he shot were a vivid, airy shade of red. 

After shooting a stream of fire with a straight kick, you bowed at each other and you grabbed your water bottle. 

“Again.” you instructed, wiping your forehead with your arm. “Your form is sloppy and your fire needs more fuel.”

The three of you had woken up at dawn, ready continue with Aang’s firebending training. 

Instead of repeating the sequence once more, he flopped on the fountain and took a huge gulp of water. “Can we just take a break? Like a really, really short one,” he pleaded. 

Zuko, who had been practicing some forms based on the Dancing Dragon, took a sit beside him and wiped his brow with his discarded shirt. “I think Aang’s right, he can run it again in a few minutes.” 

You quirked a brow. 

Zuko had always kept up with you in training; maybe you had gotten carried away. Another glance at him confirmed how drained the three of you really were. Letting out a breath, you agreed. “I suppose we can slow down a bit.” 

After you coached Aang through the sequence a few more times, Zuko and him ran a more advanced set and he flew off to take a bath, leaving the two of you. You got up from the stairs and walked up to Zuko, sporting a wide grin that, he knew, could only mean one thing. 

“You know,” you tried to play it cool, needless to say failing miserably. “We haven’t sparred in ages.” 

He grimaced at you, incredulous. “Y/N, we’ve been training for hours.” 

“Oh come on, don’t be such a snail-sloth, flames for brains,” you taunted. 

When the nickname left your mouth, his features contoured into a glare of annoyance which later morphed into a grin to match yours. He took a stance and lit his fists, challenging. 

You laughed and got into position. 

You glided around each other, studying every detail and making sure you could still read one another with only a glance. You mirrored the strike of a jab but lashed a whip with a spinning kick instead. You relaxed a bit, thinking he had been shocked by your attack, but Zuko effortlessly redirected your flames with a flowing movement. 

He smirked, not once averting his eyes from you.

“Show off,” you scoffed. Your eyes widening when he dropped a fire lash that missed you by inches.

He chuckled at your expression and kept advancing on you, as you blocked his attacks with a shield. Zuko wouldn’t cave, so you augmented your flames into an arch, using a sweeping arm movement to try and knock him down. 

His right leg hesitated so that’s where you blew next, but instead of dodging, like you expected him to, he disintegrated your flame with a roundhouse kick and equipped himself with a fire dagger. You advanced toward him, gaining space, and summoned two daggers yourself. 

A few strikes were exchanged, but your simulated Agni Kai quickly morphed into a good old hand in hand encounter. You had to think fast, he had always been a better up close fighter. 

With repetitive jabs, you made Zuko’s stance quiver and launched a kick to his ribs as a final blow. He fell on his back but got up with a quick motion, and advanced on you with powerful stomping. 

Balancing your options, you walked backwards on an impulsive attempt to get out of his range, unaware of the fountain behind you. Before you could react, a stair took your balance away, making you fall into the water with a loud splash. 

Moving a few rebel strands out of your face, you looked up to find a hand stretched your way. “Now I see what you meant. You’re sparring like a kagura dancer.” 

You took Zuko’s hand and pulled yourself up, muttering in response. 

“What the hell happened to you?” Sokka’s snarky voice made you both turn around to face him and Suki, who were standing by the patio’s gate with a scroll in their hands. 

“Flames for brains happened.” 

“She fell into the fountain.” You playfully hit Zuko for his response, but he brushed you off with a scoff. 

“Anyway…” Sokka’s gaze drifted between the two of you. “We were, you know, out and about, walking around town and guess what we found.”  

With a grin matching his, Suki lifted a scroll with familiar faces inked on it. “There’s a play about us.” 

You exchanged a sneer with Zuko, but neither of you spoke up. Just then, the other three members of your group strolled into the patio with glasses of coconut water. 

“Just in time!,” beamed Sokka, proceeding to read the poster out loud. 

Katara immediately expressed her reluctance, to which you responded with a relieved breath. But your joy was short lived as the others coarsed the three of you into agreeing. 

“Come on, theater? That’s the kind of saggy nonsense we’ve been missing,” pleaded Sokka. 

"But… the Ember island players?" Zuko's voice was a pitch higher as he complained. 

“I mean, how bad could it be?” you inquired. 

The answer to your question was quick to come. So far, as Zuko had well said it during the first pause, the interventions had been the best part of your night at the theater. Aang had gotten up and left, upset about his portrayal; Katara was trying to convince herself of how inaccurate it truly was; and Sokka, he was just bitter about the way they had limited his sense of humor. As for the rest, you couldn’t help but enjoy the parodic representation of your friends. 

Sans Aang, you were gathered by the entrance of the theater, looking up at Suki as you and Zuko sat on the floor. 

“It’s like you barely make it alive after all big battles,” she noted.

“Yeah, no offense but you guys lose a lot.” You rested your head on your friend’s shoulder. It was something you did often, but he stiffened for a second. 

“Like you two can talk,” huffed Sokka. “It's not like you got captured by Azula or anything. Oh wait, yeah... you did.” 

“Asshole”, you snarled, but Sokka showed no remorse. Zuko’s body shook lightly with his chuckle. 

“I’m just saying.” 

Silence surfaced and, shortly after, Katara left to find Aang while the Fan and Sword Duo embarked themselves on a mission backstage. 

“Geez, everyone’s so upset about their characters, even you seem more down than usual,” Toph decreed. 

You snorted at her bluntness. “Easy for you to say, 6 feet-tall, ass kicking wrestler.” 

“You’re right,” she sighed, “my character is pretty great. Still, it’s just a play.”

Zuko’s gaze fell on his lap. “For me, it’s a parade of all the mistakes I’ve made being shoved in my face. My uncle has always been there for me. He taught me everything I know and and, what do I do? Stab him in the back.” 

Your arm looped around his, rubbing his bicep comfortingly. “We’ve all done things we’re ashamed of.” 

“But I may never get to redeem myself. Uncle will never forgive me.”

“Zuko, I’m sure he will.”

“Yeah, Sparky, don’t you see it?” Toph sat down next to Zuko.

“What do you mean?” His brows frowned.

“I once talked to the guy. Like, really talked-.” You eyed her with curiosity as she disclosed, “all he did was gush about was you. He loves you.” 

“That’s sweet.” 

“Neh, more like sappy and annoying.” 

You shot the girl an amused side glance. “Aren’t you a ray of sunshine.”

She just beamed proudly at your words. “Anyway, he said he only wanted you to make your own path. To find your destiny. That’s what you did and look where it has brought you… to us!” She punched Zuko, then got up. “That’s already way better than where you were before.”

“Thanks.” He looked up at her with fondness.

“Now, Sokka said something about fire gummies so, if you’re done sulking, I’m gonna go see what that’s about.” 

Zuko had lightened up. He was now sporting a relaxed smile and his head rested atop yours. His breathing was serene as he took in Toph’s words. You hesitated, afraid to disturb his demeanor, but, after a moment of thought, let your hand fall toward his. You were gonna loop your fingers together but he beat you to it. 

Your breath hitched as you mentally scolded yourself for looking up at him. You tried to say something but no words came out. His golden eyes bored into yours before briefly gracing your lips. Shyly, you leaned up, wanting to get closer. His nose brushed your own before he leaned even further forward, softly pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth. 

As the other members of the audience began evacuating the halls and returning inside , Zuko moved to stand up and pulled you with him. 

“Come on," he prompted, “I think it’s about to begin.” 

Requests open!

tags: @writers-thoughts09 ​  /  @eridanuswave

[theculturedmarxist]

Below is the story of my day touring Tema with Prince Philip, in this chapter from my book “The Catholic Orangemen of Togo”. You may be surprised to read that I rather liked him.

The African Queen

One morning I was sitting in the lounge at Devonshire House, with its fitted wool carpets and chintz sofas. I was drinking the tea that our steward, Nasser, had brought me. I heard movement in a corner of the room, and thought it must be Nasser cleaning there. But looking round, I saw nobody. Puzzled, I got up and walked towards that corner. Rounding a settee, I nearly stood upon a thin, green snake. About four feet long and just the thickness of your thumb, it was a bright, almost lime green colour. There was not much wedge shape to its head, which rather tapered from its neck. Its tongue was flickering toward me, perhaps a foot away, its head raised only slightly off the floor. I took a step backwards. In response it too retreated, at surprising speed, and zipped up the inside of the curtains.

I stood stock still and yelled “Nasser! Nasser!” This brought Nasser hurrying into the living room with Gloria, the cook. “Nasser, there’s a snake in the curtains!” Nasser and Gloria screamed, threw their arms in the air, and ran together into the kitchen and out the back door of the house. This was not altogether helpful.

I remained where I was to keep an eye on the snake, not wanting it to be lurking inside the house unseen. After a while the front door opened and somebody, presumably Nasser, threw in Nasser’s scruffy little dog. The dog was normally banned from the house, and celebrated this unexpected turn of events by immediately urinating against the hall table. Then the dog too ran into the kitchen and out of the back door.

Abandoning my watch, I went out and recruited the reluctant gardeners and gate guards. They armed themselves with long sticks and came in and beat the curtains until the snake fell onto the floor. As it sped for cover under a sofa, Samuel the youngest gardener got in a solid blow, and soon everyone was joining in, raining down blows on the twitching snake. They carried its disjointed body out on the end of a stick, and burnt it on a bonfire.

Everyone identified it as a green mamba. I was sceptical. Green mambas are among the world’s deadliest snakes, and I imagined them to look beefy like cobras, not whip thin and small headed like this. But a search on the agonisingly slow internet showed that indeed it did look very like a green mamba.

The important question arose of how it had entered the house. With air conditioning, the doors and windows were usually shut. Nasser seemed to have solved the mystery when he remarked that a dead one had been found last year inside an air conditioner. The unit had stopped working, and when they came to fix it they found a snake jammed in the mechanism. That seemed the answer; it had appeared just under a conditioner, and it seemed likely the slim snake had entered via the vent pipe, avoiding the fan as it crawled through the unit.

This was very worrying. If anti-venom was available (and we held a variety in the High Commission) an adult would probably survive a green mamba bite. But it would almost certainly be fatal to Emily, and possibly to Jamie.

A week or so later, I was constructing Emily’s climbing frame, which had arrived from the UK. A rambling contraption of rungs, slides, platforms and trampolines, it required the bolting together of scores of chrome tubes. I was making good progress on it and, as I lifted one walkway side into position above my head, a mamba slid out of the end of the tube, down my arm, round my belly and down my leg. It did this in no great hurry; it probably took four seconds, but felt like four minutes.

There was one terrible moment when it tried an exploratory nuzzle of its head into the waistband of my trousers, but luckily it decided to proceed down the outside to the ground. It then zig zagged across the lawn to nestle in the exposed tops of the roots of a great avocado tree. Again the mob arrived and beat it to death with sticks. I persuaded them to keep the body this time, and decided that definite action was needed.

I called in a pest control expert. I was advised to try the “Snake Doctor”. I was a bit sceptical, equating “Snake Doctor” with “Witch Doctor”, but when he arrived I discovered that this charming chubby Ghanaian really did have a PhD in Pest Control from the University of Reading. As Fiona had an MSc in Crop Protection from the same Department, they got on like a house on fire and it was difficult to get them away from cups of tea to the business in hand.

He confirmed that the dead snake really was a green mamba. We obviously had a colony. They lived in trees, and he advised us to clear an area of wasteland beyond the boundaries of our house, and build a high boundary wall of rough brick at the back, rather than the existing iron palings. He also suggested we cut down an avenue of some 16 huge mature trees along the drive. I was very sad, but followed this sensible advice. That removed the mamba problem from Devonshire House. But I continued to attract mambas on my travels around Ghana.

The second half of that first year in Ghana was to be almost entirely taken up with preparations for the State Visit of the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh in November 1999. A huge amount of work goes into organising such a visit; every move is staged and choreographed, designed for media effect. You need to know in advance just where everybody is going to be, who will move where when, and what they will say. You need to place and organise the media to best advantage. You need to stick within very strict rules as to what the Queen will or will not do. Most difficult of all, you have to agree all this with the host government.

I had been through it all quite recently, having paid a major part in the organisation of the State Visit to Poland in 1996. That had gone very well. The Poles regarded it as an important symbol that communism had been definitively finished. It was visually stunning, and at a time when the Royal Family was dogged with hostile media coverage, it had been their first unmixed positive coverage in the UK for ages. I had handled the media angles, and my stock stood very high in the Palace.

I am a republican personally; I was just doing my job. The Palace staff knew I was a republican, not least because I had turned down the offer of being made a Lieutenant of the Royal Victorian Order (LVO) after the Warsaw visit. I had earlier turned down the offer to be an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) after the first Gulf war.

Rawlings was delighted that the Queen was coming. He craved respectability and acceptance in the international community, which had been hard to come by after his violent beginnings. But he had turned his Provisional National Defence Council (PNDC) into a political party, the National Democratic Congress (NDC), and had fought elections in 1992 and 1996 against the opposition New Patriotic Party, which had an unbroken tradition running back to Nkrumah’s opponent J B Danquah and his colleague Kofi Busia. There were widespread allegations of vote-rigging, violence and intimidation, and certainly in 1992 the nation was still too cowed to engage in much open debate.

Even by 1999, social life was still inhibited by the fact that nobody except those close to the Rawlings would do anything that might be construed as an ostentatious display of life, while Rawlings had sustained and inflated the personality cult of Nkrumah still further (he is known as Osagyefo, “the conqueror”.) Open discussion of the disasters Nkrumah brought upon Ghana was almost impossible. It is still difficult for many Ghanaians today, after decades of brainwashing. As Rawlings had gradually liberalised society, the increasing freedom of the media, particularly the FM radio station, was giving a great boost to democracy. But there was still much prudent self-censorship. The media was particularly reticent about investigating governmental corruption.

The NDC government was massively corrupt. There was one gratuitous example which especially annoyed me. A company called International Generics, registered in Southampton, had got loans totalling over £30 million from the Royal Bank of Scotland to construct two hotels, La Palm and Coco Palm. One was on the beach next to the Labadi Beach Hotel, the other on Fourth Circular Road in Cantonments, on the site of the former Star Hotel. The loan repayments were guaranteed by the Export Credit Guarantee Department, at the time a British government agency designed to insure UK exporters against loss. In effect the British taxpayer was underwriting the export, and if the loan defaulted the British taxpayer would pay.

In fact, this is what happened, and the file crossed my desk because the British people were now paying out on defaulted payments to the Royal Bank of Scotland. So I went to look at the two hotels. I found La Palm Hotel was some cleared land, some concrete foundations, and one eight room chalet without a roof. Coco Palm hotel didn’t exist at all. In a corner of the plot, four houses had been built by International Generics. As the housing market in Accra was very strong, these had been pre-sold, so none of the loan had gone into them.

I was astonished. The papers clearly showed that all £31.5 million had been fully disbursed by the Royal Bank of Scotland, against progress and completion certificates on the construction. But in truth there was virtually no construction. How could this have happened?

The Chief Executive of International Generics was an Israeli named Leon Tamman. He was a close friend to, and a front for, Mrs Rawlings. Tamman also had an architect’s firm, which had been signing off completion certificates for the non-existent work on the hotel. Almost all of the £30 million was simply stolen by Tamman and Mrs Rawlings.

The Royal Bank of Scotland had plainly failed in due diligence, having paid out on completion of two buildings, one not started and one only just started. But the Royal Bank of Scotland really couldn’t give a toss, because the repayments and interest were guaranteed by the British taxpayer. Indeed I seemed to be the only one who did care.

The Rawlings had put some of their share of this looted money towards payments on their beautiful home in Dublin. I wrote reports on all this back to London, and specifically urged the Serious Fraud Office to prosecute Tamman and Mrs Rawlings. I received the reply that there was no “appetite” in London for this.

Eventually La Palm did get built, but with over $60 million of new money taken this time from SSNIT, the Ghanaian taxpayers social security and pension fund. Coco Palm never did get built, but Tamman continued to develop it as a housing estate, using another company vehicle. Tamman has since died. The loans were definitively written off by the British government as part of Gordon Brown’s HIPC debt relief initiative.

That is but one example of a single scam, but it gives an insight into the way the country was looted. The unusual feature on this one was that the clever Mr Tamman found a way to cheat the British taxpayer, via Ghana. I still find it galling that the Royal Bank of Scotland also still got their profit, again from the British taxpayer.

So while the State Visit was intended as a reward to Jerry Rawlings for his conversion to democracy and capitalism, I had no illusions about Rawlings’ Ghana. I was determined that we should use the Queen’s visit to help ensure that Rawlings did indeed leave power in January 2001. According to the constitution, his second and final four year term as elected President expired then (if you politely ignored his previous decade as a military dictator). We should get the Queen to point him towards the exit.

Buckingham palace sent a team on an initial reconnaissance visit. It was led by an old friend of mine, Tim Hitchens, Assistant Private Secretary to the Queen, who had joined the FCO when I did. We identified the key features of the programme, which should centre around an address to Parliament. A walkabout might be difficult; Clinton had been almost crushed in Accra by an over-friendly crowd in a situation which got out of control. A school visit to highlight DFID’s work would provide the “meet the people” photo op, otherwise a drive past for the larger crowds. Key questions were identified as whether the Queen should visit Kumasi to meet Ghana’s most important traditional ruler, the Asantehene, and how she should meet the leader of the opposition, John Kufuor. Rawlings was likely to be opposed to both.

The recce visit went very well, and I held a reception for the team before they flew back to London. Several Ghanaian ministers came, and it ended in a very relaxed evening. Tim Hitchens commented that it was the first time he had ever heard Queen and Supertramp at an official function before. It turned out that we had very similar musical tastes.

Planning then took place at quite high intensity for several months. There were regular meetings with the Ghanaian government team tasked to organise the visit, headed by head of their diplomatic service Anand Cato, now Ghanaian High Commissioner to the United Kingdom. We then had to visit together all the proposed venues, and walk through the proposed routes, order of events, seating plans etc.

From the very first meeting between the two sides, held in a committee room at the International Conference Centre, it soon became obvious that we had a real problem with Ian Mackley. The High Commissioner had been very high-handed and abrupt with the visiting team from Buckingham Palace, so much so that Tim Hitchens had asked me what was wrong. I said it was just his manner. But there was more to it than that.

In the planning meetings, the set-up did not help the atmosphere. There were two lines of desks, facing each other. The British sat on one side and the Ghanaians on the other, facing each other across a wide divide. The whole dynamic was one of confrontation.

I have sat through some toe-curling meetings before, but that first joint State visit planning meeting in Accra was the worst. It started in friendly enough fashion, with greetings on each side. Then Anand Cato suggested we start with a quick run-through of the programme, from start to finish. “OK, now will the Queen be arriving by British Airways or by private jet?” asked Anand. “She will be on one of the VC10s of the Royal Flight” said Ian. “Right, that’s better. The plane can pull up to the stand closest to the VIP lounge. We will have the convoy of vehicles ready on the tarmac. The stairs will be put to the door, and then the chief of protocol will go up the stairs to escort the Queen and her party down the stairs, where there will be a small reception party…” “No, hang on there” interjected Ian Mackley, “I will go up the stairs before the chief of protocol.” “Well, it is customary for the Ambassador or High Commissioner to be in the receiving line at the bottom of the aircraft steps.” “Well, I can tell you for sure that the first person the Queen will want to see when she arrives in the country will be her High Commissioner.” “Well, I suppose you can accompany the chief up the steps if you wish…” “And my wife.” “Pardon?” “My wife Sarah. She must accompany me up the steps to meet the Queen.” “Look, it really isn’t practical to have that many people going on to an already crowded plane where people are preparing to get off…” “I am sorry, but I must insist that Sarah accompanies me up the stairs and on to the plane.” “But couldn’t she wait at the bottom of the steps?” “Absolutely not. How could she stand there without me?” “OK, well can we then mark down the question of greeting on the plane as an unresolved issue for the next meeting?” “Alright, but our side insists that my wife…” “Yes, quite. Now at the bottom of the steps Her Majesty will be greeted by the delegated minister, and presented with flowers by children.” “Please make sure we are consulted on the choice of children.” “If you wish. There will be national anthems, but I suggest no formal inspection of the Guard of Honour? Then traditional priests will briefly make ritual oblations, pouring spirits on the ground. The Queen will briefly enter the VIP lounge to take a drink.” “That’s a waste of time. Let’s get them straight into the convoy and off.” “But High Commissioner, we have to welcome a visitor with a drink. It is an essential part of our tradition. It will only be very brief.” “You can do what you like, but she’s not entering the VIP lounge. Waste of time.” “Let’s mark that down as another issue to be resolved. Now then, first journey…”

The meeting went on for hours and hours, becoming increasingly ill tempered. When we eventually got to the plans for the State Banquet, it all went spectacularly pear-shaped as it had been threatening to do. “Now we propose a top table of eight. There will be the President and Mrs Rawlings, Her Majesty and the Duke of Edinburgh, The Vice President and Mrs Mills, and Mr and Mrs Robin Cook.” Ian positively went purple. You could see a vein throbbing at the top left of his forehead. He spoke as though short of breath. “That is not acceptable. Sarah and I must be at the top table”. “With respect High Commissioner, there are a great many Ghanaians who will feel they should be at the top table. As we are in Ghana, we feel we are being hospitable in offering equal numbers of British and Ghanaians at the top table. But we also think the best plan is to keep the top table small and exclusive.” “By all means keep it small,” said Ian, “but as High Commissioner I must be on it.” “So what do you suggest?” asked Anand. “Robin Cook” said Ian “He doesn’t need to be on the top table.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Neither could Anand. “I don’t think you are being serious, High Commissioner” he said. “I am entirely serious” said Ian. “I outrank Robin Cook. I am the personal representative of a Head of State. Robin Cook only represents the government.”

I decided the man had taken leave of his senses. I wondered at what stage can you declare your commanding officer mad and take over, like on The Cain Mutiny? Anand was obviously thinking much the same. “Perhaps I might suggest you seek instruction from headquarters on that one?” he asked. “Anyway, can we note that down as another outstanding item, and move on to…” I don’t know whether Ian secretly realised he had overstepped the mark, but he didn’t come to another planning meeting after that, leaving them to me and the very competent Second Secretary Mike Nithavrianakis.

The most difficult question of all was that of meeting the opposition. Eventually we got the agreement of Buckingham Palace and the FCO to say that, if the Queen were prevented from meeting the opposition, she wouldn’t come. But still the most we could get from Rawlings was that the leader of the opposition could be included in a reception for several hundred people at the International Conference Centre.

I had by now made good personal friends with several Ghanaian politicians. Among those who I could have a social drink with any time were, on the government side John Mahama, Minister of Information and Moses Asaga, Deputy Finance Minister, and on the opposition side John Kufuor, leader of the opposition, his colleagues Hackman Owusu-Agyemang, Shadow Foreign Minister, and Nana Akuffo-Addo, Shadow Attorney General.

In the International Conference Centre the precise route the Queen would take around the crowd was very carefully planned, so I was able to brief John Kufuor exactly where to stand to meet her, and brief the Queen to be sure to stop and chat with him. As he was the tallest man in the crowd, this was all not too difficult.

Once the Queen arrived and the visit started, everything happened in a three day blur of intense activity. Vast crowds turned out, and the Palace staff soon calmed down as they realised that the Queen could expect an uncomplicated and old fashioned reverence from the teeming crowds who were turning out to see “Our Mama”.

The durbar of chiefs in front of Parliament House was a riot of colour and noise. One by one the great chiefs came past, carried on their palanquins, preceded by their entourage, drummers banging away ferociously and the chiefs, laden down with gold necklaces and bangles, struggled to perform their energetic seated dances. Many of the hefty dancing women wore the cloth that had been created for the occasion, with a picture of the Queen jiggling about on one large breast in partnership with Jerry Rawlings jiving on the other, the same pairing being also displayed on the buttocks.

After the last of the chiefs went through, the tens of thousands of spectators started to mill everywhere and we had to race for the Royal convoy to get out through the crowds. Robin Cook had stopped to give an ad hoc interview to an extremely pretty South African television reporter. Mike Nithavrianakis tried to hurry him along but got a fierce glare for his pains. Eventually everyone was in their cars but Cook; the Ghanaian outriders were itching to start as the crowds ahead and around got ever denser.

But where was Cook? We delayed, with the Queen sitting in her car for two or three minutes, but still there was no sign of the Secretary of State or his staff getting into their vehicle. Eventually the outriders swept off; the crowds closed in behind and we had abandoned our dilettante Foreign Secretary. Having lost the protection of the convoy and being caught up in the crowds and traffic, it took him an hour to catch up.

Cook was an enigma. I had already experienced his famous lack of both punctuality and consideration when kept waiting to see him over the Sandline Affair. His behaviour now seemed to combine an attractive contempt for protocol with a goat-like tendency – would he have fallen behind to give a very bland interview to a male South African reporter? He was also breaking the tradition that the Foreign Secretary does not make media comments when accompanying the Queen.

When we returned to the Labadi Beach Hotel, there was to be further evidence of Cook’s view that the World revolved around him. He was interviewing FCO staff for the position of his new Private Secretary. Astonishingly, he had decided that it would best suit his itinerary to hold these interviews in Accra rather than London. One candidate, Ros Marsden, had an extremely busy job as Head of United Nations Department. Yet she had to give up three days work to fly to be interviewed in Accra, when her office was just round the corner from his in London. Other candidates from posts around the World had difficult journeys to complete to get to Accra at all. I thought this rather outrageous of Cook, and was surprised nobody else seemed much concerned.

The port town of Tema, linked to Accra by fifteen miles of motorway and fast becoming part of a single extensive metropolis, sits firmly on the Greenwich Meridian. As far as land goes, Tema is the centre of the Earth, being the closest dry spot to the junction of the Equator and the Greenwich Meridian. You can travel South from Tema over 6,000 miles across sea until you hit the Antarctic.

There was in 1999 a particular vogue for linking the Greenwich Meridian with the Millennium. This was because of the role of the meridian in determining not just longitude but time. Of course, the two are inextricably linked with time initially used to calculate longitude. That is why Greenwich hosted both the Naval Academy and the Royal Observatory.

The fascination with all this had several manifestations. There was a BBC documentary travelogue down the Greenwich meridian. There was a best-selling book about the invention of naval chronometers, Longitude by Dava Sobel, which I read and was as interesting as a book about making clocks can be. There were a number of aid projects down the meridian, including by War Child and Comic Relief. Tema and Greenwich became twin towns. And there was the visit of the Duke of Edinburgh to Tema.

I think this was the idea of my very good friend John Carmichael, who was involved in charity work on several of the meridian projects. It was thought particularly appropriate as one of the Duke of Edinburgh’s titles is Earl of Greenwich – though the man has so many titles you could come up with some connection to pretty well anywhere. We could make it a new game, like six degrees of separation. Connect your home town to the Duke of Edinburgh.

Anyway, Tim Hitchens had warned me that the Duke was very much averse to just looking at things without any useful purpose. As we stood looking at the strip of brass laid in a churchyard which marks the line of the meridian, he turned to me and said: “A line in the ground, eh? Very nice.”

But we moved on to see a computer centre that had been set up by a charity to give local people experience of IT and the internet (providing both electricity and phone lines were working, which thank goodness they were today) and the Duke visibly cheered up. He was much happier talking to the instructors and students, and then when we went on to a primary school that had received books from DFID he was positively beaming. The genuinely warm reception everywhere, with happy gaggles of people of all ages cheerfully waving their little plastic union jacks, would have charmed anybody.

We returned to Accra via the coast road and I was able to point out the work of the Ghanaian coffin makers, with coffins shaped and painted as tractors, beer bottles, guitars, desks, cars and even a packet of condoms. The Prince laughed heartily, and we arrived at the Parliament building in high good spirits. There he was first shown to a committee room where he was introduced to senior MPs of all parties. “How many Members of Parliament do you have?” he asked. “Two hundred” came the answer. “That’s about the right number,” opined the Prince, “We have six hundred and fifty MPs, and most of them are a complete bloody waste of time.”

The irony was that there was no British journalist present to hear this, as they had all thought a meeting between Prince Philip and Ghanaian parliamentarians would be too boring. There were Ghanaian reporters present, but the exchange didn’t particularly interest them. So a front page tabloid remark, with which the accompanying photo could have made a paparazzi a lot of money, went completely unreported.

On a State Visit, the media cannot each be at every occasion, as security controls mean they have to be pre-positioned rather than milling about while the event goes ahead. So by agreement, those reporters and photographers accredited to the visit share or pool their photos and copy. At each event there is a stand, or pool. Some events may have more than one pool to give different angles. Each journalist can probably make five or six pools in the course of the visit, leapfrogging ahead of the royal progress. But everyone gets access to material from all the pools. The FCO lays on the transport to keep things under control. Organising the pool positions ahead of the event with the host country, and then herding and policing the often pushy media in them, is a major organisational task. Mike Nithavrianakis had carried it off with style and only the occasional failure of humour. But he had found no takers for Prince Philip in parliament, which proved to be fortunate for us.

I should say that I found Prince Philip entirely pleasant while spending most of this day with him. I am against the monarchy, but it was not created by the Queen or Prince Philip. Just as Colonel Isaac of the RUF was a victim of the circumstances into which he was born, so are they. Had I been born into a life of great privilege, I would probably have turned out a much more horrible person than they are.

Prince Philip then joined the Queen in the parliamentary chamber. Her address to parliament was to be the focal point of the visit. I had contributed to the drafting of her speech, and put a lot of work into it. The speech was only six minutes long (she never speaks longer than that, except at the State Opening of Parliament. Her staff made plain that six minutes was an absolute maximum.) It contained much of the usual guff about the history of our nations and the importance of a new future based upon partnership. But then she addressed Rawlings directly, praising his achievements in bringing Ghana on to the path of democracy and economic stability. The government benches in parliament provided an undercurrent of parliamentary “hear hears”.

But there was to be a sting in the tale: “Next, year, Mr President,” the Queen intoned, “You will step down after two terms in office in accordance with your constitution.” The opposition benches went wild. The Queen went on to wish for peaceful elections and further progress, but it was drowned out by the cries of “hear hear” and swishing of order papers from the benches, and loud cheers from the public gallery. There were mooted cries of “No” from the government side of the chamber.

I had drafted that phrase, and it had a much greater effect than I possibly hoped for, although I did mean it to drive home the message exactly as it was taken.

For a moment the Queen stopped. She looked in bewilderment and concern at the hullabaloo all around her. The Queen has no experience of speaking to anything other than a hushed, respectful silence. But, apart from some grim faces on the government benches, it was a joyful hullabaloo and she ploughed on the short distance to the end of her speech.

Once we got back to the Labadi Beach Hotel, Robin Cook was completely furious. He stormed into the makeshift Private Office, set up in two hotel rooms. “It’s a disaster. Who the Hell drafted that?” “Err, I did, Secretary of State” I said. “Is that you, Mr Murray! I might have guessed! Who the Hell approved it.” “You did.” “I most certainly did not!” “Yes you did, Secretary of State. You agreed the final draft last night.”

His Private Secretary had to dig out the copy of the draft he had signed off. He calmed down a little, and was placated further when the Queen’s robust press secretary, Geoff Crawford, said that he took the view that it was a good thing for the Queen to be seen to be standing up for democracy. It could only look good in the UK press. He proved to be right.

The State Banquet was a rather dull affair. Ian Mackley’s great battle to be on the top table proved rather nugatory as, in very Ghanaian fashion, nobody stayed in their seat very long and people were wandering all over the shop. There were a large number of empty seats as, faced with an invitation to dinner at 7.30pm, many Ghanaians followed their customary practice and wandered along an hour or so late, only to find they would not be admitted. This caused a huge amount of angst and aggravation, from which those of us inside were fortunately sheltered.

Mrs Rawlings had chosen a well known Accra nightclub owner named Chester to be the compère for the occasion. His bar is a relaxed spot in a small courtyard that features good jazz and highlife music, and prostitutes dressed as Tina Turner. It was a second home for the officers of the British Military Advisory and Training Team (BMATT).

Chester himself was friendly and amusing, but amusing in a Julian Clary meets Kenneth Williams meets Liberace sort of way. Chester says he is not gay, (regrettably homosexuality is illegal in Ghana) but his presentation is undeniably ultra camp. It is hard to think of a weirder choice to chair a state banquet, but Chester was a particular pet of Mrs Rawlings.

Chester was stood on the platform next to the Queen, gushing about how honoured he was. His speech was actually very witty, but the delivery was – well, Chester. I turned to Prince Philip and remarked: “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two Queens together before.” To give credit to Chester, I gather he has been telling the story ever since.

High camp was to be a theme of that evening.

Fiona and I accompanied the Royal party back to the Labadi Beach Hotel to say goodnight, after which Fiona returned home to Devonshire House while I remained for a debriefing on the day and review of the plans for tomorrow. By the time we had finished all that it was still only 11pm and I retired to the bar of the Labadi Beach with the Royal Household. The senior staff – Tim and Geoff – withdrew as is the custom, to allow the butlers, footmen, hairdressers and others to let off steam.

The party appeared, to a man, to be gay. Not just gay but outrageously camp. The Labadi Beach, with its fans whirring under polished dark wood ceilings, its panelled bar, displays of orchids, attentive uniformed staff and glossy grand piano – has the aura of a bygone colonial age, like something from Kenya’s Happy Valley in the 1930s. You expect to see Noel Coward emerge in his smoking jacket and sit down at the piano, smoking through a mother of pearl cigarette holder. It is exactly the right setting for a gay romp, and that is exactly what developed after a few of the Labadi Beach’s wonderful tropical cocktails.

We had taken the entire hotel for the Royal party, except that we had allowed the British Airways crew to stay there as always. Now three of their cabin stewards, with two Royal footmen and the Queen’s hairdresser, were grouped around the grand singing Cabaret with even more gusto than Liza. Other staff were smooching at the bar. All this had developed within half an hour in a really magical and celebratory atmosphere that seemed to spring from nothing. I was seated on a comfortable sofa, and across from me in an armchair was the one member of the Household who seemed out of place. The Duke of Edinburgh’s valet looked to be in his sixties, a grizzled old NCO with tufts of hair either side of a bald pate, a boxer’s nose and tattoos on his arms. He was smoking roll-ups.

He was a nice old boy and we had been struggling to hold a conversation about Ghana over the din, when two blokes chasing each other ran up to the settee on which I was sitting. One, pretending to be caught, draped himself over the end and said: “You’ve caught me, you beast!” I turned back to the old warrior and asked: “Don’t you find all this a bit strange sometimes?” He lent forward and put his hand on my bare knee below my kilt: “Listen, ducks. I was in the Navy for thirty years.”

So I made my excuses and left, as the News of the World journalists used to put it. I think he was probably joking, but there are some things that are too weird even for me, and the lower reaches of the Royal household are one of them. I have heard it suggested that such posts have been filled by gays for centuries, just as harems were staffed by eunuchs, to avoid the danger of a Queen being impregnated. Recently I have been most amused by news items regarding the death of the Queen Mother’s long-standing footman, who the newsreaders have been informing us was fondly known as “Backstairs Billy”. They manage to say this without giving the slightest hint that they know it is a double entendre.

The incident in parliament had made the Rawlings government even more annoyed about the proposed handshake in the International Conference Centre reception between the Queen and John Kufuor. My own relationship with Ian Mackley had also deteriorated still further as a result of the Royal Visit. I had the advantage that I already knew from previous jobs the palace officials and Robin Cook’s officials, and of course Robin Cook himself, not to mention the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh. All in all, I suspect that Ian felt that I was getting well above myself.

As the party formed up to walk around the reception in the International Conference Centre, Ian came up to me and grabbed my arm rather fiercely. “You, just stay with the Queen’s bodyguards” he said. I did not mind at all, and attached myself to another Ian, the head of the Queen’s close protection team. I already knew Ian also. Ian set off towards the hall and started ensuring a path was clear for the Queen, I alongside him as ordered. Suddenly I heard Sarah Mackley positively squeal from somewhere behind me: “My God, he’s ahead of the Queen! Now Craig’s ahead of the Queen.” If I could hear it, at least forty other people could. I managed to make myself as invisible as possible, and still to accomplish the introduction to John Kufuor. The government newspaper the Daily Graphic was to claim indignantly that I had introduced John Kufuor as “The next President of Ghana.” Had I done so, I would have been in the event correct in my prediction, but in fact I introduced him as “The opposition Presidential candidate”.

As always, the Queen’s last engagement on the State Visit was to say farewell to all the staff who had helped. She gives out gifts, and confers membership of the Royal Victorian Order on those deemed to merit it. Only once in the Queen’s long reign had she ever been on a state visit and not created our Ambassador or High Commissioner a Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order – that is to say, knighted him. Ian and Sarah were to become Sir Ian and Lady Sarah. This seemed to me to mean the world to them.

The day before, Tim Hitchens had turned to me as we were travelling in the car: “Craig, I take it your views on honours have not changed.” “No, Tim, I still don’t want any.” “Good, you see that makes it a bit easier, actually. You see, the thing is, we’re trying to cut down a bit on giving out routine honours. The government wants a more meritocratic honours system. We need to start somewhere. So, in short, Ian Mackley is not going to get his K.” I was stunned. Tim continued: “And as well, you see, it hasn’t exactly escaped our attention that he has … issues with the Ghanaians, and some of his attitudes didn’t exactly help the visit. Anyway, if you were to want your CVO, then that would be more difficult. Ian Mackley is going to have one of those. So that will be alright.”

No, it won’t be alright, I thought. You’ll kill the poor old bastard. For God’s sake, everyone will know.

I wondered when the decision had been taken. The kneeling stool and the ceremonial sword had definitely been unloaded from the plane and taken to the hotel: that was one of the things I had checked off. When had that decision been reached?

We were lined up in reverse order of seniority to go in and see the Queen and Prince Philip. I queued behind the Defence Attaché, with Ian and Sarah just behind me. She was entering as well – nobody else’s wife was – because she was expecting to become Lady Mackley. Tim was going to tell them quickly after I had entered, while they would be alone still waiting to go in.

You may not believe me, but I felt completely gutted for them. It was the very fact they were so status obsessed that made it so cruel. I was thinking about what Tim was saying to them and how they would react. It seemed terribly cruel that they had not been warned until the very moment before they were due to meet the Queen. I was so worried for them that I really had less than half my mind on exchanging pleasantries with the Queen, who was very pleasant, as always.

If you refused honours, as I always did, you got compensated by getting a slightly better present. In Warsaw I was given a silver Armada dish, which is useful for keeping your Armada in. In Accra I was given a small piece of furniture made with exquisite craftsmanship by Viscount Linley. Shelving my doubts about the patronage aspect of that (should the Queen be purchasing with public money official gifts made by her cousin?) I staggered out holding rather a large red box, leaving through the opposite side of the room to that I had entered. Outside the door I joined the happy throng of people clutching their presents and minor medals. Mike Nithavrianakis and Brian Cope were Ian Mackley’s friends, and they were waiting eagerly for him. “Here’s Craig” said Mike, “Now it’s only Sir Ian and Lady Sarah!” “No, it’s not, Mike”, I said, “He’s not getting a K” “What! You’re kidding!” It had suddenly fallen very silent. “Ian’s not getting a K, he’s only getting a CVO.” “Oh, that’s terrible.” We waited now in silence. Very quickly the door opened again, and the Mackleys came out, Ian with a frozen grin, Sarah a hysterical one beneath the white large-brimmed hat that suddenly looked so ridiculous. There was a smattering of applause, and Sarah fell to hugging everyone, even me. We all congratulated Ian on his CVO, and nobody ever mentioned that there had been any possibility of a knighthood, then or ever.

Personally I don’t understand why anyone accepts honours when there is so much more cachet in refusing them.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 10: Premonitions]

Several weeks and depressive episodes later...I’m BACK! 😃

And guess what: we’re officially approximately halfway done with BYCNL! (There will probably be nineteen chapters total.)  

The Queen/BoRhap fandom is feeling extra quiet lately, so if you’re still out there I’d LOVE it if you dropped me a comment/message/etc to let me know! I appreciate you all so much and hope you are finding things that bring you happiness, fulfillment, and peace. 💜

Chapter summary: Roger makes a purchase, Freddie makes a friend, Y/N makes an unsettling discovery, John makes a bewildering request.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, babies (but not your babies...or are they?!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 😊

“Roger, this is too much.” Your sandals click on the marble tile floor, a sandy gold like the beaches of Ostia. You peer up at the winding staircase, the Tudor-style diamond windows, the chandelier dripping with crystals. “This is way, way, way too much.”

“There’s no such thing as too much,” he parries merrily. “And look!” He pulls back an armful of sheer white curtains that had obscured the backyard. “The pool has a slide!”

You smile because you have to; he’s so elated, so young. “Roger, baby, unless you’re planning to acquire a literal harem of women we will never have a use for six bedrooms.”

“Sure we will!” He counts on his rugged fingers. “There’s one for us, and one can be the guest bedroom for when my mother or your parents visit, and then there’s one for if Chrissie ever wises up and leaves that wanker Brian and requires a place to stay between husbands, and one for when John needs an escape from that mind-numbing domestic purgatory of his, and one for Freddie’s overflow cats...” Roger trails off. He’s lost track.  

“That still leaves one unnecessary bedroom.”

He grins. “One for Roger Junior.”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s a wonderful home for children,” the real estate agent chimes, flitting around rearranging pillows and dusting off tabletops. “Plenty of space to spread out in, lots of bedrooms, fenced-in yard, security gate, spectacular school district...and such a lovely garden to explore! Does your wife garden?” she asks Roger.

“Girlfriend,” he corrects. “And no, she’s thoroughly useless in the agricultural department.”

You laugh and shove him away. “I have other talents.”

“You certainly do.” He growls as he grips your waist, inhales you, bites playfully down your neck and collarbones. The real estate agent raises her eyebrows, but politely averts her gaze and pretends to check if an artificial fern needs watering.

It’s the downturn of August, 1976. The sun is glaring and hot and spills in through the windows, setting the metallic flecks in the marble floor alight. It makes you think of the Yellow Brick Road, of fantasies built piece by piece into truth. John and Veronica bought a house in Putney, Brian and Chrissie a far larger one in Chelsea, Freddie and Mary a posh flat in West Kensington. Roger has his heart set on nothing less than a Surrey mansion. On the rare occasion that Queen has been home since the start of the A Night At The Opera Tour, you and Roger stay in his shabby—dodgy, you remind yourself—old apartment and pack boxes late into the evening, giggling over all the random and ancient relics you stumble across, sticks of Freddie’s eyeliner and dust bunnies tangled in strands of Brian’s spiraled hair, crumpled up spheres of paper with excerpts of songs scrawled on them, fossilized crusts of grilled cheese sandwiches beneath the couch. Queen is preparing for a brief UK tour at the start of September, including a free concert in Hyde Park organized by entrepreneur Richard Branson. Then it’ll be back to the studio to record their next album, a highly anticipated album, an album that will make millions regardless of what’s on it; and what’s on it, in your humble and musically unlearned opinion, is pretty goddamn great.

“Seriously,” Roger prompts, quietly now. “Do you like it?”

“Of course I like it. I love it. I just don’t need it.”

He grins. “I know you don’t need it. But I do.”

“That list of yours is getting awfully long.”

“You have no idea. We haven’t even started on the exotic pet collection yet.”

“There’s a marvelous koi pond out in the backyard,” the real estate agent says. “You could add turtles, and frogs, and all different types of fish. I can recommend sturgeon, they have such an alluring primeval sort of look to them, and the shimmer on shubunkins is just delightful...”

“You heard the lady.” Rog stretches his right hand like he does when his arm bothers him, when the bone that will never fully heal aches like something ancient and irredeemable, like hunger, like unrequited love: fingertips sprayed outwards, then folded into his palm, then outwards again.

“Rog...I don’t know.”

“Come on, baby! It has everything. Roman-style master bath. Bedrooms with mirrors on the ceiling. Space for my own studio. Land. Enormous refrigerators. You’ll have abundant room for John’s drawings.”

“Ohhh, now that’s true.” John is always adding to your collection, slipping you sketches as the boys scurry around getting ready before a show, during songwriting sessions that last long after midnight, when the band and its expanding circle of friends and family gather for birthdays and holidays. You don’t ask him about You’re My Best Friend, or, come to think of it, any of his other songs. You don’t ask him how he feels about his new life as a husband and father. And in return, John doesn’t ask whether you’re ever going to marry Roger, if you even want to, if you worry about what the future holds. It’s a loaded peace, but a comfortable one. A safe one.

“It doesn’t bother you, does it?” Roger asks suddenly. “The girlfriend thing. The not-wife thing.”

“No,” you reply, smiling. “Of course not.” Roger isn’t someone who pens love letters, recites all the reasons why he cannot live without you, sings love songs. He rarely speaks of love at all. Roger is as he always is: all action, all energy, eyes forever looking forward. But he does love you; you’re sure he does. Everything he does bleeds with love.

“Good. Because there’s no one I’d rather acquire a harem and zoological park with.”

“Okay,” you relent. “But no lions or tigers or bears. I’m quite attached to your limbs, and you’ve come close enough to ruining them already.”

“Deal.” He taps the Canon that hangs from your shoulder by its strap. “We should document this momentous juncture. One day we can pull out the photo album and show Roger Junior. ‘Hey look kid, this was the day Mum and Dad bought the house you were conceived in.’”

You laugh, almost positive that Roger isn’t serious. “I can guarantee you that precisely zero percent of children would ever want to hear that.” Nevertheless, you ready the camera and hold it as far away as you can, the lens aimed towards you.

“Don’t forget to smile!” Roger trills in his high, victorious voice as he rests his chin in the dip of your collarbone.

You snap the photo. The flash bursts through the kitchen of the Surrey mansion, blinding you both. The artificial bluish light dissipates like smoke.

~~~~~~~~~~

His name is Laszlo, and he’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen...even when he’s not especially well-mannered.

Currently, Laszlo—an Eastern European moniker from somewhere in his mother’s comically vast family tree—is whimpering and squirming against Veronica’s chest as she pats his tiny back and sighs wearily. Veronica, ever the good Polish Catholic wife, is already pregnant again. Chrissie smirks triumphantly and puffs on a cigarette, her rings glimmering on her left hand, her dress violet and new and very expensive. Brian is lost in some deep intellectual conversation with Richard Branson, gesturing with his long nimble hands and nodding empathetically, his dark curls rustling in the breeze like the lithe branches of a willow tree.

“Thank god you’re here,” John calls as you and Roger approach. “Freddie is about to get this concert cancelled.”

“I’m about to make this concert fabulous, darling,” Freddie objects. “We need pyrotechnics, we need sparklers and explosions and fireworks!”

Mr. Branson shakes his head. “Can’t do it, Fred. The embers could travel and set the trees on fire.”

Freddie groans. “Tell him, Roger!”

Roger shrugs, grinning, resting his elbow on John’s shoulder. “I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t burn down Hyde Park.”

“You’ll be under a huge orange canopy, right over there.” Mr. Branson motions with a sweep of his arm. “You can’t do anything aerial. Flashing lights, sure. Fog, sure. But no fire. No explosions. Oh, and there’s technically a noise ordinance, but we’re working out a deal so the city won’t enforce it on the day of the show.”

“Orange?!” Freddie squeals.

“How will the acoustics be in a tent?” Brian asks, troubled.

John smiles mischievously. “Yes, how dreadful if no one could hear the extraneous guitar solos.”

“I have a gong, Rich,” Roger says. “Everyone will be able to hear my gong, right?”

“Your gong?” Freddie whines. “What about my voice?!”

“I miss stadiums,” Roger grumbles. You exchange a knowing glance with Mary and Chris and Veronica, who is imploring Laszlo to take a bottle. Our boys are difficult, aren’t they?

“The acoustics will be fine,” Mr. Branson snaps. “The tent color will be fine. Everything will be fine. You don’t need any fucking fireworks. Please for the love of god just tell me what kind of sandwiches you want.”

“That’ll be an ordeal as well,” Chrissie quips, and you all laugh; even Laszlo perks up, stops wriggling, glimpses around the open green space with curious greyish eyes like John’s.

Some teenage employee carrying a tangle of cables trots over, sweat dripping down his flushed freckled cheeks. “Mr. Branson? There’s someone from the city here to see you.”

Richard Branson smacks his forehead. “Jesus christ. Okay, I’ll be right there. Hey, Steve, hey, have you seen Dom? Go find Dom and tell her to come over here, okay? Thanks.”

The teenage employee nods and disappears into a sea of bustling people ferrying equipment, fliers, chairs, messages.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Mr. Branson says. “These city bastards are out to crucify me. You’d think they’d be a little more grateful that Queen of all bands is willing to put on a free concert in their backyard, but alas. Hey, Dom, over here!”

He waves to a petite young woman with a glossy shock of black hair and olive Mediterranean skin. She’s wearing all yellow: shorts patterned with daffodils, a tank top the color of butter, a headband like a sunbeam. One of her trim arms is cradling a notebook; the other reaches out so she can shake hands with everyone. The gesture is courteous but somewhat unnatural.

“This,” Mr. Branson begins, “is my personal assistant Dominique. She’s wonderful, she’ll listen to all your pretentious tales of woe and do it with a smile, because she’s a true professional. Better yet, she’s going to ask you the tedious questions I was supposed to so you don’t have to wait for me to finish sparring with the city council. Okay? Okay. Have fun. I’ll be back.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Dom says placidly in a heavy French accent. So that’s why her handshake was off somehow, stilted and weak; the French usually kiss as a greeting. You choke back a snort as you imagine Veronica’s reaction to that. Mr. Branson stalks away muttering about litigious twats.

“Oh, aren’t you just darling!” Freddie circles Dom, admiring her outfit, her hair, her gold hoop earrings. He wafts his cigarette around flamboyantly, completely forgetting to smoke it. “The French are so tasteful, aren’t they? You simply must connect me with your stylist.”

“I would be happy to, Mr. Mercury. But regrettably, I am my own stylist.”

“Ahh!” Freddie exhales, enamored. Mary lifts Laszlo from Veronica’s tired arms and cradles him, tickles his nose, beams down into his fresh and inquisitive face.

Dom pulls a pen from her shirt pocket. “May I ask your sandwich preferences for the day of the show?”

She immediately receives four very different answers, and she raises an eyebrow, her pen hovering over the lined paper of her notebook.

“I’m so sorry about them,” Chrissie says, and Dom chuckles civilly.

“Ham and cheddar,” Freddie tells her, synthesizing the responses. “Bacon, fried fish, steak and onion jam...and something for Brian. Cucumber maybe. Could we get some cucumber sandwiches, dear?”

“You’re a vegetarian?” Dom asks Brian, jotting down notes.

“He’s morally superior to us in every way,” John sighs dreamily, and Rog and Freddie cackle.

“I’m not a strict vegetarian,” Bri clarifies. “But for the sake of the animals and the planet, I try to limit meat when I can.”

Roger adds: “And I order twice as much of it, just to spite him.”

Dominique leads Queen around the portion of Hyde Park where the concert will be held, runs through the itinerary, fields a litany of questions and complaints. And you decide that you like Dom; she’s professional and reserved, yes, but she’s also patient with Freddie, smiles at his jokes, compliments his black-and-yellow striped shirt (“We match, and you remind me of a...oh, what’s the word in English? That bug...it flies around buzzing...buzz buzz...a bee!”), asks him what he’s planning to wear to the show. She assuages Brian, listens to John, takes the time to chat with the women about children, makeup, homes, what it’s like to be in love with rock stars. But Dom mostly ignores Roger, dodges his grins, remains staunchly undazzled. And that would worry you—because Roger loves the chase, you know that firsthand—if he hadn’t already taught you how to trust him, how addictively flawless and exhilarating life with Roger Taylor could be.

When Laszlo begins to fuss in Mary’s grasp, you take your turn holding him; and he blinks up at you with eyes that are wide and clear and seeking, and you find yourself feeling like you always do when you’re around your godson: like maybe you have a stronger opinion about wanting children than you thought you did, like you can’t stop envisioning a baby with Roger’s eyes instead of John’s.

That evening—after leaving Hyde Park, after dinner, after drinks mixed out by the koi pond—as you doze in a sweltering bubble bath and steam curls through the air, you hear Roger’s voice floating from the kitchen downstairs. You rise out of the tub, towel yourself off, slip into a white silk robe as rivulets of bathwater slink down the back of your neck. You tread gingerly towards the kitchen, keep silent so you can hear, lurk in the shadows of the hallway with your palms pressed flat against the wallpaper.

“Hello, is Dominique Beyrand in?” Roger says into the kitchen phone. “I’ve been trying to track her down. Sure, I’ll wait. Thanks.” After a pause, he continues. “Hi, Dom! It’s Roger Taylor, from Queen. The irritating blond one. I was just wondering if you’d happened to stumble across my wallet since this afternoon, I seem to have misplaced it. Oh, you haven’t? Bloody hell. Well, thank you for taking my call. Aw, that’s so kind of you, I’m sure I’ll locate it eventually. I’ve got a terrible habit of losing things. Okay, thanks so much. Goodnight to you too. See you soon. Cheers.” He hangs the phone up as you step into the kitchen. His smile is bright and innocuous. “Hey, baby!”

“Who was that?” Your tone is similarly casual; or so you hope.

“Just Richard Branson’s assistant. That French woman Dominique. I can’t find my wallet and thought I might have left it at Hyde Park, but no dice. Oh well.”

Roger begins rummaging through the drawer full of business cards and address books, tapping his foot, humming to himself. And surely he isn’t trying to avoid my eyes. Your gaze skates over the marble countertop. There, by the refrigerator, just a few feet—a meter, you correct yourself to be properly British—from where Roger stands, is his black leather wallet.

“It’s right there, Rog,” you say, pointing. And now your voice isn’t so nonchalant.

Roger spins to check. “Oh my god, I completely missed it!” He snatches up the wallet with a celebratory chuckle. “I’m such a twit sometimes. You’re too fucking smart, you know that? You’re making me look bad.”

He rushes to you, takes your left hand, bites your knuckles lightly like he did outside Massachusetts General Hospital under dawn skies over two years ago. And then Roger whispers to you, nuzzling your neck scented with lavender soap and doubt.

“Let’s go to bed.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a knock at the door. John is standing on the front porch of the Surrey house with his hands in his pockets and a vague sort of smile on his face. He’s in a black suit.

“Get ready,” he says. “Do your hair, throw on some earrings. Maybe the pearls Roger got you last Christmas. We’re going shopping.”

“Why do I need to look fancy to go shopping?”

John shrugs, feigning indifference; but the puckish glint in his eyes gives him away. Yet there’s something a little sad and weighty in them too, isn’t there?

Your own eyes narrow. “I’m onto you, bassist.”

He laughs as you tug teasingly at a lock of his downy hair. “You always are.”

John takes you to a dress shop on Bond Street where the corsets trickle with gemstones and the designers all have Italian names: Armani, Prada, Abate, Cerruti, Valentino, Biagiotti. He sinks into a leather chair just outside the fitting room and lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, points to you with the lit end.

“Go ahead. Go wild. It’s a blank check.”

“Really?!” You glance around the shop, your pulse racing. “But I don’t know the occasion. I don’t want to be underdressed or overdressed or whatever. Although I don’t think I’ve ever been overdressed in my life.”

“Yes, you can’t seem to shake those pragmatic service industry roots, can you?” Another drag. “You need a dress and matching shoes. Formal, but not too formal. Think a record company party. Elegant but exciting. Lots of sparkle. Slightly slutty, if you’re so inclined.”

“This is an unconventional bonding activity,” you tell John, trying to conceal your nerves.

“Love, this isn’t something you can fail at,” he says, gently now. “You’re going to look amazing no matter what. So just have fun with it. This isn’t a test. This is one of those adventures you’re always searching for.”

I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage; that’s what Roger once told you. But maybe you don’t always want to be quite so free, so unmoored. “Okay. But you have to swear to give honest opinions. I don’t want to show up looking like a wombat because you were too nice to say anything.”

John just chuckles to himself, shakes his head, devours cigarette after cigarette.

With the assistance of one of the shop employees, you climb into a pastel pink dress with a full ruffled skirt, an emerald green dress with an empire waist and loose sheer sleeves, a shimmering metallic silvery dress with a form-fitting silhouette. John nods at all of them, wholeheartedly approves, defers to your judgment. He periodically consults his wristwatch as he taps his cigarettes on the rim of an ashtray, and deflects your questions when you ask him why. Then you step out of the fitting room—balanced on gold heels—in a white dress with a hem that hits just above your knees, a halter neckline, a slim keyhole down the center of your chest; and John’s cigarette tumbles out of his fingers.

“That’s the one,” he breathes, soaking it in. Then he asks the employee to cut off all the tags and whips out his wallet. “Toss your old clothes and shoes in a bag. We gotta catch a cab.”

“We’re going straight to the party?”

“We certainly are.”

“What the hell kind of ridiculously lame party starts at 3 p.m.?”

John smirks craftily. “The kind of party we’re going to. Let’s rock and roll, Florence Nightingale.”

John gives the taxi driver an address and you sail through the streets of London, splashing through shallow evaporating puddles, squinting when sunlight ricochets glaringly off the slick pavement. The taxi rolls to a stop outside of a grand stone building with columns and intricate carvings of leaves and flowers. The sign outside reads: Kensington and Chelsea Register Office.

You turn to John. “Who’s getting married?!”

He just smiles, a deep harbor of secrets.

“It’s Fred and Mary, right? Jesus christ, John, you can’t wear white to someone else’s wedding, Mary’s going to strangle me—”

“It’s not Mary’s wedding.”

Slowly, your jaw falls open. “No,” you whisper in disbelief.

John darts out of the taxi, jogs around to your side, and opens the door for you. You gape up at him senselessly, struggling to remember how to form sentences.

“John...this...this is some bizarre and elaborate joke, right?”

“Nope.” He offers his hand, helps you out of the taxi, leads you up the front steps of the Register Office. Inside, everyone is waiting: Freddie and Mary, Brian and Chrissie, Veronica with babbling baby Laszlo, Roger’s mother and sister...and Roger, of course, in his best black suit and bleached blond hair and trademark guaranteed-to-dazzle (unless of course you’re Dominique Beyrand) grin. He flies to you and takes your hands in his.

“You look incredible, baby.”

“Roger, what’s going on...?”

“Don’t freak out,” he commands, and instantly your panic vanishes. There’s a pink rose pinned to his lapel. “I know we don’t feel like we need to get married. I know we agree it doesn’t mean anything.” Is that still true? “So don’t think that this is about trying to trap you or control you or bullshit white picket fences or anything. And of course you can say no, I won’t be mad, no one will hold that against you, we can find some other reason to party. But the simple facts are that I’m a British national with a mansion and a plethora of perpetual royalties and you’re an American here on a work visa, and the law gets a bit thorny in this situation. And I want to make sure you’re taken care of if something happens to me. That you can carry out my wishes. That you can stay here with the band as long as you want to. So, I’ve got your passport and birth certificate and everything else we need...and some overly-enthusiastic witnesses. Are you cool with signing a piece of paper today?”

“Of course she bloody well is!” Freddie exclaims, and everyone laughs. Mary is carrying a basket full of champagne flutes, Chrissie several bottles of pink champagne, Roger’s sister a tub of ice. Brian has been entrusted to chronicle the event with your Canon. Veronica is more giddy than you’ve ever seen her, even more animated than she was at her own wedding. Well, I suppose she doesn’t have to worry about any illicit pregnancies or condemnatory great aunts this time around.

“Okay,” you tell Roger. And you wish you weren’t beaming so broadly your cheeks ache, because it feels a little pathetic to be this happy about an admittedly meaningless wedding. But it does make you happy, your general aversion towards conventionality be damned.

You sign papers and you toast glasses and you giggle uproariously in the lobby of the Register Office with the best friends you’ve ever had, guzzle pink champagne, pose for photos, take your turn holding Laszlo, kiss Roger beneath the stone arch of the centuries-old building.

It doesn’t mean anything, you remind yourself, suddenly very aware of the missing weight of a ring on your left hand. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything.

But you catch a few furtive glances between Chrissie and Bri, the twist of a frown on Freddie’s face when he thinks no one is watching, the distance in John’s shadowy eyes as he inhales champagne like air.

It doesn’t mean anything.

[otasor70]

To my friends I am currently in the hospital with Covid-19 double pneumonia my doctors are working to keep my airways open. I collapsed Monday at CVS trying to get tested for covid and smacked my head in the concrete. Palm Beach Gardens Police, fire department and fire rescue were all in the scene in seconds. I did not regain consciousness for over 10 min. Brought by ambulance here and found out that I do in fact have Covid-19, double pneumonia. A representative from palm beach health department and the Florida department of health both sent phone calls to speak to me personally. Professionalism 👍🏼

Some birthday Aug 3 turned out to be

😞😷🤒🤧😵‍💫🚓🚑🚒🏨

[moulinrouge78-blog]

Sex fantasies and other surprises - Part 1

Netflix made me do it. This is my first fanfiction contribution ever posted. It’s hot and erotic because I love and live for SMUT. Enjoy.....

They have been together for a year now and he couldn’t be happier. Their long distance relationship isn’t easy but works out pretty well and today wasn’t just the Friday she would come to Capeside to be with him for a long weekend but also their 1st anniversary of being Joey and Pacey the happy in love couple who make it work.

And he’s got a plan. ‚You are a lucky bastard‘ he smiled to himself standing in front of his bathroom mirror getting ready for his drive to Capeside train station where she would arrive in around an hour. The thought about his girl made him feel light headed and gave him electric shivers that went straight down his groin. He looked down and could see his dick standing In excitement. But there was no time for that, first stops where the florist by the harbour and Capeside‘s fine jewellers. One last look in the mirror to ensure he didn’t miss a smudge of shaving cream on his face and his hair sat in place before he turned around grabbing his keys and went out the door. It was barely 9am and the sun was already warm standing high in a cloudless blue sky. The air smelled of seaweed and sand coming from the dunes with the birds chirping in the trees. He went around to his Ford Explorer and looked at the beach, breathing in the fresh air.  Three years ago the Dudley‘s passed away and Pacey didn’t hesitate to buy their beach house. While the winters are long and cold just as they are around everywhere in Massachusetts he thought Capeside is the most beautiful place on earth in summer when the weather is like this. 

Pacey checked the weather forecast for weeks and this weekend was perfect. He couldn’t stop smiling all the way to the florist and greeted one of the delivery drivers once he parked his car and run over to help the man handling big buckets of Magnolia, Echinacea, Roses, Poppies, Water Lillies, Day Lillies and Pale Grass Pink Orchids. 

‚Hey Rob, let me give you a hand‚ he said taking two of the buckets from the struggling man’s arm, nodding at him. ‚Oh thank you Pacey, these flowers don’t look heavy but they certainly are and I am not getting younger‘ Rob said wiping off a thin layer of sweat he felt forming on his forehead. ‚Ah man, you are still as chirpy and not a day older than 45, are you not?‘ Pacey said with a wide grin. ‚Well add another decade to it and you are about right!‘ Rob chuckled returning a friendly smile. ‚Ohh before i forget. Your flowers are ready! Rob said. Ohh brilliant timing. That’s why I am here. Thank you! 

Ten minutes later, Pacey left the shop with his wildflower garland made of blue false indigo, bowmen‘s root and peach leaved bluebells. He asked for seasonal wild flowers and the arrangement couldn’t be prettier. 

The jewellers was just up the road, 2 traffic lights and 5 minutes away and he suddenly felt very nervous.  This was the tricky part he wanted to get right out of all things. He knew how he wanted to propose to the girl who stole his heart. It usually is Dawson’s expertise to do the fluff and romantic stuff, Pacey did lack in this department a little he thought so he took Jen with him a fortnight ago to show her the ring he selected for Joey. 

‚What do you think, Lindley?‘ he bit his lip, nervous as hell, hoping it wouldn’t be too bad. Jen stared at the open black velvet box with the tiny yellow pear shaped moissanite diamond in the platinum ring base he picked, bedded on a satin cushion. The ring wasn’t pretentious and simple despite the yellow colour of the stone. He knows Joey doesn’t like gaudy things, keeps it elegant and classy and he respected that, ok who is he kidding? he thought. Joe‘s disgust for trashy things and the want to be authentic and real was adorable and sexy as hell. A sigh escaped Jen’s mouth and than there was a long pause. ‚Uh oh, that bad, Lindley?‘ he asked suddenly his throat terribly dry, not sure if he wanted to get a response from his dear blonde friend next to him. Jen also liked being real and true at all times and usually he admired her for that but today he hopes she’s gentle on him. Jen looked at him and back down to the glass counter where Hilary the sales assistant placed the ring for them to view and her face was not showing any sort of emotion, she looked blank. ‚Listen...Jen...there is still time, I can return it and you...YOU are a women of many tastes, you can help me making the RIGHT decision!‘ He felt  frantic, his palms were sweating as he took he reaction as a sign, that this ring was a terrible pick. She finally looked up at him and her face lid up. ‚Oh my god...Pace....this is the most, beautiful ring I have ever seen. Joey truly is a lucky girl!‘ Her voice trembled a little as the emotion kicked in and she hugged him tightly ‚You did well, Witter! ‘ I wonder...‚ What’s that? He asked, breaking their embrace, looking at her happily but confused raising a brow. ‚Does this ring come in a set with earrings, if so I’ll take them!‘ Jen said with a giggle. Pacey laughed at that remark and lightly slapped her shoulder. Ouch, Witter!!! He kissed her head and logged his arm through hers leaving the shop after he paid his deposit. At the train station the clock just outside the station tower read 9:58am. Great 2 more minutes, I am not late. 

He quickly checked the arrival table on the monitor and was glad that the train was on time before he made his short way to the platform. With that he heard the chuffing sound of the fast train approaching the platform slowing down until it came to a noisy halt. Passenger‘s got off the train, restricting his view, so he tiptoed and bend his neck. It took him a few moments and he saw her. His heart pounded fast in his chest. It was only a few days ago that they been together but his body reacted like he hasn’t seen her for weeks, months or even years. She stepped off the train, holding onto a small beige hard shell travel trolley with her right hand. She wore a tie front puff sleeve midi dress in light blue with matching hairband holding her hair in a ponytail and white leather sandals with block heel. Each movement made the dress show off her long silky tanned legs. She still hasn’t spotted him, looking from left to right, a puzzled look on her face that made her mouth pout. 

Ohh those lips he thought. He could tell she didn’t bother with make up, only a little bit of mascara, a little rogue to make her cheeks glow peachy and a colourless chapstick is all she would use, she was the most beautiful girl he ever laid eyes on and he was glad she finally grown in confidence to see herself not just as a too tall woman with long limbs and feels comfortable in her skin. The tie front of her dress was open a little and he could faintly guess where her chest bone would turn into the bulge of her breasts.  His heart skipped a beat and he manoeuvred the best he could into her direction without being seen. She fumbled on the zipper of her trolley standing with her bare back to him. He reached for her waist while his other hand went to her neck placing little kisses onto the bare skin underneath her hairline.  ‘Hello gorgeous!’ ‘Mmmm’ was the only vocabulary escaping her lips. She leaned into him, eyes closed and smiling her big smile that drove him insane. 

He felt her ass rotating and grinding into his hard bulge ‘Ahhh, Pace happy to see me?’  and suddenly his khaki shorts felt way too tight. His hands holding onto her arms for stability he whispered into her ear, nibbling her lobe and finally resting his chin on her shoulder ‘Ohh Jo, you have no idea. I wouldn’t like anything more than to pull up that fabric of your dress and take you right here, right now giving by passengers a show of their life time.‘

With that he swirled her around and let her fall into his arms, looking deeply in her dark brown eyes. ‘God I missed you, Potter!’ ‘I missed you so much, my sweetheart!’ she whispered back. There it was. Just like that he was on fire. She licked her lips. Her way of saying that she is ready to be kissed. He didn’t need an Invitation to place his lips on hers. Their lips met and she opened just a little to let him in and he darted his tongue around her full mouth, stifling her moan by dancing with her tongue tip. She opened her mouth wider and he took all of her tongue, sucking on it, releasing her and sucking her tip once again, breaking free for air.

‘Let me take you home, before Doug gets send here for sexual assault in public!’ Um, yeah probably not a good idea to be stars of Capeside journal as ‘horny couple set off at train station!’ she said with an amused wink at him. They went for a quick early lunch at the ice house before heading arm in arm to the beach house. Oh my god, Pace you really went trough with it? She gestured at the outdoor shower in the garden as soon as they arrived. This is so cool. It’s not just cool but also practical in the summer after a long shift in the restaurant. Here let me show you. The shower was attached to white wooden panels with hanging baskets for toiletries, soaps, hair care, sponges and even a back rub. Two big yellow towels occupied two of the four metal hooks. The floor was made of deep blue and green mosaics and an anti slip finish. It had a long bench at the side with futon pillows where the water couldn’t reach. For privacy the shower area was secluded by it’s own 8 ft. garden fence made of thick hazel hurdle woven wattle with bushy leafy planters in front of it. The top was free but Joey noticed a handle at the side and a large panel above. ‘What’s that for?’ she wondered.

  Ohh this is for chillier evenings to keep the rain out. He turned the handle and a retractable yellow thick shade pulled out. This looks just like...

...the sail of True Love?  he finished her sentence, smiling at her. Yes, Joey it’s the same material I used for true love since it’s weather resistance and I like to feel being out of sea while having a shower outside. He smirked. I understand Pace, once a Captain always a Captain. She chuckled. I haven’t used it yet since it just got finished two days ago. But the water is on...here...step back, I’ll show you!   Joey stepped back and he turned the shower on.  Warm water splashed from the shower head. He was about to turn the shower off but Joey laid his hand on his. 

‘Leave it on Pace!’

She unfastened her sandals, slipped them off and untied her hairband. It took him a moment to register what she was doing. He closed the gate and she came towards him, started to unbutton his shirt looking him straight in his eyes. ‘I want to shower with you and feel you!’ He lost his voice and was only able to mumble ‘God Joey, this is one of my fantasies of us!’ ‘I know it’s mine, too’ she replied. She yanked his dark grey shirt off his shoulders and placed it on one of the free hooks. His chest hairs stood in anticipation as she began licking his right nipple over to his left, making them stand. His breathing was now fast and he desperately  needed her out of her dress. She suckled on his now hard nipples and he was able to free her arms from the dress, letting it slip to the floor. She stepped out off the dress and tossed it to the side, now opening the zipper of his khakis, pulling the waistband down together with his boxers. A quick ‚Ahhh‘ escaped him. He stood naked in front of her and she let out a high pitched sigh. He was so handsome, his broad shoulders and wide chest, defined long legs and his glory of dark pubic hair and big cock standing to his attention solid for her. Just looking at him sends shivers down her spine to her centre. His size used to concern her but now she just feels all tingly inside looking at him, knowing how good he feels and what electric shocks she experiences when his full length fills her. Pacey went out of his shorts, kicked off his flip flops and pulled her by the slim line of her thin thong pulling her closer with his hands freeing her from the last shed of material that was between them. She reached for his cock and held him tight, kissing his slightly open mouth. He returned the kiss, moaning in her mouth meeting her dancing tongue with his.  ‘Mmmm Joey...I love it when you are in this mood, mmm....ahhhh....don’t stop.‘ Pacey was now fully under the shower, her hands rubbing up and down his shaft, his balls hard and heavy. I need to taste you, Pace. ‚I won’t last, Jo‘

‚Than don’t, sweetheart!‘ with that she pulled his skin to expose his juicy cherry and slowly went down as much as her mouth could take, her tongue sucking on the throbbing top, licking up and down his vein, increasing the speed. Ahhh...Fuck...Jo!! His hands got lost in her now wet hair, watching her moving mouth on him. He needed to focus on something else to not burst right there and than. She felt him edging in her mouth, droplets of his salty pre-cum making her vagina quiver. Cupping his full sack, she released his length to take his hard marbles in, licking and sucking on the crinkly skin. ‘Jo, I am so close.’ This was the best foreplay. She was so wet and wanted him to shoot but couldn’t decide where she wanted it. She went fully in the warmth of the shower now. Sitting on the floor, opening her legs as wide as she could, pulling him down with her. Her vagina was on full display, her lips open to show her meaty flesh and her clit erect standing out like a flower bud. Her breath was pitchy, her eyes heavy with lust. She started moving her index and middle finger around her clit, masturbating with swift and fast movements. Jo, you are everybody’s wet dream. You are so gorgeous. He was wanking his cock hard, looking at her delicate flower, kissed her, watched her touching herself,  her nipples equally beautiful and erect. This view was all he needed and with a long ‘ahhh Jo, my sweet giiiiirllll, ahhhh...he finally exploded, his load hitting her hard on her open center. She used his juices to rub herself, hissing at the feeling that build in her. He could see her ecstasy, still panting he went down, his nose touching her soft folds so juicy and inviting like a piece of fruit. Her smell mixing with his juices, he inhaled and flickered his tongue out founding her hard clit, his fingers replacing hers, entering her slowly, not letting go off her clit to than lick up and down her slit. Ahhh, Pacey, Yes...there...yes...faster, fuck me harder.

God, what went into her? His cock hardening again, he moved her over to the soft padded bench for her to kneel on. With her ass in the air like that, her hard nipples on standing up and her breasts bouncing, he shoved his hot length in one fast thrust and she cried out ‘Yes, Pace, oh god yes, take me. Don’t hold back. I need it!’ He thrust in and out, hard and forceful, each stroke making her reach closer to the edge. Come for me baby, he said now holding onto her tits, pulling her nipples, thrusting harder like there was no tomorrow.

She was now shrieking  

Ahhh... Ohhh.... God.... yes.....yes.... Ahhhh...FUCK....I...Uhh...Ohhh...fuck....Pace....yes

He felt her walls tightening around him....she came like a tornado and with her last quiver, he pushed into her one last time, releasing his hot fluid, collapsing onto her back, trying to fetch his breath. 

She was a hot mess...giggling...after 10 minutes or so...

Pace? Yes, Jo? ‘Let’s take a shower now.’ 

With that he pulled her up, squirting the almond and milk shower gel on the sponge, starting on soaping her arms and shoulders, with a smirk on his lips he said huskily.

‘Your wish is my command, my sweet sexy kitten!’ 

And just like that her nipples lifted up again. Her not breaking his gaze responded with a wide sheepish smile

‘Ohh boy!’ To Be Continued

[walkswithdave]

Past Employers - An Honest Résumé

1978: Co-Opportunity Market, Santa Monica: To be a member of this co-op you had to pay a membership fee or work a certain number of hours a month. For a while, when I was around 10, I would ride the bus or skateboard to the market after school and work either in the back, packaging product, or at the register ringing people up. It was fun to work in the back because you could munch on whatever you were packaging: fill the plastic bag, put it in the heat sealer press thing to seal up, weigh and label, repeat. At the register it was all manual entry - no scanner. I was really fast. I can’t picture a 10 year old ringing up groceries today - and that’s one of the weird things about my childhood and why I miss the 70s.

1981: Paper route, Athens, Ohio: I was going to middle school and living with my dad in Ohio. I really wanted an Atari and spent the summer delivering the Athens Messenger to raise the $138 needed to get one (and Pitfall).

1986: Interaction Publishers, Inc. (Interact), Lakeside, California: I worked for Paul DeKock and David Yount, my high school American Studies teachers, at their small educational publishing company. This is when I first used a Mac and a mouse. I had an Apple II at the time, and the graphic interface of this Mac seemed silly to me. I mean - a little picture of a trashcan you use to delete something? I half-expected a little garbage truck to drive across the screen and empty the trash into it every time you clicked Empty. Lots of photocopying, collating, shipping.

1987: The Sizzler, Near Lakeside, California: Senior year in high school I worked at the Sizzler as the “salad bar attendant” to save the money to get the fuck out of Lakeside, California.

Summer, 1987: Critiques Choice, Stone Harbor, New Jersey: The summer after high school I lived in this small Southern New Jersey beach town, away from parents for the first time, working in a little tourist gift shop. These were amazing times.

1987 or ‘88?: University of Santa Cruz A/V Department: I used to hang out with Ty at his A/V gigs at UCSC, in the projection booth. After a time he helped me to get a job doing the same.

Summer, 1988: Sheraton Hotel, Station Square, Pittsburgh: Busboy

Summer 1989: Upper Crust Pizza, Santa Cruz: Cashier. This place was right down the street from the where I was staying with McKenzie and Aaron.

1990: Pizza My Heart, Santa Cruz: After being politely asked to leave UCSC because apparently you really need to attend classes, I worked here taking pizza and movie orders (they delivered pizza and VHS tapes).

1993: La Mistral Restaurant, Fort Lauderdale, Florida: Waiter

1993: Image Devices, Miami: Drove an old Volvo station wagon with no air conditioning around Miami delivering film and video equipment for a crazy guy named David Haylock. Got to go to Caracas for a day.

1994: Five Star Productions, Boca Raton, Florida: My first “real” job after graduating from Ohio University. I worked in the tape room of this half-a-scam production company, the first of a few of this type South Florida seems to specialize in. Had some trouble with Scott Wooley, douchebag owner. Fired.

1995: Teleview Racing Patrol, Calder, Gulfstream Park and Hialeah Park race tracks, Florida: First job editing and doing camerawork. Had lots of keys, owned the place. When I said I was quitting I was brought into the trailer at the Hialeah headquarters where the very Italian guy said I was being “disloyal.”

1996: Adcraft Productions, Palm Beach Gardens, Florida: Did camera work and editing for this company that specialized in sports programming. Got the first apartment of my own across from the beach on Singer Island. Good times.

1997: Powertrax Studios, Zimmerman and Partners Advertising, Fort Lauderdale: When Adcraft refused to raise my salary to $35,000 I went to Powertrax, where they doubled what I was making. I moved south to a little cottage behind a house right off the main avenue in Delray Beach.

1999: NiteLite Video, Pompano, Florida: After a couple years making horrendous car commercials at Zimmerman I went to NiteLite. I worked there about three months when:

1999: Powertrax Studios, Zimmerman and Partners Advertising: Zimmerman got the Nissan account and hired me back at, again, twice my salary. Now I was making really good money to do shitty commercials.

2001: Court of Two Sisters, New Orleans: I was politely asked to leave Powertrax and I went on an epic road trip, ending with a job in New Orleans as a waiter.

2001: A seafood restaurant in New Orleans: Left Court of Two Sisters to work at a Bourbon Street restaurant. Was there for Mardi Gras. This was insane.

2002: 24 Hour bar, New Orleans: bar tender, 5am - 2pm

2002: RHINO Gallery, New Orleans: I worked in this little gallery/gift shop on Royal Street and had a darkroom at my place down the street above the Golden Lantern bar.

2002: CBS Affiliate, New Orleans: Did some camera and editing here.

2002: Buy Buy Bux Sailboat: Sailed with Aaron around the Virgin Islands for a few months

Summer, 2002(3?): Watership Inn, Provincetown, Massachusetts: Worked at the Inn doing Inn things (an entire book here)

Winter, 2003: Fairbanks Inn, Provincetown, Massachusetts: Worked at the Inn doing Inn things

Summer 2004: Carpe Diem Inn, Provincetown, Massachusetts: Worked at the Inn doing Inn things

Fall 2004: White Wind Inn, Provincetown, Massachusetts: Worked at the Inn doing Inn things

Winter 2004: MG Leather, Provincetown: Sold t-shirts and sex toys

2005: CustomPlay, Delray Beach, Florida: Back in Florida just in time for Hurricane Wilma. Got a job at this ridiculous place re-editing and censoring movies for Max Abecassis, another insane Florida business owner. We had an argument about how to make a one hour version of Million Dollar Baby. Fired.

2006: The SCORE Group, Doral, Florida: Edited bad pornography. I moved to Hollywood, Florida to be closer to this job. I told my mom she could finally say her son was living in Hollywood and working in the film industry.

2008: Canvas Films, Fort Lauderdale: Another typical Florida production company, edited things like Hair Club for Men infomercials

2011: Multi Image Group, Boca Raton: I was sick of dealing with Anthony Foy, another insane Florida business owner (who once threatened me with a serving spoon). This is when I moved to the little place at the beach in Lauderdale by the Sea. I was back in a tape room situation at MIG and once again not making much money.

2011: Ed Ethridge Productions: I worked with a guy named Ed at Teleview back in 1995, and when we needed a second editor in 2000 at Zimmerman I recommended him. When I left Zimmerman he took over my job. After years there he started his own production company. In 2011 he hired me to help him make car commercials at a substantially higher salary than I was making at Multi Image Group. I had some concerns about working with him. There were some problems.

2012: US Media Television: Another Florida scam production company run by Paul Scott, Doug Scott, or whatever name he is going by now.

2013: Institute for Individual Investors (IFII), an Agora Publishing company, Delray: Editor, another Florida scam company

2015: Focal Point Productions, Jacksonville: Editor

2017-Present: Various nonsense

[honeymoonjin]

*now honeymoonjin

Chapter One

A/N: welcome to my new series! I’m super excited for it, and I hope you all enjoy it too ;)

genre: survival, angst, zombie outbreak!AU || word count: 2.4k || warnings: panic attack, cursing

prev || next || masterlist

---

“Get that thing away from me.”

You bite your lip, but it doesn’t stop the grin stretching across your face. “Come on, it’ll look good on you!” You hold out the wide-brimmed hat with a soft pout. “For me?”

Yoongi snatches the hat and puts it on with a scowl, but his cheeks redden the moment you begin praising him.

“I told you! Oh, my handsome summery boyfriend! My stylish fiancé! You can wear this when we go to the beach on our honeymoon, Yoonie.”

The scowl trembles as he fights a smile. “The wedding’s next year; why would I buy a summer hat now?”

You raise an eyebrow at him but reach up to take it off and throw it back on the shelf, turning to grab the handle of the trolley again. “Fine, then,” you call breezily over your shoulder, “let’s move on.” It takes less than thirty seconds for the white hat with a black underside to find its way in the cart, Yoongi of course turning his head away immediately and linking his hands behind his back, pretending it wasn’t him.

“Yoonie, let’s check out the linen section, we need some blankets before it really heads into winter.” Your pace with the trolley falters a little as a wave of lightheadedness hits you, but after shaking your head and blinking a few times, the lights floating around your vision fade, and you catch up with your fiancé.

Wordlessly, Yoongi uncaps the water bottle he’s been carting around the department store and passes it to you, eyes still roaming the shelves. You take it gratefully, downing a couple of gulps as he takes the trolley from you. “Mm, you’re right. We need to buy a blanket to put on our bed in our house.” He turns down the appropriate aisle, turning to give you a soft smile which you instinctively return.

Once you hand the water back to him, the two of you arrive at the aisle where tightly-packaged blankets and throws line the shelves. Absentmindedly, you reach into your bag to grab some chapstick, coating your drying lips as you ponder the different price points. “Should we get the thicker-”

“Is that chapstick nice?”

“Huh?”

You turn to Yoongi, who’s ducking his head shyly, rolling the trolley back-and-forth on the spot. “I heard that chapstick is really good, you know.”

You grin at your fiancé. You’ve known Min Yoongi long enough that you can decode his little demands. Forgetting the blankets, you step forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. He looks up at you, lips curled up slightly. After all this time and he could still be so timid. “Do you want a taste?” He looks up, eyes soft and twinkling. The tip of his tongue darts out to swipe across his full lower lip as he nods. You lean in and join your lips tenderly to his, moving against him slow enough that his breath hitches and he becomes needy for more, running his tongue over your lips to lick the flavor off. When you pull back, his breathing has picked up and he bites his lip, eyelids fluttering.

With a croaky voice, he coughs lightly. “So, blanket?”

You laugh and unlink your hands from the back of his neck, cupping his cheeks on the way, watching his eyes flutter closed as he leans into your touch. “As I was saying, I think we should get-”

You’re cut off yet again by a noisy vibration, coming from between you. Yoongi starts, and pats himself down, pulling out a ringing phone. “It’s work,” he notes with a frown, answering it.  “Min speaking. Y-Yes, sir, I can talk. Is there something wrong?” His wide eyes find yours, and they’re brimming with confusion and concern. He brings a hand up to bite at the nail nervously, a bad habit he’d been working to fix. “No, I haven’t heard anything… Oh, what? That’s alright, I guess we’ll just have to cut back on spending for a while… That bad? Sir, I think maybe-” He’s interrupted by whoever’s on the other end, likely his manager, and his eyes fly open with unfiltered panic. Automatically, you grab his hand and pull it away from his mouth, intertwining your fingers and squeezing gently, your own heart racing. He takes no notice, brow crinkling. “But please, sir, I’ve been a loyal employee for years now, surely there’s some other way! Si-”

You hear the call cut off and watch his eyes shake, flitting helplessly around, not focusing on anything. The phone slips from his slackened fingers and hits the floor hard. You hear the smack, but don’t spend a moment looking down, instead stepping forward to force yourself into Yoongi’s line of sight. “Baby, you need to take a deep breath for me, okay? Breathe with me.”

It’s not the first time Yoongi’s had a panic attack in front of you; it’s not even the first time he’s had a panic attack in front of you in public. But it has been a while, and you’re conscious of the other customers starting to stop and stare at the two of you, at the way Yoongi trembles violently and gasps for air that doesn’t seem to fill his lungs properly.

You exaggerate your own breathing, ignoring the way your heart thuds in your chest. “Come on, Yoonie. In, and out, yeah? It’s okay, it’ll be okay. Everything’s fine. I’m here. In, and out. Deep breaths for me, baby.”

His eyes finally land on yours, but they’re frenzied. “They’re letting me go.” His voice is so weak you can barely hear it, and you strain to hear him against the sound of onlookers starting to whisper back and forth. “If I don’t have a job how can we- we can’t- oh god.” His voice pitching is the only warning you get before his knees give out, and you grab onto him, lowering him gently to the floor.

A voice behind you. “Ma’am?”

You ignore it. The only thing in the world right now is your boyfriend. He’s half-lying down, propped up awkwardly against an aisle full of designer cushions. You pull out a couple, pressing them behind his back and reaching for his hands, holding on to them tightly. “It is okay,” you emphasize, “we’re okay. Deep breaths. Look, if money will be an issue, we can just push back the wedding-”

“Y/n!” You’re taken aback by the conviction in his cry. “No, we’re not doing that.” The sudden burst of protest shocks his system enough to break him out of the full brunt of the panic attack, and his eyes go glassy, his body slackening. The only thing that’s moving is his chest as he sucks in shallow gasps of air. “Please, not that…”

“Ma’am, sir. Are you both alright?”

You swivel around in your crouched position, staring up at an older gentleman in black slacks and a straining white polo shirt. The patch on the sleeve reads MALL SECURITY. “He just had a bit of a panic attack. We got some bad news.” You bite your lip, looking down at your exhausted, panting boyfriend and back up to the man. “Is there anywhere we could go just to calm down for a bit? He drove us here but I don’t want him behind the wheel like this.”

The man straightens up, hand resting naturally on a walkie talkie at his hip as he thinks. “I can take you up to the management offices. The manager himself is in meetings all day, but I’ll let him know you’re there.” He glances back down at Yoongi. “Can he…walk?”

--

It takes you far longer than expected to finally make it to the offices. They’re at the other end of the mall on the first floor, down a toilet corridor and up a flight of short stairs, and you can’t help but wonder why the fuck they’re so out-of-the-way. By the time you finally help Yoongi collapse down into an old upholstered armchair in the main office, you’re sweating from carrying most of his weight. The guard wasn’t much help; the moment you step inside he’s saluting a goodbye and leaving, the door shutting gently behind him with a click.

“How’re you doing?” you ask softly, perching on the arm of the chair and running a hand through his hair, separating the strands that have matted together with sweat.

His eyes flutter closed, and his face is simultaneously flushed in the cheeks and an ashen grey everywhere else. “What are we gonna do?”

Your heart breaks at his desolate tone, and your brushing of his hair becomes closer to massaging his scalp in the hopes of calming him down more. “Oh, Yoonie. We’ll find something. Maybe you can think of this as an opportunity? You did always want to open your own flower shop. Our new house has that garden.” He manages to muster a strained smile, nodding slightly. “How about I increase my hours, and you can focus on the garden? Get the soil ready for summer, maybe start growing some seedlings inside, and then you can sell them at the local market on the weekends.”

He laughs through his nose, though not unkindly. “Hm, aren’t most of the people that go to that market retired?”

You shrug. “Then we’ll stand out.”

He cracks open an eye. “We?”

You smile down at him, sliding off the arm of the chair to sit on his lap. “Of course.” You hold up your left hand to him, showing off the slim engagement band. “It’s we now, Yoonie. You and me against the rest of the world.”

Though he looks tired and drained, he grins at you, eyes soft. “I love you so much.”

You smile back and open your mouth, only to be cut off by a blaring screech. You wince at the piercing blare, trying to make out anything beyond the frosted glass door. “Is that the fire alarm? Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Yoongi looks stricken, but thankfully he doesn’t slip back into his panic attack. You get up off him and run to the door, him following close behind, and go to open it. The handle doesn’t budge. You frown, tug at it again, then feel Yoongi brushing you aside.

“Let me.” He jiggles it again, with enough force to rattle the glass, but it doesn’t open. “What the fuck?” The two of you share a single silent moment of confusion, as the alarm continues to ring through your skull, then his flat palm strikes the door. “Hey! Hey! Someone let us out!”

Your eyebrows knit together with worry as he continues to smack the door and holler through to the other side. As he expels his vocal cords appealing to passers-by, you do a perimeter check for other doors or windows. There’s nothing. The only windows are solid panes of glass that cannot be opened, and even if you smashed the glass, it’s a sheer face down to the ground, as the office is high enough to be on the second floor. You’re stuck.

Yoongi gives up, rubbing at the reddened skin of his palms. He has to almost yell to be heard over the alarm that persists. “Honey, can you smell smoke?”

You shake your head wordlessly.

“Neither can I,” he muses, “besides, if it were a fire the water sprinklers would’ve gone on automatically.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand what the problem could be.”

You shrug, trying to keep your breath from picking up, anxious energy rising inside of you. “Maybe it’s a drill?” You glance over to the manager’s desk, something you had previously tuned out, and notice a small belt radio on the surface. “Wait, let’s see…”

A laminated slip of paper blu-tacked to the bottom of the computer on the desk dictates different channels for each department. You pick out security and twist the dial to the correct station. It flickers in static for a moment, before a crackly voice comes through, pitchy and frantic. It’s the security guard from earlier.

“…picks this up, this is Joong-ha, I work here. Please, get out. I repeat, you need to get out of the mall, go home and lock yourselves inside. Be careful, we have sick people roaming the streets, it seems to be contagious and they’re extremely aggressive. If anyone is tuning in, go home now. Don’t walk, take a car. Run if you have to. They’re not fast but there’s so many of them. Fuck, what’s happening? I don’t- I’m leaving now, I’m getting my wife and kids and getting the fuck out of town, is isn’t-”

Yoongi rips the radio out of your hands and holds down a button on the side. “This is Min Yoongi, you helped me and my girl out in the department store? We’re still stuck in the management office, the door locked, you need to come help us.” He bites his lip. “Uh, over.”

Upon releasing the button, Joong-ha’s voice returns immediately, the two of you holding the speaker up to your ears to hear him over the siren. “…get you, okay? I can’t. I’m going home, try find a key or something, I don’t know. I’m sorry, man, my kids are at daycare, I need to leave.”

Your eyes widen and you snatch the radio back, frantically holding down the button. “No! It won’t take long, come here and get us out, please! There’s no keyhole, it needs a scanner, but you had the keycard. Please, sir!”

Yoongi’s eyes lower; his bottom lip is bleeding a little from where he’s bitten into it. With a pained expression, he shakes his head and takes the radio back off you. “We’ll figure something out. Go pick up your children. I hope they’re safe. Over and out.”

Without another word, Yoongi stares at you balefully and shrugs. You sniff, feeling tears well in your eyes, but nod. “I’m sorry,” Yoongi says finally, raising his voice so he can be heard over the constant whine of the siren, “but I don’t want us going out there alone. Not if there’s a sickness going around. He said they’re aggressive. Let’s just wait here for it to blow over, okay? We’re safe here.”

Suddenly, the siren cuts off, and the two of you are pitched into a ringing silence. It’s completely still, except for some distant screams and crashes. You think you preferred the alarm. “Safe,” you echo hollowly. You don’t think so.

---

TAGLIST

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[deadly-dweeb-packing-heat-blog]

How To Move Plants When Moving House

Like any living thing, plants require special attention. CDFA's Animal Health and Pest Exclusion Branches work cooperatively with other agencies, including California's Department of Fish and Game and the United States Department of Agriculture, to prevent the introduction and spread of harmful pests and diseases into California by long distance moving companies.

Plants that originate from areas under quarantine for imported fire ants or harmful nematode pests must be received by a nursery, business, or individual that has a valid "Quarantine Holding Area" so that plant material can be inspected if necessary.

Greenhouse plants imported under the United States Greenhouse Certification Program may have a United States Department of Agriculture - Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service (USDA-APHIS) Export Certification Label, in lieu of a Phytosanitary Certificate (see Appendix 4).

The statute also excludes restrictions on any species that is regulated under the Plant Pest Act, explicitly stating that Section 42 does not authorize any action with respect to the importation of any plant pest as defined in the Federal Plant Pest Act, insofar as such importation is subject to regulation under that Act.” Thus any animal species whose importation is regulated under the Plant Pest Act cannot be regulated under the Lacey Act. Ask your Florida Moving Companies for more information.

While you cannot pack up and take all your plants with you and full-service moving Florida companies cannot move your live plants in their trucks, there is no reason to leave living plants behind during relocation In order to transport your plants safely, keep our suggestions in mind.

The Horticulture and Quarantine Programs Division inspects, surveys and provides for the prevention, control and eradication of regulated and exotic crop pests or diseases endangering Louisiana's agricultural, horticultural, and apiary industries; ensures that products certified for export are in fact free from pests; and oversees the qualifications and practices of persons engaged in the green industry.

Except as provided in subsection (c), no person shall import , enter, export, or move long distance in interstate commerce any plant pest, unless the importation, entry, exportation, or movement is authorized under general or specific permit and is in accordance with such regulations as the Secretary may issue to prevent the introduction of plant pests into the United States or the dissemination of plant pests within the United States. Most states have a department of agriculture station on major highways when long distance Florida Moving Companies enter for instance they must stop and declare any live items such as plants before entering.    

All imports of horses, cattle, bison, sheep, goats, swine, and cervidae from any states which have a confirmed Vesicular Stomatitis positive animal or have a quarantine in place, are required to be accompanied by a pre-entry permit number prior to import into North Dakota.

Trim excess foliage: Another way to give your plants the best chance to survive a move is to trim down any excess foliage before you dig it up. Trim away any unhealthy limbs or leaves so that your plant does not have to support the parts that it does not need.

They are responsible for inspecting thousands of nursery growers and nursery stock dealers, for servicing a network of thousands of insect traps, performing numerous survey activities, and for certifying plants for movement intrastate, interstate, and abroad.

Permits Required: Certificates of approval required for discharge of a material to land or surface water, permits required for water takings of more than 50,000 litres per day (approximately ½ acre irrigated with 1 in. of water), permits required for well construction, and licences required for well contractors and technicians.

The Plant Protection Act (PPA) authorizes the USDA to prohibit or restrict the importation or interstate movement of any plant, plant product, biological control organism, noxious weed, article, or means of conveyance if the Secretary of Agriculture determines that the prohibition or restriction is necessary to prevent the introduction into the U.S., or the dissemination within the U.S., of a plant pest or noxious weed (7 U.S.C. §411(a)).

Plant material that is imported into the U.S. (or moved into the continental U.S. from Hawaii) in association with growing media may never be exported to Canada, no matter how long it is grown in the U.S. , unless it meets the requirements of the Canadian Growing Media Program (directive D-96-20) at the time of entry to the U.S.

We have seem some fantastic pot plants in our years moving Florida homes around West Palm Beach, and we thought it may be a good opportunity to shed a little light on the safest and most effective way to make sure that your ‘mobile garden' arrives in tip top shape.

According to Suke, it doesn't make as much sense to move a plant like a pothos, which can be easily replaced and grow fairly quickly, whereas something like variegated jade is typically more worth the effort of moving, since it can take a lot longer to grow and is far more expensive to replace.

Under these laws, USDA is authorized to seize, quarantine, and dispose of animals, animal products, or other material that can harbor disease or pests of livestock or poultry that are moving with in Florida, or Long Distance Movers or are being handled, or have moved or have been handled, in interstate or foreign commerce if they are infected with or exposed to a communicable disease of livestock or poultry, or if the animals are moved contrary to any of the animal quarantine laws.

Before you go through the trouble of preparing and packing your plants, be certain that you are allowed to bring those specific plants with you to the state you are moving to. Some plants will require certification to avoid bringing harmful organisms into a state.

[foryourart]

Image courtesy of the Hammer Museum. 

PLAN ForYourArt: May 17–23

Thursday, May 17

Westwood Openings and Events

READINGS: Poetry: Jennifer Moxley, Hammer Museum (Westwood), 7:30pm.

DMA M.F.A. FINAL EXHIBITION, UCLA (Westwood), 5pm.

Century City Openings and Events

Iris Nights: The Restless Genius of Garry Winogrand: A Conversation with Geoff Dyer and Sasha Waters Freyer, Annenberg Space for Photography (Century City), 7pm.

West Hollywood Openings and Events

ART DE RUE, 5Art Gallery (West Hollywood), 6–9pm.

Alain Laboile: Quotidian and Deborah Anderson: Women of the White Buffalo, Leica Gallery (West Hollywood), 6–9pm.

Openings and Events on West Adams

Americus: The Past Speaks To The Present, William Grant Still Arts Center (West Adams).

Hollywood Openings and Events

LAND IS MOVING SALE, LAND (Hollywood), 2–8pm. Performance, 8pm.

Pippa Garner: Autonomy n' Stuff (Garnerhea), Redling Fine Art (Hollywood), 6–8pm.

Downtown Openings and Events

MOCA Music: THE MARIAS, Jarina De Marco, Sister Mantos, and Chulita Vinyl Club, The Geffen Contemporary at MOCA (Downtown), 6:30–9:30pm.

Screening and Panel: Far Out Black, California African American Museum (Downtown), 7–9pm.

Between a rock and a hard place, werkartz (Downtown), 7–10pm.

The Broad and X-TRA present Lynne Tillman + Kerry Tribe in Conversation, The first in a series of talks addressing the legacy of Joseph Beuys, The Broad (Downtown), 7:30pm. $15.

Nataki Garrett & Andrea LeBlanc: The Carolyn Bryant Project, REDCAT (Downtown), 8:30pm. 

Chinatown Openings and Events

SUSAN SIMPSON: MACHINE FOR LIVING, Automata (Chinatown).

Openings and Events in Leimert Park

In Conversation: Taisha Paggett & Ashley Hunt, Art + Practice (Leimert Park), 7pm.

Openings and Events in Pasadena

Dibner Lecture - The Search for Perfection in an Imperfect World, The Huntington (San Marino), 7:30pm.

Openings and Events Beyond Los Angeles

AAMD Art Museum Day, Laguna Art Museum (Laguna Beach), 11am–9pm.

Book Signing with Michael Imperioli and Colin Gardner, Santa Barbara Museum of Art (Santa Barbara), 5:30–7pm.

Arts for Inclusion: BEST BUDDIES 5TH ANNUAL ART EXHIBITION, Museum of Latin American Art (Long Beach), 6–8:30pm.

Third Thursday Studio | Digital Sculpture, Museum of Contemporary Art Santa Barbara (Santa Barbara), 6pm.

Andy Coolquitt: …i need a hole in my head, Museum of Contemporary Art Santa Barbara (Santa Barbara), 6–8pm.

Factory Line with the Coachella Valley Art Scene, Palm Springs Art Museum (Palm Springs), 6:30–8pm.

Film Night: Dr. Strangelove, Laguna Art Museum (Laguna Beach), 7pm.

Friday, May 18

Openings and Events in Westwood

INSIGHT WACD SENIOR PROJECTS FESTIVAL 2018, UCLA (Westwood), 8pm. Continues May 19. 

Miracle Mile Openings and Events

Film: Free Screening: American Animals, LACMA (Miracle Mile), 7:30pm.

Openings and Events in Hollywood

Kimiyo Mishima: Paintings and Shomei Tomatsu: Plastics, Nonaka-Hill (Hollywood), 7–9pm.

Openings and Events in Los Feliz

Odd Nights, Autry Museum of the American West (Los Feliz), 6–11pm.

Downtown Openings and Events

Movie Nights at the Museum: William Kunstler: Disturbing The Universe, Los Angeles Poverty Department (Downtown), 7pm.

THE PEOPLE’S HOME | Winston Street 1974, THESE DAYS (Downtown), 7–10pm.

Cal State LA Community Impact Media Documentaries Premiere, Hauser & Wirth (Downtown), 7:30pm.

Openings and Events in Chinatown

Susan Simpson: A Machine for Living, Automata (Chinatown), 8pm. $15–20.

Openings and Events in MacArthur Park

Lawrence Jordan's Three Ring Circus, Bob Baker Marionette Theater (MacArthur Park), 8pm.

Openings and Events Beyond Los Angeles

Rehearsal: The Bevy, Museum of Contemporary Art Santa Barbara (Santa Barbara), 7pm. $175.

Nour Mobarak & Bana Haffar: YOU ARE THE AUDIENCE, POTTS (Alhambra), 9pm.

Saturday, May 19

Openings and Events in the Pacific Palisades

Drawing from Antiquity: Birds, Getty Villa (Pacific Palisades), 11am–12:30pm.

Plato in America: Edward Hopper, Mark Rothko, Mike Kelley, Getty Villa (Pacific Palisades), 2pm.

Openings and Events in West L.A.

Joanne Greenbaum: Things We Said Today, Otis College of Art and Design (West L.A.), 4–6pm.

Openings and Events in Westwood

URBAN HUMANITIES ALUMNI SYMPOSIUM, UCLA (Westwood), 12pm.

Openings and Events in Venice

Frame Rate: We Eat Art Live Podcast Taping, Beyond Baroque Literary Arts Center (Venice), 1–2:30pm.

Chasing Ansel Adams, Arcane Space (Venice), 2–6pm.

La pérdida / perdido, DXIX (Venice), 3–6pm.

Openings and Events in Santa Monica

Pico Block Party: Empowering Youth Voices!, 18th Street Arts Center (Santa Monica), 3–6pm.

Openings and Events in Brentwood

Off the 405: Allah-Las, Getty Center (Brentwood), 6pm.

Openings and Events in Culver City

Sister Corita Kent's "International Signal Code Alphabet" Book Launch and Discussion, Arcana: Books on the Arts (Culver City), 4–6pm.

Michael Dopp: Shining Desert and Tragedy Plus Time, Roberts Projects (Culver City), 6–8pm.

Jamison Carter: Hallelujah Anyway, Klowden Mann (Culver City), 6–8pm.

Openings and Events in Beverly Hills

Beverly Hills Art Show, Beverly Gardens (Beverly Hills). Continues May 20.

Miracle Mile Openings and Events

Talk: Exhibition Tour: A Universal History of Infamy—Those of This America, LACMA (Miracle Mile), 1:30pm.

Carole Garland: Streaming Color, Tom Wheeler - Painted Light in Western Landscapes, Isabelle Hope Grahm - My Color Garden, TAG Gallery (Miracle Mile), 5–8pm.

CAMERON PLATTER: Teen Non_Fiction, 1301PE (Miracle Mile), 6–8pm.

Families: Teen Night: Middle School, LACMA (Miracle Mile), 7:30pm.

Openings and Events in Mid-City

Carla Issue 12 Launch Party, Karma International (Mid-City), 6–9pm.

Openings and Events in Koreatown

Yarn Bomb Gabba Arts District!, Gabba Gallery (Koreatown), 10am–5pm.

Middle Voice walkthrough, Visitor Welcome Center (Koreatown), 2–4pm.

Openings and Events in MacArthur Park

Express Yourself/ William Grant Still Birthday Celebration, William Grant Still Arts Center (West Adams).

Openings and Events in Atwater Village

Metafork, Thank You For Coming (Atwater Village), 11am–3pm.

Openings and Events in Frogtown

Plant Communication & Radical Communion: Spring Flower Essence Making, Women’s Center for Creative Work (Frogtown), 11am–1:30pm. $20–25.

Openings and Events in West Hollywood

In the Name of the Place by the GALA Committee, West Hollywood Public Library (West Hollywood), 3–5pm.

Nathaniel Mary Quinn: Soundtrack, M+B (West Hollywood), 6–8pm.

Openings and Events in Hollywood

Fay Ray in conversation, Shulamit Nazarian (Hollywood), 4pm.

Marilyn Minter, Regen Projects (Hollywood), 6–8pm.

Julie Curtiss: Altered States, Various Small Fires (Hollywood), 6–8pm.

Double Vision, Steve Turner (Hollywood), 6–8pm.

Patrick Braden Woody: Cloth Mother, Wire Mother, there-there (Hollywood), 7–9pm.

Openings and Events in MacArthur Park

Bailey Scieszka: Soul Dolphin, Park View (MacArthur Park), 6–8pm.

Downtown Openings and Events

Bug Fair, Natural History Museum (Downtown), 9:30am–5pm. Continues May 20.

Artist Talk: Matthew Day Jackson in Conversation with Hamza Walker, Hauser & Wirth (Downtown), 2pm.

ARTIST WALKTHROUGH with Folkert de Jong and Nathan Redwood, DENK Gallery (Downtown), 2–3pm.

Bounty, Grice Bench (Downtown), 6–9pm.

Undisrememberable Curios, PØST (Downtown), 7–10pm.

Soft Bytes Feminist Animation Festival, Tiger Strikes Asteroid Los Angeles (Downtown), 7:30pm.

Anne Guro: Rule of a High Priest Vol. I, JACE (Downtown), 8–11pm.

Openings and Events in Lincoln Heights

Workshop: The Dancing Spine: Freedom, Power & Pain Relief with the Alexander Technique with Sharon Jakubecy Klehm, Pieter (Lincoln Heights), 1–3pm.

Openings and Events in Glendale

ONE-DAY NEON ART IMMERSIVE WITH DAVID SVENSON, Museum of Neon Art (Glendale), 10am–4pm.

Openings and Events in Pasadena

Taste of Art: English Tea Time, The Huntington (San Marino), 9am.

Out of the Woods: Celebrating Trees in Public Gardens, The Huntington (San Marino).

SkillShare: Veterans & Immigrants Oral History Recording, Side Street Projects (Pasadena), 1–4pm.

Openings and Events Beyond Los Angeles

Art+Feminism Wikipedia Edit-a-thon, Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego (San Diego), 11am–7pm.

MFA Thesis Exhibitions, Part II, CTSA Gallery (Irvine), 2–5pm.

Mona Kuhn: Selected Works, Porch Gallery (Ojai), 5–7pm.

2018 Old Bags & Baubles Luncheon, Long Beach Museum of Art (Long Beach).

Sunday, May 20

Openings and Events in Venice

Venice Art Walk, Google (Venice), 12–6pm.

Openings and Events in Santa Monica

8th Annual Beyond Baroque Awards Dinner, The Church in Ocean Park (Santa Monica), 6–9:30pm.

Openings and Events in Mar Vista

George Stoll: Spirograph Drawings (1995–2017), c.nichols project (Mar Vista), 5–8pm.

Openings and Events in Westwood

2018 K.A.M.P., Hammer Museum (Westwood), 10am–2pm. $100–150.

Openings and Events in Culver City

Promote-Tolerate-Ban: Art and Culture of Cold War Hungary and Socialist Flower Power: Soviet Hippie Culture, Wende Museum (Culver City), 12–5pm.

Miracle Mile Openings and Events

Talk: Gallery Course: European Art, 1750–1850—Neoclassicism and the Barbizon School, LACMA (Miracle Mile), 8:30am.

Mark Grotjahn: 50 Kitchens and Decoding Mimbres Painting: Ancient Ceramics of the American Southwest, LACMA (Miracle Mile), 10am–7pm.

Seeing Stars: A Bamboo Sculpture Workshop with Akio Hizume, Craft and Folk Art Museum (Miracle Mile), 1–3pm. $40–50.

Downtown Openings and Events

On The Wall! Street Art Youth Workshop, 356 Mission (Downtown), 1–4pm.

Place It Workshop with James Rojas, California African American Museum (Downtown), 1–3pm.

Listening Session #2 with Noah Copelin, MOCA Grand Avenue (Downtown), 3pm.

The World Is My Home, THE SPACE by ADVOCARTSY (Downtown), 4–7pm.

Openings and Events in Frogtown

Feminist Manifesto Writing Workshop, Women’s Center for Creative Work (Frogtown), 2–6pm. $12–15.

Openings and Events in Echo Park

Luca Francesconi: Eternal Digestion, 67 Steps (Echo Park), 7–9pm.

Openings and Events in MacArthur Park

The Circus, Bob Baker Marionette Theater (MacArthur Park), 5:30pm.

Openings and Events in Lincoln Heights

Orgasmic Yoga: Dr. Victoria Reuveni, Pieter (Lincoln Heights), 6–10pm. $30–40.

Openings and Events in Highland Park

Miller Robinson: Of this body; of this earth, Southwest Museum (Highland Park), 1–3pm.

Openings and Events in Pasadena

In Conversation with Susan Whitfield and Peter Sellars, The Huntington (San Marino), 2pm.

Openings and Events Beyond Los Angeles

Nam June Paik: TV Clock, Santa Barbara Museum of Art (Santa Barbara).

Artist talk: Scott Froschauer: Echo Enigma closing, Ark Gallery and Studios (Altadena), 3–5pm.

Rehearsal: The Harvest, Museum of Contemporary Art Santa Barbara (Santa Barbara), 6pm.

Monday, May 21

Openings and Events in Santa Monica

A Conversation with L.A. Artists Njideka Akunyili Crosby and Charles Gaines, Santa Monica College Performing Arts Center (Santa Monica), 6:30pm. $35.

Openings and Events in Westwood

BRETT STEELE, UCLA (Westwood), 6:30pm.

Openings and Events in Pasadena

Carnegie Astronomy Lecture - Astronomical Alchemy: The Origin of the Elements, The Huntington (San Marino), 7pm.

Openings and Events Beyond Los Angeles

Families: On-Site: North Hollywood—Comic-inspired Art Series, North Hollywood Amelia Earhart Regional Library (North Hollywood), 2pm.

High Desert Test Kitchen: may ingredient: cholla, Copper Mountain Mesa Community Center (Joshua Tree), 7pm

Tuesday, May 22

Openings and Events in Westwood

INA CONRADI + MARK CHAVEZ: MEDIA ART NEXUS NTU SINGAPORE, UCLA (Westwood), 6pm.

CONVERSATIONS: The Sex Ed with Liz Goldwyn, Nina Hartley, and Dita Von Teese, Hammer Museum (Westwood), 7:30pm.

Openings and Events in Brentwood

In Focus: Expressions, Getty Center (Brentwood), 10am–5:30pm.

Miracle Mile Openings and Events

Film: The Magician, LACMA (Miracle Mile), 1pm.

Downtown Openings and Events

Youth Now, California African American Museum (Downtown), 12–3pm.

Wednesday, May 23

Openings and Events in Westwood

FOWLER OUT LOUD: JOHNNIE YAJ, Fowler Museum (Westwood), 6pm. 

Openings and Events in Brentwood

India and the World: A History in Nine Stories, Getty Center (Brentwood), 7pm.

Openings and Events in Mid-City

Back to the 80s, The Loft at Liz’s (Mid-City), 7–9pm.

Openings and Events Downtown

wasteLAnd premieres Wolfgang v. Schweinitz’s Cantata, or You are the star in God’s eye, REDCAT (Downtown), 8:30pm. $10–20.

Openings and Events in Pasadena

Curator Tour: Radiant Beauty, The Huntington (San Marino), 5pm.

Crotty Lecture - Remembering the Reformation, The Huntington (San Marino), 7:30pm.

[bountyofbeads]

This Is Trump’s Fault

The president is failing, and Americans are paying for his failures.

By David Frum | Published April 7, 2020 | The Atlantic | Posted April 16, 2020 |

“Idon’t take responsibility at all,” said President Donald Trump in the Rose Garden on March 13. Those words will probably end up as the epitaph of his presidency, the single sentence that sums it all up.

Trump now fancies himself a “wartime president.” How is his war going? By the end of March, the coronavirus had killed more Americans than the 9/11 attacks. By the first weekend in April, the virus had killed more Americans than any single battle of the Civil War. By Easter, it may have killed more Americans than the Korean War. On the present trajectory, it will kill, by late April, more Americans than Vietnam. Having earlier promised that casualties could be held near zero, Trump now claims he will have done a “very good job” if the toll is held below 200,000 dead.

The United States is on trajectory to suffer more sickness, more dying, and more economic harm from this virus than any other comparably developed country.

[ Read: How the pandemic will end]

That the pandemic occurred is not Trump’s fault. The utter unpreparedness of the United States for a pandemic is Trump’s fault. The loss of stockpiled respirators to breakage because the federal government let maintenance contracts lapse in 2018 is Trump’s fault. The failure to store sufficient protective medical gear in the national arsenal is Trump’s fault. That states are bidding against other states for equipment, paying many multiples of the precrisis price for ventilators, is Trump’s fault. Air travelers summoned home and forced to stand for hours in dense airport crowds alongside infected people? That was Trump’s fault too. Ten weeks of insisting that the coronavirus is a harmless flu that would miraculously go away on its own? Trump’s fault again. The refusal of red-state governors to act promptly, the failure to close Florida and Gulf Coast beaches until late March? That fault is more widely shared, but again, responsibility rests with Trump: He could have stopped it, and he did not.

The lying about the coronavirus by hosts on Fox News and conservative talk radio is Trump’s fault: They did it to protect him. The false hope of instant cures and nonexistent vaccines is Trump’s fault, because he told those lies to cover up his failure to act in time. The severity of the economic crisis is Trump’s fault; things would have been less bad if he had acted faster instead of sending out his chief economic adviser and his son Eric to assure Americans that the first stock-market dips were buying opportunities. The firing of a Navy captain for speaking truthfully about the virus’s threat to his crew? Trump’s fault. The fact that so many key government jobs were either empty or filled by mediocrities? Trump’s fault. The insertion of Trump’s arrogant and incompetent son-in-law as commander in chief of the national medical supply chain? Trump’s fault.

For three years, Trump has blathered and bluffed and bullied his way through an office for which he is utterly inadequate. But sooner or later, every president must face a supreme test, a test that cannot be evaded by blather and bluff and bullying. That test has overwhelmed Trump.

Trump failed. He is failing. He will continue to fail. And Americans are paying for his failures.

The coronavirus emerged in China in late December. The Trump administration received its first formal notification of the outbreak on January 3. The first confirmed case in the United States was diagnosed in mid-January. Financial markets in the United States suffered the first of a sequence of crashes on February 24. The first person known to have succumbed to COVID-19, the disease caused by the coronavirus, in the United States died on February 29. The 100th died on March 17. By March 20, New York City alone had confirmed 5,600 cases. Not until March 21—the day the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services placed its first large-scale order for N95 masks—did the White House begin marshaling a national supply chain to meet the threat in earnest. “What they’ve done over the last 13 days has been really extraordinary,” Jared Kushner said on April 3, implicitly acknowledging the waste of weeks between January 3 and March 21.

[ Peter Wehner: The Trump presidency is over]

Those were the weeks when testing hardly happened, because there were no kits. Those were the weeks when tracing hardly happened, because there was little testing. Those were the weeks when isolation did not happen, because the president and his administration insisted that the virus was under control. Those were the weeks when supplies were not ordered, because nobody in the White House was home to order them. Those lost weeks placed the United States on the path to the worst outbreak of the coronavirus in the developed world: one-fourth of all confirmed cases anywhere on Earth.

Those lost weeks also put the United States—and thus the world—on the path to an economic collapse steeper than any in recent memory. Statisticians cannot count fast enough to keep pace with the accelerating economic depression. It’s a good guess that the unemployment rate had reached 13 percent by April 3. It may peak at 20 percent, perhaps even higher, and threatens to stay at Great Depression–like levels at least into 2021, maybe longer.

This country—buffered by oceans from the epicenter of the global outbreak, in East Asia; blessed with the most advanced medical technology on Earth; endowed with agencies and personnel devoted to responding to pandemics—could have and should have suffered less than nations nearer to China. Instead, the United States will suffer more than any peer country.

It didn’t have to be this way. If somebody else had been president of the United States in December 2019—Hillary Clinton, Jeb Bush, Mike Pence, really almost anybody else—the United States would still have been afflicted by the coronavirus. But it would have been better prepared, and better able to respond.Through the early weeks of the pandemic, when so much death and suffering could still have been prevented or mitigated, Trump joined passivity to fantasy. In those crucial early days, Trump made two big wagers. He bet that the virus could somehow be prevented from entering the United States by travel restrictions. And he bet that, to the extent that the virus had already entered the United States, it would burn off as the weather warmed.

[ Read: All the president’s lies about the coronavirus]

At a session with state governors on February 10, Trump predicted that the virus would quickly disappear on its own. “Now, the virus that we’re talking about having to do—you know, a lot of people think that goes away in April with the heat—as the heat comes in. Typically, that will go away in April. We’re in great shape though. We have 12 cases—11 cases, and many of them are in good shape now.” On February 14, Trump repeated his assurance that the virus would disappear by itself. He tweeted again on February 24 that he had the virus “very much under control in the USA.” On February 27, he said that the virus would disappear “like a miracle.”

Those two assumptions led him to conclude that not much else needed to be done. Senator Chris Murphy left a White House briefing on February 5, and tweeted:

Just left the Administration briefing on Coronavirus. Bottom line: they aren’t taking this seriously enough. Notably, no request for ANY emergency funding, which is a big mistake. Local health systems need supplies, training, screening staff etc. And they need it now.

Trump and his supporters now say that he was distracted from responding to the crisis by his impeachment. Even if it were true, pleading that the defense of your past egregious misconduct led to your present gross failures is not much of an excuse.

But if Trump and his senior national-security aides were distracted, impeachment was not the only reason, or even the principal reason. The period when the virus gathered momentum in Hubei province was also the period during which the United States seemed on the brink of war with Iran. Through the fall of 2019, tensions escalated between the two countries. The United States blamed an Iranian-linked militia for a December 27 rocket attack on a U.S. base in Iraq, triggering tit-for-tat retaliation that would lead to the U.S. killing General Qassem Soleimani on January 3, open threats of war by the United States on January 6, and the destruction of a civilian airliner over Tehran on January 8.

The preoccupation with Iran may account for why Trump paid so little attention to the virus, despite the many warnings. On January 18, Trump—on a golf excursion in Palm Beach, Florida—cut off his health secretary’s telephoned warning of gathering danger to launch into a lecture about vaping, The Washington Post reported.

Two days later, the first documented U.S. case was confirmed in Washington State.

Yet even at that late hour, Trump continued to think of the coronavirus as something external to the United States. He tweeted on January 22: “China has been working very hard to contain the Coronavirus. The United States greatly appreciates their efforts and transparency. It will all work out well. In particular, on behalf of the American People, I want to thank President Xi!”

Impeachment somehow failed to distract Trump from traveling to Davos, where in a January 22 interview with CNBC’s Squawk Box, he promised: “We have it totally under control. It’s one person coming in from China. We have it under control. It’s going to be just fine.”

Trump would later complain that he had been deceived by the Chinese. “I wish they could have told us earlier about what was going on inside,” he said on March 21. “We didn’t know about it until it started coming out publicly.”

If Trump truly was so trustingly ignorant as late as January 22, the fault was again his own. The Trump administration had cut U.S. public-health staff operating inside China by two-thirds, from 47 in January 2017 to 14 by 2019, an important reason it found itself dependent on less-accurate information from the World Health Organization. In July 2019, the Trump administration defunded the position that embedded an epidemiologist inside China’s own disease-control administration, again obstructing the flow of information to the United States.

Yet even if Trump did not know what was happening, other Americans did. On January 27, former Vice President Joe Biden sounded the alarm about a global pandemic in an op-ed in USA Today. By the end of January, eight cases of the virus had been confirmed  in the United States. Hundreds more must have been incubating undetected.

On January 31, the Trump administration at last did something: It announced restrictions on air travel to and from China by non-U.S. persons. This January 31 decision to restrict air travel has become Trump’s most commonly proffered defense of his actions. “We’ve done an incredible job because we closed early,” Trump said on February 27. “We closed those borders very early, against the advice of a lot of professionals, and we turned out to be right. I took a lot of heat for that,” he repeated on March 4. Trump praised himself some more at a Fox News town hall in Scranton, Pennsylvania, the next day. “As soon as I heard that China had a problem, I said, ‘What’s going on with China? How many people are coming in?’ Nobody but me asked that question. And you know better than—again, you know …  that I closed the borders very early.”

Because Trump puts so much emphasis on this point, it’s important to stress that none of this is true. Trump did not close the borders early—in fact, he did not truly close them at all.

The World Health Organization declared a global health emergency on January 30, but recommended against travel restrictions. On January 31, the same day the United States announced its restrictions, Italy suspended all flights to and from China. But unlike the American restrictions, which did not take effect until February 2, the Italian ban applied immediately. Australia  acted on February 1, halting entries from China by foreign nationals, again ahead of Trump.

And Trump’s actions did little to stop the spread of the virus. The ban applied only to foreign nationals who had been in China during the previous 14 days, and included 11 categories of exceptions. Since the restrictions took effect, nearly 40,000 passengers have entered the United States from China, subjected to inconsistent screenings, The New York Times  reported.

At a House hearing on February 5, a few days after the restrictions went into effect, Ron Klain—who led the Obama administration’s efforts against the Ebola outbreak—condemned the Trump policy as a “travel Band-Aid, not a travel ban.”

That same afternoon, Trump’s impeachment trial ended with his acquittal in the Senate. The president, though, turned his energy not to combatting the virus, but to the demands of his own ego.

The president’s top priority through February 2020 was to exact retribution from truth-tellers in the impeachment fight. On February 7, Trump removed Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Vindman from the National Security Council. On February 12, Trump withdrew his nomination of Jessie Liu as undersecretary of the Treasury for terrorism and financial crimes, apparently to punish her for her role in the prosecution and conviction of the Trump ally Roger Stone. On March 2, Trump withdrew the nomination of Elaine McCusker to the post of Pentagon comptroller; McCusker’s sin was having raised concerns that suspension of aid to Ukraine had been improper. Late on the evening of April 3, Trump fired Intelligence Community Inspector General Michael Atkinson, the official who had forwarded the Ukraine whistleblower complaint to the House and Senate Intelligence Committees, as the law required. As the epigrammist Windsor Mann tweeted that same night: “Trump’s impeachment distracted him from preparing for a pandemic, but the pandemic did not distract him from firing the man he holds responsible for his impeachment.”

[ Read: The pandemic will cleave America in two]

Intentionally or not, Trump’s campaign of payback against his perceived enemies in the impeachment battle sent a warning to public-health officials: Keep your mouth shut. If anybody missed the message, the firing of Captain Brett Crozier from the command of an aircraft carrier for speaking honestly about the danger facing his sailors was a reminder. There’s a reason that the surgeon general of the United States seems terrified to answer even the most basic factual questions or that Rear Admiral John Polowczyk sounds like a malfunctioning artificial-intelligence program at press briefings. The president’s lies must not be contradicted. And because the president’s lies change constantly, it’s impossible to predict what might contradict him.

“Best usa economy IN HISTORY!” Trump tweeted on February 11. On February 15, Trump shared a video from a Senate GOP account, tweeting: “Our booming economy is drawing Americans off the sidelines and BACK TO WORK at the highest rate in 30 years!”

Denial became the unofficial policy of the administration through the month of February, and as a result, that of the administration’s surrogates and propagandists. “It looks like the coronavirus is being weaponized as yet another element to bring down Donald Trump,” Rush Limbaugh said on his radio program February 24. “Now, I want to tell you the truth about the coronavirus … Yeah, I’m dead right on this. The coronavirus is the common cold, folks.”

“We have contained this,” Trump’s economic adviser Larry Kudlow told CNBC on February 24. “I won’t say airtight, but pretty close to airtight. We have done a good job in the United States.” Kudlow conceded that there might be “some stumbles” in financial markets, but insisted there would be no “economic tragedy.”

On February 28, then–White House Chief of Staff Mick Mulvaney told an audience at the Conservative Political Action Conference, near Washington, D.C.:

The reason you’re ... seeing so much attention to [the virus] today is that [the media] think this is gonna be what brings down this president. This is what this is all about. I got a note from a reporter saying, “What are you gonna do today to calm the markets.” I’m like: Really, what I might do today to calm the markets is tell people to turn their televisions off for 24 hours ... This is not Ebola, okay? It’s not SARS, it’s not MERS.

That same day, Secretary of State Mike Pompeo scolded a House committee for daring to ask him about the coronavirus. “We agreed that I’d come today to talk about Iran, and the first question today is not about Iran.”

Throughout the crisis, the top priority of the president, and of everyone who works for the president, has been the protection of his ego. Americans have become sadly used to Trump’s blustery self-praise and his insatiable appetite for flattery. During the pandemic, this psychological deformity has mutated into a deadly strategic vulnerability for the United States.

[ Read: The four possible timelines for life returning to normal]

“If we were doing a bad job, we should also be criticized. But we have done an incredible job,” Trump said on February 27. “We’re doing a great job with it,” he told Republican senators on March 10. “I always treated the Chinese Virus very seriously, and have done a very good job from the beginning,” he tweeted on March 18.

For three-quarters of his presidency, Trump has taken credit for the economic expansion that began under President Barack Obama in 2010. That expansion accelerated in 2014, just in time to deliver real prosperity over the past three years. The harm done by Trump’s own initiatives, and especially his trade wars, was masked by that continued growth. The economy Trump inherited became his all-purpose answer to his critics. Did he break laws, corrupt the Treasury, appoint cronies, and tell lies? So what? Unemployment was down, the stock market up.

Suddenly, in 2020, the rooster that had taken credit for the sunrise faced the reality of sunset. He could not bear it.

Underneath all the denial and self-congratulation, Trump seems to have glimpsed the truth. The clearest statement of that knowledge was expressed on February 28. That day, Trump spoke at a rally in South Carolina—his penultimate rally before the pandemic forced him to stop. This was the rally at which Trump accused the Democrats of politicizing the coronavirus as “their new hoax.” That line was so shocking, it has crowded out awareness of everything else Trump said that day. Yet those other statements are, if possible, even more relevant to understanding the trouble he brought upon the country.

Trump does not speak clearly. His patterns of speech betray a man with guilty secrets to hide, and a beclouded mind. Yet we can discern, through the mental fog, that Trump had absorbed some crucial facts. By February 28, somebody in his orbit seemed to already be projecting 35,000 to 40,000 deaths from the coronavirus. Trump remembered the number, but refused to believe it. His remarks are worth revisiting at length:

Now the Democrats are politicizing the coronavirus, you know that, right? Coronavirus, they’re politicizing it. We did one of the great jobs. You say, “How’s President Trump doing?” They go, “Oh, not good, not good.” They have no clue. They don’t have any clue. They can’t even count their votes in Iowa. They can’t even count. No, they can’t. They can’t count their votes.

One of my people came up to me and said, “Mr. President, they tried to beat you on Russia, Russia, Russia.” That didn’t work out too well. They couldn’t do it. They tried the impeachment hoax. That was on a perfect conversation. They tried anything. They tried it over and over. They’d been doing it since you got in. It’s all turning. They lost. It’s all turning. Think of it. Think of it. And this is their new hoax.

But we did something that’s been pretty amazing. We have 15 people [sick] in this massive country, and because of the fact that we went early. We went early; we could have had a lot more than that. We’re doing great. Our country is doing so great. We are so unified. We are so unified. The Republican Party has never ever been unified like it is now. There has never been a movement in the history of our country like we have now. Never been a movement.

So a statistic that we want to talk about—Go ahead: Say USA. It’s okay; USA. So a number that nobody heard of, that I heard of recently and I was shocked to hear it: 35,000 people on average die each year from the flu. Did anyone know that? Thirty-five thousand, that’s a lot of people. It could go to 100,000; it could be 27,000. They say usually a minimum of 27, goes up to 100,000 people a year die.

And so far, we have lost nobody to coronavirus in the United States. Nobody. And it doesn’t mean we won’t and we are totally prepared. It doesn’t mean we won’t, but think of it. You hear 35 and 40,000 people and we’ve lost nobody and you wonder, the press is in hysteria mode.

On February 28, very few Americans had heard of an estimated death toll of 35,000 to 40,000, but Trump had heard it. And his answer to that estimate was: “So far, we have lost nobody.” He conceded, “It doesn’t mean we won’t.” But he returned to his happy talk. “We are totally prepared.” And as always, it was the media's fault. “You hear 35 and 40,000 people and we’ve lost nobody and you wonder, the press is in hysteria mode.”

By February 28, it was too late to exclude the coronavirus from the United States. It was too late to test and trace, to isolate the first cases and halt their further spread—that opportunity had already been lost. It was too late to refill the stockpiles that the Republican Congresses of the Tea Party years had refused to replenish, despite frantic pleas from the Obama administration. It was too late to produce sufficient ventilators in sufficient time.

But on February 28, it was still not too late to arrange an orderly distribution of medical supplies to the states, not too late to coordinate with U.S. allies, not too late to close the Florida beaches before spring break, not too late to bring passengers home from cruise lines, not too late to ensure that state unemployment-insurance offices were staffed and ready, not too late for local governments to get funds to food banks, not too late to begin social distancing fast and early. Stay-at-home orders could have been put into effect on March 1, not in late March and early April.

[ Quinta Jurecic and Benjamin Wittes: Trump’s allies know he has failed]

So much time had been wasted by the end of February. So many opportunities had been squandered. But even then, the shock could have been limited. Instead, Trump and his inner circle plunged deeper into two weeks of lies and denial, both about the disease and about the economy.

On February 28, Eric Trump urged  Americans to go “all in” on the weakening stock market.

Kudlow repeated his advice that it was a good time to buy stocks on CNBC on March 6 after another bad week for the financial markets. As late as March 9, Trump was still arguing that the coronavirus would be no worse than the seasonal flu.

So last year 37,000 Americans died from the common Flu. It averages between 27,000 and 70,000 per year. Nothing is shut down, life & the economy go on. At this moment there are 546 confirmed cases of CoronaVirus, with 22 deaths. Think about that!

But the facade of denial was already cracking.

Through early march, financial markets declined and then crashed. Schools closed, then whole cities, and then whole states. The overwhelmed president responded by doing what comes most naturally to him at moments of trouble: He shifted the blame to others.

The lack of testing equipment? On March 13, Trump passed that buck to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the Obama administration.

The White House had dissolved the directorate of the National Security Council responsible for planning for and responding to pandemics? Not me, Trump said on March 13. Maybe somebody else in the administration did it, but “I didn’t do it ... I don’t know anything about it. You say we did that. I don’t know anything about it.”

Were ventilators desperately scarce? Obtaining medical equipment was the governors’ job, Trump said on a March 16 conference call.

Did Trump delay action until it was far too late? That was the fault of the Chinese government for withholding information, he complained on March 21.

On March 27, Trump attributed his own broken promises about ventilator production to General Motors, now headed by a woman unworthy of even a last name: “Always a mess with Mary B.”

Masks, gowns, and gloves were running short only because hospital staff were stealing them, Trump suggested on March 29.

Was the national emergency medical stockpile catastrophically depleted? Trump’s campaign creatively tried to pin that on mistakes Joe Biden made back in 2009.

At his press conference on April 2, Trump blamed the shortage of lifesaving equipment, and the ensuing panic-buying, on states’ failure to build their own separate stockpile. “They have to work that out. What they should do is they should’ve—long before this pandemic arrived—they should’ve been on the open market just buying. There was no competition; you could have made a great price. The states have to stock up. It’s like one of those things. They waited. They didn’t want to spend the money, because they thought this would never happen.”

Were New Yorkers dying? On April 2, Trump fired off a peevish letter to Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer: “If you spent less time on your ridiculous impeachment hoax, which went haplessly on forever and ended up going nowhere (except increasing my poll numbers), and instead focused on helping the people of New York, then New York would not have been so completely unprepared for the ‘invisible enemy.’”

Trump’s instinct to dodge and blame had devastating consequences for Americans. Every governor and mayor who needed the federal government to take action, every science and medical adviser who hoped to prevent Trump from doing something stupid or crazy, had to reckon with Trump’s psychic needs as their single biggest problem.

As his medical advisers sought to dissuade Trump from proceeding with his musing about reopening the country by Easter, April 12, Deborah Birx—the White House’s coronavirus-response coordinator—appeared on the evangelical CBN network to deliver this abject flattery: “[Trump is] so attentive to the scientific literature & the details & the data. I think his ability to analyze & integrate data that comes out of his long history in business has really been a real benefit.”

Governors got the message too. “If they don’t treat you right, I don’t call,” Trump explained at a White House press briefing on March 27. The federal response has been dogged by suspicions of favoritism for political and personal allies of Trump. The District of Columbia has seen its requests denied, while Florida gets everything it asks for.

The weeks of Trump-administration denial and delay have triggered a desperate scramble among states. The Trump administration is allocating some supplies through the Federal Emergency Management Agency, but has made the deliberate choice to allow large volumes of crucial supplies to continue to be distributed by commercial firms to their clients. That has left state governments bidding against one another, as if the 1787 Constitution had never been signed, and we have no national government.

[ Mehrsa Baradaran: The U.S. should just send checks—but won’t]

In his panic, Trump is sacrificing U.S. alliances abroad, attempting to recoup his own failure by turning predator. German and French officials accuse the Trump administration of diverting supplies they had purchased to the United States. On April 3, the North American company 3M publicly  rebuked the Trump administration for its attempt to embargo medical exports to Canada, where 3M has operated seven facilities for 70 years.

Around the world, allies are registering that in an emergency, when it matters most, the United States has utterly failed to lead. Perhaps the only political leader in Canada ever to say a good word about Donald Trump, Ontario Premier Doug Ford, expressed disgust at an April 3 press conference. “I just can’t stress how disappointed I am at President Trump ... I’m not going to rely on President Trump,” he said. “I’m not going to rely on any prime minister or president from any country ever again.” Ford argued for a future of Canadian self-sufficiency. Trump’s nationalist selfishness is proving almost as contagious as the virus itself—and could ultimately prove as dangerous, too.

As the pandemic kills, as the economic depression tightens its grip, Donald Trump has consistently put his own needs first. Right now, when his only care should be to beat the pandemic, Trump is renegotiating his debts with his bankers and lease payments with Palm Beach County.

[ Kori Schake: The imperial presidency comes to a sudden halt SEE TIMELINE]

He has never tried to be president of the whole United States, but at most 46 percent of it, to the extent that serving even the 46 percent has been consistent with his supreme concerns: stealing, loafing, and whining. Now he is not even serving the 46 percent. The people most victimized by his lies and fantasies are the people who trusted him, the more conservative Americans who harmed themselves to prove their loyalty to Trump. An Arkansas pastor told The Washington Post of congregants “ready to lick the floor” to support the president’s claim that there is nothing to worry about. On March 15, the Trump-loyal governor of Oklahoma tweeted a since-deleted photo of himself and his children at a crowded restaurant buffet. “Eating with my kids and all my fellow Oklahomans at the @CollectiveOKC. It’s packed tonight!” Those who took their cues from Trump and the media who propagandized for him, and all Americans, will suffer for it.

Governments often fail. From Pearl Harbor to the financial crisis of 2008, you can itemize a long list of missed warnings and overlooked dangers that cost lives and inflicted hardship. But in the past, Americans could at least expect public spirit and civic concern from their presidents.

Trump has mouthed the slogan “America first,” but he has never acted on it. It has always been “Trump first.” His business first. His excuses first. His pathetic vanity first.

Trump has taken millions in payments from the Treasury. He has taken millions in payments from U.S. businesses and foreign governments. He has taken millions in payments from the Republican Party and his own inaugural committee. He has taken so much that does not belong to him, that was unethical and even illegal for him to take. But responsibility? No, he will not take that.

Yet responsibility falls upon Trump, whether he takes it or not. No matter how much he deflects and insults and snivels and whines, this American catastrophe is on his hands and on his head.

_____

DAVID FRUM is a staff writer at The Atlantic and the author of Trumpocalypse: Restoring American Democracy (2020). In 2001 and 2002, he was a speechwriter for President George W. Bush.

*********

The Paycheck Protection Program Is Failing

Small businesses such as ours won’t survive without a lot more help.

Moshe Schulman, Alexis Percival, and Patrick Cournot | Published April 16, 2020 6:00 AM ET | The Atlantic Magazine | Posted April 16, 2020 |

It was a punch in the mouth when we had to close the doors of our three New York City restaurants and lay off 25 employees. We had been searching frantically for a way to stay open. We had kept up with the news, read press releases from New York Governor Andrew Cuomo and New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio, and talked on the phone with our insurance agent and our lawyers. Ultimately, we had to inform our employees that they would be out of work until further notice.

Our last service was on Sunday, March 15. Sales that weekend had dipped by 25 percent. Before the mandate to end dine-in operations came from city officials, we saw the writing on the wall: With the increasing number of COVID-19 cases in the city, sales would continue to decline. We would not be able to make payroll the following week. 

[ Derek Thompson: America’s restaurants will need a miracle]

We urged our employees to immediately file for unemployment, as we expected the Department of Labor systems to be overwhelmed—which they were, to a staggering degree. Luckily, most of our staff got through early and has been receiving unemployment for the past two to three weeks.

What about pickup and delivery? Sure, easy to say, but we would have to bring in roughly $30,000 in sales a week for one location just to meet expenses. That’s about 650 people a week ordering delivery or pickup at an average of $45 a person. That’s after Caviar or Grubhub takes its 30 percent cut. Near impossible. The numbers don’t lie.

Since locking the doors and freezing our auto-debits, we have been in survival mode. We started a GoFundMe campaign for our staff and raised enough money to pay health-insurance premiums for April. Our loyal supporters continue to buy gift cards. We launched an online wine-class series to stay connected with our guests and create a revenue stream, albeit a minor one ($10 a class). Those funds will help us pay our vendors and turn the lights on when we can safely reopen.

But these emergency measures are unsustainable without assistance from the federal and local government. And so far, that assistance has been impractical, insufficient, or both.

Last month, de Blasio announced a $75,000 interest-free loan available to local businesses that could prove a 25 percent decrease in sales over a two-month period in comparison with sales in the same two months in 2019. Only recently did we meet the threshold, since our drop-off was so sudden, starting in the second week of March, unlike restaurants in Chinatown, for instance, that closed in February. As of last week, applications were closed. Our attorneys think they can push ours through since they created an account in time, but the money is presumed to have dried up.

The Economic Injury Disaster Loan program, run through the Small Business Administration, requires a personal guarantor for the amount of money we would need. We are not in a position to guarantee hundreds of thousands of dollars. Especially without any idea of when we will be able to reopen or what business will look like. Will the hours of operation be limited? Occupancy reduced? Our previous sales projections are now moot. 

And business-interruption insurance? Most restaurants don’t even pay for this. We do, but our broker informed us that our policy excludes closures due to a virus. Such is the case for most policyholders in New York State. A handful of well-known restaurateurs are uniting to fight their insurance carriers. So will we, but we aren’t holding our breath.

In late March, when Congress passed the $2 trillion relief package, we thought one component in particular, the Paycheck Protection Program (PPP), would finally provide a real lifeline. Here’s why it doesn’t.

The premise of PPP is that the federal government will loan you up to two and a half times your monthly payroll through private lenders, and the loan will be forgiven as long as 75 percent of those funds are allocated to retaining and paying employees. The other 25 percent can be used on rent and utilities.

After the bill passed, the Small Business Administration, which is in charge of the PPP, added a new clause that requires 75 percent of the funds to be used for payroll whether you are seeking forgiveness or not. It also requires you to either keep or rehire all your staff. The kicker: Those payroll funds must be used within eight weeks from the time the loan is distributed, which could happen as early as this week.

A serious flaw in this plan is that hourly employees might be disincentivized to return to work, as many of them will earn more under the expanded unemployment benefits than what they usually make. If some hourly employees decide that unemployment insurance is a better deal, businesses can remain eligible for the PPP only by hiring replacements—a fantasy staff for a ghost establishment.

While it’s admirable for government officials to think of employees first, they are forgetting a crucial element of employment: the business itself. How is it beneficial to protect the payroll of the employees if the business isn’t protected?

Health experts don’t expect a widespread reopening of the economy until late summer at the earliest. Even then, restaurants and bars won’t be able to operate as they did in the past. Who knows what business will even look like? Social distancing will continue into the fall or even later, which means that seat capacity will be cut in half and revenue overall will decrease by the same proportion.

The PPP is a Band-Aid for a wound that needs surgery. What happens after the eight weeks are up and the PPP funds have been used to pay employees but sales haven’t returned to a healthy level? Businesses will have no other choice but to significantly cut employees’ hours or entirely terminate them to stay afloat. Restaurants won’t have enough sales to justify the staff the government wants them to protect.

One unintended consequence we’ve already noticed is that landlords are pushing back on rent negotiations as if the PPP is a miracle cure for all of a restaurant’s financial obligations. In fact, most people who use the PPP won’t have money left over to apply to rent. 

All these issues considered, many in the hospitality industry will decide they can’t take the risk of a PPP loan. Business owners will worry that they’ll do something wrong, and that they’ll be on the hook for a large loan that will need to be paid back in two years. Yes, a 1 percent interest rate is favorable, but a monthly payment for thousands of dollars certainly isn’t. Most restaurants lose money every month or barely break even. These difficulties may explain why the accommodation- and food-services sector is so far getting a relatively small share of the PPP pie: just more than 9 percent of total loans. (Almost 14 percent has gone to construction.)

Recovery won’t be a sprint but a long and grueling marathon. Many businesses won’t survive at all, and are already closing or filing for bankruptcy.

Congress has to act more swiftly. It needs to revise the PPP to extend over a longer period. It needs to fund business operating accounts in addition to payroll. It needs to forgive sales tax owed since the shutdown and for the foreseeable future. It needs to require insurance companies to carry their portion of the burden. It needs to prepare another bill to anticipate businesses not reopening in two months and the virus resurfacing in the fall.

We have done what we can to survive the past month. Now Congress needs to do its part to make sure that restaurants and the jobs they support will exist when this pandemic nightmare ends.

______

MOSHE SCHULMAN is a managing partner of Ruffian, Ruffian Does Dive Bar, and Kindred, and a writer in New York City.

ALEXIS PERCIVAL is a managing partner and beverage director of Ruffian, Ruffian Does Dive Bar, and Kindred in New York City.

PATRICK COURNOT is a managing partner and beverage director of Ruffian, Ruffian Does Dive Bar, and Kindred in New York City.

*********

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Princess Wedding Disney

Unique Wedding Venues - The Palm Beaches Florida

Table of ContentsWedding Venues - Telluride - Telluride Ski ResortWedding Venues - City Of Los Angeles Department Of ...Wedding Venues - Receptions - Cedarparkfun - Cedar ParkSan Diego Wedding Venues: Voted Best Venue For 2020

State your vows underneath towering old oaks, in a stylish ballroom, an intimate yard, a golden marsh, along the coastline, or in the residential property's charming chapel. And also the choices do not quit there, offered that the resort supplies a large range of activities for visitors to take part in throughout the wedding celebration weekend.

Sea Island, GA Vizcaya Gallery & Gardens Invest the wedding weekend at one of Miami's lots of magnificent hotels, pools, dining establishments, and also clubs before unusual your visitors with a ceremony and also reception below. Although it appears like somewhere far and also away in Europe, Vizcaya Gallery & Gardens is comfortably located in the heart of Miami.

A gem among Miami's high-rises, this home is for pairs looking for something obtainable, with an abroad ambiance. Miami, FL, USA Ashford Castle This 800-year-old castle in Ireland has an extraordinary history and a fairytale feel that can be yours exclusively for up to 160 visitors. The castle's 83 rooms, collections, as well as Lakeside Hideaway Cottage enable you and also your wedding event to enjoy the complete castle experience without disruption.

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Cong, Area Mayo, Ireland Pelican Hill Best understood for its Rotunda place, The Hotel at Pelican Hill is iconic in it's classic design and also modern The golden state design. Establish on a picturesque surge, its dramatization as well as simpleness have actually made it an unforgettable backdrop for countless West Shore wedding events. Newport Beach, CA Fairmont Banff Springs Styled on a Scottish Baronial castle, this palatial residence is located among several of one of the most excellent woodlands you are most likely to see.

This world heritage site is renowned for its exterior activities as well as serene warm springs. If you're looking for something aside from a coastline or a ballroom, take into consideration planning an amazing wintertime wedding here. Banff, Alberta, Canada The Breakers Be it an intimate ceremony of 50 or a grand event for 500, The Breakers weddings as well as parties team is understood for world-class service as well as thoughtful, indulgent details.

Wedding Venues In San Diego - Aall In Limo & Party Bus

Particularly if you're planning a large-scale event with a sizable visitor listing, the skies is the limitation at this Palm Coastline residential or commercial property. Palm Coastline, FL Dorado Coastline, a Ritz-Carlton Reserve Once a private hacienda, this 'Ritz-y' book developed by a Rockefeller is known for it's seclusion, improvement, and also regard for Puerto Rico.

While you get on bryllupsdage property, see to it to make the effort to delight in the extraordinary food at their several on-site eating choices as well as the past zen wellness experiences at Health facility Botanico. Dorado, Puerto Rico Cart's Montauk Resorts Situated on Montauk's most beautiful stretch of oceanfront property, Cart's Montauk Hotel & Seawater Health club is an organization as well as the only year-round resort on Montauk.

Be it for the rehearsal dinner, after event, or throughout the days surrounding the wedding, invest time at The Coastline Club, it's where anyone whose any person visits and also be seen come summertime. Montauk, NY, U.S.A. The Foundry The Factory is a 19th Century historical building located steps from the East River in Long Island City.

25 Unforgettable Wedding Venues In San Diego

This is the only shop in the location still standing today, and also it's cherished for its rawness and numerous ivy-covered terraces. If you're searching for a more European vibewith a skyline sight and also the commercial influence of New york city Cityhead right here. Brooklyn, NY Mosaic Palmetto Bluff This 20,000-acre community in between Hilton Head as well as Savannah includes a collection of classy locations on the water with unequaled scenic views of the South Carolina coast.

Bluffton, SC Rosecliff Manor Preserved by Rhode Island's biggest social company, this historical residence museum networks quaint style with its French baroque resurgence design as well as stretching premises. A legendary estate for any occasion, this East Coast spots allows you live like Gatsby for a day. Options are endless at this Gilded Age masterpieceit's one of numerous historical chateaus in Newport along the city's famous High cliff Stroll along the water.

Wedding Venues San Diego - The Us Grant, A Luxury ...

Patrick's Cathedral as well as 5th Method from a manicured historic yard atop Rockefeller Plaza. Total with a sparkling reflective swimming pool, 620 Loft & Yard is a charming sanctuary that can be tented all year long and is entirely adjustable. You're visitors will certainly enjoy the renowned, one-of-kind views of New York City classicsfrom the Prometheus statuary to the Rockefeller Facility Xmas Tree.

Carefully manicured yards bursting with color, sculpted balconies, and also scenic lakes make this Nationwide Historic Landmark a memorable setting for Southern-style and also unique wedding celebrations. Charleston, SC Save These Ideas For Later! Contributing Wedding Events Author Heather Hall is a weddings, style, as well as way of life author and editor.

Wedding Places on The KnotFind trusted wedding places in your area. Select a CategoryReception VenuesWedding PhotographersBridal SalonsDJsFloristsWedding PlannersHotel Space BlocksJewelersBeautyVideographersWedding BandsWedding CakesAccessoriesAlterations + PreservationBar Solutions & BeveragesBed as well as BreakfastsBoudoir PhotographersCalligraphersCaterersCeremony AccessoriesCeremony VenuesDance LessonsDecorDessertsEnsembles + SoloistsFavors + GiftsFitnessInvitations + Paper GoodsLightingMenswearNewlywed ServicesOfficiants + Premarital CounselingPhoto BoothsRegistry ServicesRehearsal Dinners, Bridal Showers + PartiesRentalsService StaffTechnologyTransportationTravel SpecialistsVariety ActsVacation Residences + VillasWedding DesignersWedding JewelrySearchAdvice From The KnotIcons/ Action Based/ heartCreated with Sketch. (Unsure? Request more information!) Icons/ Messaging/ chatCreated with Map out. Beginning a ConversationFound a place you enjoy? Connect! Ask concerning their schedule and see if their capacity lines up with your visitor count. Likewise attempt The Knot's "Request Quote" attribute. It helps you choose what details to share so you can conveniently link with places.

Auberge du Soleil not only supplies one of one of the most extravagant brunches in America, yet it's also a decadent and attractive place to have your wedding event. According to Yelper Jean T., "Everything from the organizer to the food to the sight to the solution staff was simply impeccable." If the weather condition allows, having your function or event outside offers you a magnificent panoramic sight of the bordering valley.

Additionally, the food is an outright standout. Jo. C wrote: "This was the first wedding event where our steaks in fact appeared as every person asked for. The scallops were perfectly prepared. The dessert was incredibly creative cookie base, cake center, pastry cream on inside, surrounded by delicious chocolate mousse, then embellished with a stick of chocolate and a little scoop of whipped lotion on the side." Sounds unbelievable!.

San Diego Wedding Venues - Price 698 Venues - Wedding Spot

Web site 860-425-3686 Email THE CONSUMMATE NEW ENGLAND INN, A STORYBOOK SETTING FOR YOUR WEDDING. Welcome to Wedding Events at Norwich Inn, among New England's finest wedding celebration locations. You travel down a winding nation roadway and get in a private drive lined with century old maples. There before you sits a Georgian Colonial Mansion, its red brick faade simultaneously stylish and inviting.

Inside, you will locate our classy Grand Ballroom, a comfy Nation Home, as well as other one-of-a-kind event rooms, a lot of with wood-burning fire places.

Below comes the bride. Planning to state, "I do" in Hill Nation? Why not stroll down the aisle at one of Cedar Park's premier wedding celebration venues. Whether you are trying to find a quiet family event or a cheery fete, the estates, inns as well as clubs around the city offer picture-perfect backdrops to your big day.

55 Salisbury Road, Worcester, 508-793-4327, worcesterart.orgIndustrial trendy is a wedding celebration fad, and this seaside winery is packed with it. The location was initially the house of the Plymouth Cordage Company, a 19th-century rope manufacturer that generated rigging made use of on the USS Constitution as well as run with the mid-20th century. Now the brick walls, rustic wood floorings, and also beamed ceiling offer a stunning background for wedding events of approximately 200 visitors, with an ordinary expense of the location, food, and also alcohol being available in at $25,000.55 Rope Park Circle, Plymouth, 508-746-3532, 1620winery. comYou might have heard of James Beard Honor semifinalist Will certainly Gilson, the chef-owner of Puritan & Business in Cambridge.

Gilson's family members developed the ranch's home and carriage residence in the late 1800s, as well as the team behind his dining establishment runs all wedding celebrations at the ranch. Host an intimate, 30-person wedding in the carriage residence or a 150-person party in the greenhouse. "There really is no place else that I can think about in the region where you would certainly have the ability to drop in such well manicured and also fabled yards that somebody driving by wouldn't also be able to tell [are] there," Gilson claims.

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Fontanella del Mar apartment for sale in San Carlos

Fontanella del Mar apartment for sale in San Carlos

San Carlos District

Fontanella del Mar apartment for sale located in Ensenada Beach San Carlos. Also is the name of the corregimiento and the Cabecera of the district. Just one hour from Panama City, the municipality of San Carlos located. For being the head of the district of the same name we find numerous public institutions.  First of all, you will see the national police, the Panama Fire Department, and the post and telegraph.  Other institutions are the Agricultural Development (MIDA), Public Works (MOP), the National Institute of Sports (INDE). Finally, the Panamanian Tourism Institute (IPAT), elevated to ministerial rank. In San Carlos, it is straightforward to get fresh food, vegetables, and vegetables for its recognized municipal market.

San Carlos District

The district of San Carlos has three climatic zones with variations during the day between 30º and 14º. For the reason that about 25 km away by paved road at the foot of Cerro Picacho is La Laguna de San Carlos. La Laguna de San Carlos is an ideal place for ecotourism, fishing, and swimming.

El Valle de Anton in San Carlos

The exuberant vegetation and the microclimate product of its proximity to the continental mountain range make it very attractive for camping and hiking. El Valle de Anton is about 34 km away. According to geologists, El Valle de Anton formed by the crater of a sleeping volcano. The Valley has a small museum, as well as a small zoo and a serpentarium, and a garden that exhibits 100 species of orchids of the locality. Its many jets and cascades are recognized, the public market where fruits and vegetables are appreciated, as well as the sale of wedge drums and handicrafts in general. The valley is home to the golden frog and the carving in "soap" stones. In San Carlos, there are more than 30 restaurants where Italian, Swiss, Greek, Spanish and Creole food stands out. Playa La Ensenada In its coasts we find more than ten beaches as La Ensenada, El Palmar, Punta Barco stand out. On the famous La Ensenada beach, you will find the Fontanella del Mar beach community. Fontanella del Mar is a project of 23 single-family residences and nine low-density buildings. Many aspects have taken into consideration, such as underground electrical wiring, the beach club in front of La Ensenada, with huts in an area of 3000m2. The Ensenada has 1 kilometer of extension and lends itself to enjoy the aquatic sports, like the paddle, paddle, and windsurfing among others. In its first stage "Fontanella del Mar" consists of two boutique buildings. The "PH Coral" for immediate delivery, has six floors and five apartments per level, for a total of only thirty units Apartment property date The condo has an adequate distribution: two large bedrooms, the main with balcony and ocean view. In addition to your bathroom included. The second bedroom shares a bathroom with visitors. The room has a large balcony, also with sea view, open kitchen, laundry, and storage. The total area of the apartment is 82.20 m2, and has the following finishes: 1. Imported porcelain floors. 2. Walls plastered and painted; in kitchen and bathrooms lined with imported tiles. 3. Multipoint metal main door with metal frame. 4. Sliding windows with an aluminum frame in bedrooms. 5. Imported Modular Kitchen Furniture Water-resistant with granite kitchen top. 6. Furniture of imported Closets made with the water-repellent material. 7. Sanitary Appliances: Imported pedestal toilets and sinks. The apartment is new, has not been used. The beach community Fontanella del Mar will have three social areas. The first of the social areas La Gaviota already built. La Gaviota has a swimming pool for adults and children, a children's playground, a bar and gazebo area, natural gardens with beautiful palm trees Read the full article

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What You Should Know About Kauai Traffic - Hawaii

Not only chickens should be concerned about Kauai traffic! With two people being born and one person moving to the island each day, Kauai's population has now passed 72,000. Although this is still much less than the other major Hawaiian islands, the infrastructure has not kept up with the population growth. The one highway that wraps around the island from Polihale to Ke'e is, with a few exceptions, one lane each way. This leads to backed up traffic during certain times of the day. Here are a few hints as to how you may avoid Kauai traffic during your stay on the Garden Island.

Kauai Traffic - Kapaa Bypass Road

When traveling to and from the north shore and Lihue use the Kapaa Bypass Lane. The three-mile-long bypass is an alternate route to avoid the congestion and stoplights of Kapaa. It takes about 5-10 minutes to complete. Using the Kapaa Bypass could potentially save you up to 30 minutes or more drive time depending on traffic conditions in Kapaa. It runs in back of Kapaa, through some former cane fields owned by Bette Midler.

Finding the entrance to the Kapaa Bypass is a bit tricky. Driving north, once you pass over the Wailua River, drive by the concrete shell of the old Coco Palms Hotel (where Blue Hawaii was filmed), and go through one more light, start looking for a left turn lane right after Street Burger Restaurant (great burgers). Turn left and follow the road until you reach a traffic circle. Turn right and go to the stoplight (ABC Store). There you will find the highway again. Turn left and continue north. You have just passed the majority of Kapaa. One more mile and you will be on your way through the countryside to the north shore without another stoplight in sight.

When driving south from the north shore the entrance is a little easier. Once you drive past the long stretch of beach (Kealia) just before Kapaa, you will go by the fire station and then be at the entrance to Kapaa. Turn right at the third opportunity. There is a mural painted on a wall which you can see as you turn. Food trucks and Otsuka's Furniture Store (two story building) are on the left.

You will be on a One Way road leading to a traffic circle. Check out the best view of Sleeping Giant (the mountain in front of you). Go straight through the traffic circle and out the other side. Drive until you meet up with the highway again. You will be very close to the Coconut Marketplace Shopping Center. Turn right and you are on your way to the airport or to the rest of the island.

Kauai Traffic - Contraflow Traffic Cones

You are going to love me for this information! When heading south from the north shore, just as you come off the Kapaa Bypass, contraflow traffic cones are set up from 7:00 AM until 11:00 AM, to make one northbound lane into a southbound lane from the Kapaa Bypass exit to Hanamaulu, the town just before the airport. This relieves an incredible amount of southbound traffic. The cones are put up every day except Sundays and holidays. If traveling to the airport or any place south of Kapaa, try to go before these cones are taken down at 11:00 because traffic starts building up almost immediately. There is a live traffic camera set up on the other side of the highway from the Kapaa Bypass exit which indicates, live, how many cars are exiting the Bypass. If you are planning to drive south after 11:00 I would suggest you take a look at the cam to see if you should leave earlier than planned.

Kauai Traffic - Lihue to South and West Shores

Traffic also backs up west of Lihue but, unfortunately there is no bypass to avoid the sluggish movement of cars. It is worse in the mornings heading into Lihue and in the evenings heading out of Lihue as business people go to and from work. Take a deep breath and enjoy the scenery.

Speed Limits

Speed limits on Kauai range from 25 mph to 50 mph. They change often so watch for signs. Remember, you can go only as fast as the car in front of you and there are few places to pass. Drivers tend to be very courteous and allow cars to merge into traffic. You will appreciate this once you try to exit a parking lot. One rarely hears a horn on Kauai.

Kauai Traffic Accidents

We do not have many traffic accidents on Kauai but, sadly, a few lead to fatalities. It most often happens when a driver crosses the center divide and hits an oncoming car. When this happens the highway is closed for an indefinite time, generally several hours. Sometimes there is a detour for traffic but other times it is a waiting game. If you are on your way to the airport, this is more than inconvenient. Therefore I recommend that if you have a night flight, you plan to have dinner in Lihue. Dukes, Kauai Pasta or Kauai Beer Company are some good choices. This way you will be close to the airport in plenty of time for your departure.

A good source for Kauai traffic information is:

Kauai Traffic Alerts on Facebook

or

Department of Transportation (highways)

So, yes, we do have some traffic issues on our tiny little island. I am betting, however, that they do not compare to the other Hawaiian islands or just about anywhere on the Mainland. One just needs to know how to work around them. Hopefully this blog will do just that for you. The key is to slow down and enjoy our Hawaiian time.

For more of my blogs, or to subscribe, go to the right-hand side of this page (full screen computers). Mahalo!

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Uliuli Iwi (Part 2)

Behold the longest chapter I have ever written for a fanfiction!

Zuko carries the last of his belongings aboard the ship and watches Ursa carry Kiyi up the steps. Kiyi barely moves, she breaths shallowly and labored. Katara squeezes his arm, and apologize for a second time that Sokka, Aang, and Toph can't be there to support him too. When Ursa catches up to him he begins to walk with her across the deck in silence. The sailors raise the anchors and they depart. He watches the waves lap against the boat as they pick up speed.

 “She’s going to be okay, Zuko. I don’t know how, but I know that she will be.” Katara takes his hand.

 Kiyi lets out a sharp yelp and puts a hand on her head. Katara bends some water out of the ocean, purifies it, and holds it at the girl’s temples until she goes lax again. Zuko can’t help but grimace; why is it that only he is unable to help her. Ursa’s lullaby’s even sooth her, where Zuko’s voice cannot.

 “So how are we going to find this Uliuli anyways?” Katara asks. Now that her water is gone, Ursa is back to rocking Kiyi on her lap.

 “Word of the mouth I guess.” Zuko replies. All he has to go on is what the commoner girl had told him. That Uliuli Iwi resides on eastern Ember Island and that he’ll know the place when he sees it. He wishes that she hadn’t been so mysterious. But for some reason, whenever there’s any talk of any kind about shamans, there’s always a shroud of mystery.

 Katara offers her own advice, “look in houses by the beach, most healers like to have a good supply of water.”

 “Most healers are waterbenders.” He wants to say. “A fire mystic isn’t going to have much use for it.” But he bites his tongue, he knows that he only thinks this out of irritation. Instead he just says, “yeah, maybe.” He looks at his hands and twiddles his thumbs. Katara tries to make small talk, but he doesn’t have the energy to contribute, so eventually she trails off and watches the waves spray by.

 The sun hangs low and a few stars are already announcing themselves, twinkling overhead, by the time Ember Island is in view. He can see the rocky rims and palm dotted trunks of volcanos that have lay dormant for decades. The ashy shore approaches quickly. When the boat finally makes port, night has fully fallen. He sees fire pits and touches aglow all across the town. Though quite late, the town is alive with festivity. Mostly rollover activity from daytime parties that have yet to disperse.

They are far from his vacation home so instead of asking around for this mysterious Uliuli Iwi, they are forced to scope out a vacant inn. Eventually they come across a place, it’s small but it will suffice. Zuko tucks Kyi in and tells her a story. He can’t tell if she is can hear him or not through her fever delirium. But he keeps speaking until his eyelids grow heavy and he can speak no more. He falls asleep near Kiyi. And despite his stresses, he’s able to do it restfully.

 “Just stay and watch Kiyi until I find Uliuli.” Zuko commands. The argument ensued as soon as he woke up. The first thing he heard that morning was Katara talking about how far it could be for them to walk. There was no way that he would let Kiyi go anywhere and someone had to stay with her. He was going alone.

 “But Zuko.” Katara begins to protest.

 “My mother needs to watch Kiyi and if Kiyi needs soothing, you need to be there.” Zuko deflects. “I can find her on my own, Ember Island isn’t that big.”

 “I could use the help.” Ursa gives a warm smile. “Kiyi doesn’t like to be alone, so while I cook she can use your company.”

 Katara looks over to Zuko. “Alright, fine, but if anything goes wrong, please come and get us as soon as you can.

 Zuko can’t foresee any problems other than getting lost. He kisses Kiyi on the cheek, “don’t worry you’ll have help very soon.” He leaves the hotel and takes to the streets. He breaths in the salty sent of island morning air. He looks to the left and right for someone who seems approachable. All of the faces he sees, look friendly enough. So he picks a man about his age and inquires, “how much do you know about the mystic Uliuli Iwi?”

 “I know of her.” The man says. “My cousin Riki knows her. She works as a fruit vendor a little way down the road, if you’d like to talk to her. Tell her Tiango sent you.”

 “Thank you.” Zuko nods. He follows the road, taking in its many spectacles. A man sells ornate wooden sculptures and coconuts with drawings etched into them. A male and female duo partake in some kind of island fire dance. And just passed a small shop with a colorful sign reading, ‘Riki’s Fruits and Fauna’, are a group of street performers putting on a play. Realizing what he had just passed, he reverses his direction and stands in a sizable line to talk to Riki. It moves painfully slow, apparently this Riki is a chatter. At last he stands before her.

 “Hello! What can I get for you? Today’s special is mango and banana juice with a spray of passionfruit.” Riki greets.

 He’s curious and tempted and eventually gives in. He might as well give her some cash in exchange for the information. “I’ll take one but I’m not here for fruit.”

 She turns around and blends a few fruits, topping the coconut cup with a small hibiscus. “Hibiscus is on the house.”

 Zuko reaches for his beverage.

 “Ah, ah! Not done!” She snatches it out of his reach.

 “Your cousin, Tiango told me that you can help me. I’m looking for a woman named, Uliuli Iwi.”

 Riki’s face brightens. “Uli! Yeah, I know Uli. She’s wonderful. I was hit with a wild case of Dragonpox,” she shivers, “but Uli gave me this ointment that fixed it right away.” She begins mashing another mango. “A few years ago, there was a plague in this town. A lot of people…” she trails off. “I was so close to dying too, and no one knew how to help. We’d all given up at that point. And then Uli came to our village with odd potions and remedies. They worked on most people, but not me. I went away with Uli up into the mountains where you can practically touch the sea and the sky. She burned incense to and called on the spirits for power. They must have given it to her because a few days later the sickness left. I stayed with her until I was strong enough to walk again and then she took me home.” She drops the beverage into Zuko’s hand. “I named very first after her.”

 “She’s really important to you, isn’t she?” Zuko asked.

 “I visit her every summer solstice and take her to the summer solstice festival.” Riki claps her hands together.

 “Where can I find her?” Zuko asks.

 Riki looks at the growing line. “She lives on the mountain conjoined with the volcano. Her house faces the sunset. You’ll know you’re on the right track when you pass the waterfall and see the beads.”

 Zuko tips her another coin and hurries off, ignoring the annoyed grumbles of other customers.

 .oOo.

 A trail of hibiscus and firelily perfumes the air as Zuko treks the mountain side. He almost regrets not bringing Katara along. She would have been a lot of help with navigating the jungle. He follows a rugged handmade trail, pushing fern and palm fronds aside. He is thankful for the sun dimming canopy which keeps the heat from making his journey that much harder. The jungle around him is alive with hog monkey yaps and various bird calls. It is strangely serene, he almost wouldn’t mind getting lost. A bug whizzes past. It is harder for him to enjoy the lush greenery around him though, when he feels so breathless from such a long hike. He finally reaches the base of the mountain and considers himself lucky that the ancients—likely earthbenders had taken the time to carve a path up it. He has never seen anything quite like this path that resembled a cave with a missing wall. Aside from some vines and weeds, the rocks are void of green. His hand touches a blanket of moss. He beams from ear to ear at the sound of rushing water. He is on the right track!

It is under the falls when he learns what Riki meant by ‘beads’. He was dreading the walk under the falls since he set foot in the jungle—it would be undoubtedly perilous. He’s heard tales of journeymen slipping and careening over rocky ledges. He doesn’t wish to become one of them. But as he draws nearer to the falls he notices a railing. The rocks are just as slippery as he feared, but he had a wooden railing to take hold of. He thanks the ancients a twelfth time for carving stairs into the mountain and thanks the more modern folk for installing the railing. He is now behind the falls, staring at the most crystalline and pure water he’s ever seen. Various classes of fungi, in many sizes and colors, cling to the mountain wall behind him and some splotches of agley hang from the wood. He is careful not to get a handful of it. He is half way to the exit when he spots them. A string of beads tied to a hook that is wedged into a crack in the stones. Teal, red brown, and green. He touches each bead. And now he sees them everywhere as he continues up and around the mountainside. They hang in trees and on the railing. In fronds and around rocks. Some of clams and shells in the mix. From this height he can see the ocean and the silhouette of a bungalow against the sun. But he is nowhere near the top of the mountain. He realizes that the house rests on a natural bridge of sorts; a spacious column that connects the mountain to the volcano. On this stretch of the mountain the trees grow abundantly and various flora flourish. He spots a banana tree just in front of the bungalow. He has two options, he can go to the house or he can continue his hike up the mountain, where the cave-like path continues. A little way ahead the rocks jut out into a series of inviting hot springs hot springs, layered one on top of the other, creating their own small waterfalls. All over these walls he can see childish drawings. He almost wants to keep going up, but his choice is obvious. He came here for Uliuli Iwi.

 He sets foot on what he considers to be her yard. It must be, for the gardening is magnificent and those strings of bead and shell are everywhere. He reaches out and touches a dream catcher that is carefully tied onto a low reaching palm. As he draws closer to the door the path leading up to the house becomes spotted with glittering gems and polished rocks. He finds it hard to believe that this woman would just leave them out in the open like that. He gives the bamboo door a few knocks and waits, listening to the soothing tolls of a few wind chimes. He spots them and decides that they must be handmade.

 He tries knocking again, and still no one answers. But the door falls slightly ajar. It has been unlocked this whole time. He wonders if he should just go in. After another round of knocking and waiting, he enters. The dwelling is spacious and breezy. He realizes with fascination that the walls of the house are practically just huge windows.  He inspects the place more closely and realizes that there are in fact walls but the widows take up most of them on the ocean side—and they are all open, leading out to a huge balcony. He hears rustling and clicking and looks up to find more dream catchers and strings of beads all over the wooden rafters on the ceiling. The clicking noise comes from strings of small polished jade knocking against each other. There are a few wind chimes scattered among them as well as some strands of blue lace, and some other swishing ornaments that he can’t identify. He is so completely mesmerized that he doesn’t notice Uliuli Iwi.

 She Iwi sits cross legged on one of the many colorful woven mats. She stares at them intensely with bright gold eyes, her head slightly cocked so that her bangs and the beads strung into them fall into her face. For a moment Zuko thinks she is going to stand, but instead she crosses her arms over her chest. This motion draws his attention is drawn to the many accessories on her arms. On her right wrist she wears a bracelet of shell and bead, and what appears to be a crab claw. Intertwined with that one is a feathery bracelet.  Golden bangles rest heavy on her left wrist. He follows the length of her arm and finds another bangle on her bicep. He has seen this one before. These though, aren’t her most intriguing pieces of jewelry. What captivates him are her earrings. The first he notices is a cuff-style earring that clings onto the bone near the top of her ear; three eel shark teeth bound to a chip of coconut. He lowers his stare to see a gaping hole in her left ear. It isn’t unsettlingly wide, but he believes that he can fit his smallest coin into it. He has never seen such an oddity. Her right ear is much the same, but she has fit another larger eel shark tooth into it.

Zuko assesses that he should probably stop starring. But he can’t bring himself to do so; he hasn’t seen anything like her before. Her face is decorated with white dots and horizontal lines. The dots are painted mostly under her eyes—three each. But there are a few near her ears, one at the bottom of her chin, and one at her right brow. Her forehead and lips bare two parallel vertical lines—two running from her hair line to where her nose begins, and the other two running from the top of her lips to the dot on her chin. Zuko believes that he can make out a pair of horizontal lines painted over her cheeks. Coupled with those earrings, she looks to him like something out of an ancient tribal painting.

Uliuli seems unphased by his gaze and he wonders if she is used to people starring or if most people are accustomed to her physical appearance and her style of dress. Or lack thereof—she wears only a beaded loincloth. She could easily cover up by undoing her pony tail and letting her thick black hair fall over her breasts, but modesty seems lost on her. Part of him is glad for it; if she covered up he wouldn’t have gotten to see the intricate markings all over her body. Most of them are simply a series of more lines identical to the ones on her face, these take up her arms, legs, and stomach. At her right hip, collar, and on her chest it becomes more complex. Her hip depicts what seems to be a brown outline of what looks like an erupting volcano.  Her collarbone sports a similar brown outline, but this time of a crashing wave against a rock. A few birds rest above that. He doesn’t look for too long at her chest because it doesn’t feel right to do so, but somehow he feels that she doesn’t care. The markings on her chest display the outlines of a sort of ritual; three silhouetted women with feathers in their hair standing around a fire, their hands in the air. One holds a staff of some sort. Beneath them are a series of runes as well as the insignias of the four elements.

He can’t tell if these are composed of paint or a mural of tattoos. Something tells him that they are tattoos. He want to reach out to touch her arm and find out if the markings will come away with his fingers. He keeps his hands to himself. He doesn’t know what to say, because the strange woman before him—looking exactly the same and completely different all at once—is his sister.

 As always, she speaks first. He thinks that she going to berate him for coming into the house without waiting for an answer. Instead she says, “you’re desperate, aren’t you?”

 He can’t tell if she’s asking because he’s standing before her as a mystic or because he’s standing before her in general. Her gaze grows heavier on him as she waits for him to talk. And just as when they were children, he struggles to string them together. “Kiyi has been sick for a while…”

 “Naturally.” Her expression remains stoic.

 “I know, I know, ‘I wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t’.” He fills in.

 “Your words.” She shrugs.

 Zuko opens up his mouth to speak but this time she fills in his words for him, “but I have nowhere else to turn.” Disturbingly he can’t detect even the slightest hint of bitterness or satisfaction from her, the statement was just as impassive as the others.

 “A commoner told me about you. A girl—bright red hair—”

 “Onha.” Azula declares. “I know her family well.”

 She waits for him to continue his request but he doesn’t know how to tell her what needs fixing. He hasn’t yet figured it out. So he just asks instead, “c-can you save her?” He holds out a palm full of glittering coins. “There’s more, a lot more. You know there is.”

 “Generous.” She pushes his hand away.

 He knows now that her words had been bitter. “I’m offering you this much and you still refuse to help me!?”

 “You’re mistaken.” Azula says.

 “Mistaken?”

 “I seldom charge for my services.” Azula replies. “I don’t really have any use for coins anyhow these days. I mostly deal in food and trinkets—things I find fascinating.” She motions to a shelf of knickknacks; weirdly shaped and colored shells, deep-ocean rocks, pearls, and handmade sculptures among other things. She repositions the string of shells she has tied around her ankle, “if you want my help you will fix me something to eat and find me a nice rock or something, like everyone else.”

 Zuko tucks his coins back into his pocket.

 With her face tilted towards the ceiling and a snobbish look on her face, she waved him off. “Go on them, get to it.”

 This is a game to her, he realizes. Perhaps not on principle, but she’s making one of it.