“Thanks for the new phone, man. It got here pretty fast.” Clay cradled the shiny new gadget between his ear and shoulder while he attempted to chop the chicken. Bob was better with a knife - probably that whole rhythmic drummer thing. Clay swore when he almost took off part of his finger, and Scott laughed in his ear.
“Is Betty Crocker Clay on the loose again?”
“Bob’s not here, all right? I have to cook for myself.” Clay sighed and set down the knife, stared at his hands. He remembered pretending to stare at his cuticles lots of times as a teenager, the only way he could really show disdain for his father without risking what Bob risked.
“You let Bobby-O cook you food? And you’re still alive?”
“Apparently Bob’s pretty handy with foreign cuisine,” Clay said. He stared - really stared - at his hands and remembered a crazy fan had latched onto him, crying with joy and hysteria, and told him his hands were magic. He and his brothers had been adolescent long enough to have a good laugh about it later, but his hands were just - hands. His fingernails were always chipped because he played his bass without a pick, and his fingertips were heavily callused. As an experiment, he dug a fingernail into one of his fingertips and felt...nothing. Huh. He had that much dead skin in one spot? But it was a good thing - making music didn’t hurt. At least, not physically.
“Any word from your taller half?”
“Not one. If you hear from him, tell him to come home - I’m terrible with kids. Have I mentioned Bob’s also handy to have around when kids start to cry?”
More laughter from Scott. “Is there anything you’re better than Bob at?”
“Picking up chicks,” Clay said automatically, and then he sighed. Sure, he was good at picking girls up at bars, but of the brothers four, the only one who was in a steady relationship was Dan. He and Joey had been together for four years.
“That’s what you think. Actually, uh, I have heard from Bob.”
Clay raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“He’s still on his way to see her. He, uh, he wrote a song.”
“He did what?” Clay glanced toward the corner of the main room, but his guitar was still there - he’d used it earlier that day, after all.
“Yeah. It was a pretty good song, too.” Something in Scott’s voice was oddly muted. “You know what I realized today?”
“What?” Clay wondered what sort of song Bob could have written, remembered the steady bitterness of Two Beats and remorseful resignation of Love Isn’t.
“I don’t have guitar calluses anymore,” Scott said.
Clay rubbed his fingertips together and realized he couldn’t feel anymore. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I really liked Perilously Here.”
“I did, too.”
(oddly enough, all of the song titles referenced in this piece are actual songs; I cannot guarantee that you'll find them on YouTube)
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
And The Boss Was Back
Carolyn drummed her fingertips on the desk and listened to Donna witter on about the wonderful date she’d had the night before. They were supposed to be talking about partnership agreements and sliding-scale contingent fees, but the senior partner had stepped out, and the harpies were on the loose.
“And then he gave me this new bracelet. See?” Donna cocked her wrist to show off a glitter of diamonds. She had long, thin hands, her fingers almost bony to the point of being sharp. If she gestured any more broadly than usual, she’d likely put out her neighbor’s eye.
Carolyn glanced down at her own hands, weapon-scarred and devoid of real fingerprints. After several moments, she realized the rhythm she was drumming was one Bob had taught her. The nearest handy distraction was a pen. Carolyn scooped it up and set a-twirling. She’d learnt several interesting pen-flips in her time. In fact, she was fully capable of shooting a pen across a room like a small spear. She’d almost blinded her weapons master once that way.
“So you think he’ll propose?” Suzy asked.
Donna tossed her head. “Oh, please. I’ll be done with him and onto the next man before he knows what hit him. This time I’m thinking...a guy with a Maserati.”
Carolyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out a comment. Donna was about to get a pen through the eye.
“What about you, Carolyn? Any new men in your life?” Lola’s sudden question jolted Carolyn out of her pen-flipping rhythm, and the pen launched itself across the table. Toward Donna.
Carolyn squeaked and lunged, closed a fist over the pen mid-air. The other women went silent and stared at Carolyn’s hand.
“Um...nice catch,” Lola said faintly.
Carolyn lowered her hand slowly, set the pen down beside her notepad. Then she curled her hands demurely in her lap. “No man in my life. You know me - it’s all about billing hours.”
The admission earned precisely the frosty, dismissive look Carolyn had been hoping for, and then it was Amanda’s turn to brag about her latest fling. Carolyn stared down at her hands, two weapons curled around each other, and remembered candle-lit nights in foreign hotel rooms. She remembered laughter and pillow fights and curling up in her own corner of the bed, Bob’s arms wrapped around her, both of them watching as Scott and Clay squabbled over which channel to watch while Dan picked a movie and settled in. Bob would twine his fingers with hers and tease her gently about how small her hands were. She’d have to remind him that, in karate lessons, she had a much better punch, and he would kiss the argument away, and then Dan would fling a handful of popcorn at them, and --
“So, have we decided on new contingent fees?”
And the boss was back.
“And then he gave me this new bracelet. See?” Donna cocked her wrist to show off a glitter of diamonds. She had long, thin hands, her fingers almost bony to the point of being sharp. If she gestured any more broadly than usual, she’d likely put out her neighbor’s eye.
Carolyn glanced down at her own hands, weapon-scarred and devoid of real fingerprints. After several moments, she realized the rhythm she was drumming was one Bob had taught her. The nearest handy distraction was a pen. Carolyn scooped it up and set a-twirling. She’d learnt several interesting pen-flips in her time. In fact, she was fully capable of shooting a pen across a room like a small spear. She’d almost blinded her weapons master once that way.
“So you think he’ll propose?” Suzy asked.
Donna tossed her head. “Oh, please. I’ll be done with him and onto the next man before he knows what hit him. This time I’m thinking...a guy with a Maserati.”
Carolyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out a comment. Donna was about to get a pen through the eye.
“What about you, Carolyn? Any new men in your life?” Lola’s sudden question jolted Carolyn out of her pen-flipping rhythm, and the pen launched itself across the table. Toward Donna.
Carolyn squeaked and lunged, closed a fist over the pen mid-air. The other women went silent and stared at Carolyn’s hand.
“Um...nice catch,” Lola said faintly.
Carolyn lowered her hand slowly, set the pen down beside her notepad. Then she curled her hands demurely in her lap. “No man in my life. You know me - it’s all about billing hours.”
The admission earned precisely the frosty, dismissive look Carolyn had been hoping for, and then it was Amanda’s turn to brag about her latest fling. Carolyn stared down at her hands, two weapons curled around each other, and remembered candle-lit nights in foreign hotel rooms. She remembered laughter and pillow fights and curling up in her own corner of the bed, Bob’s arms wrapped around her, both of them watching as Scott and Clay squabbled over which channel to watch while Dan picked a movie and settled in. Bob would twine his fingers with hers and tease her gently about how small her hands were. She’d have to remind him that, in karate lessons, she had a much better punch, and he would kiss the argument away, and then Dan would fling a handful of popcorn at them, and --
“So, have we decided on new contingent fees?”
And the boss was back.
My Own Hands
My own hands were once unscared. Once, the hands of a writter, a crafter, smooth. Of course they were not always as strong as they are now.
Deft and concise movments now are the strange grace to my hands. The smooth movements of the blade in my hands, rapidly dicing food into neat and even pieces, the same hands that can filet a salmon, can carve a cantalope into a flower, can pipe a rose out of icing for a cake.
They are perpetually brown from the heat in the kitchens. Always a new cut, a new scar. Burns turning smooth flesh puckered and angry red; burns that fade into grayish brown lines forever engraved into my skin, another story. Skin so dry from constant scrubbing, I could itch my face with the backs of my hands. It's strange, so brown, yet an ashy pallor from the lack of moisture in the air.
Torn and bleading fingers, scraped by a grater, singed on the grill, slammed in the washer. I don't want my hands touched by others; hands so harsh. Hands perpetually scented with garlic and onion, so much that I don't notice it anymore.
(Lame I know, but I was stuck for something to write. I know it's really bad, but c'est la vie. Can't have a great one every day, especially when I am on vacation.)
Deft and concise movments now are the strange grace to my hands. The smooth movements of the blade in my hands, rapidly dicing food into neat and even pieces, the same hands that can filet a salmon, can carve a cantalope into a flower, can pipe a rose out of icing for a cake.
They are perpetually brown from the heat in the kitchens. Always a new cut, a new scar. Burns turning smooth flesh puckered and angry red; burns that fade into grayish brown lines forever engraved into my skin, another story. Skin so dry from constant scrubbing, I could itch my face with the backs of my hands. It's strange, so brown, yet an ashy pallor from the lack of moisture in the air.
Torn and bleading fingers, scraped by a grater, singed on the grill, slammed in the washer. I don't want my hands touched by others; hands so harsh. Hands perpetually scented with garlic and onion, so much that I don't notice it anymore.
(Lame I know, but I was stuck for something to write. I know it's really bad, but c'est la vie. Can't have a great one every day, especially when I am on vacation.)
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Tiny Spiders
She was crying, and Clay didn’t know what to do. He would be the first to admit that Bob was by far the better teacher. It was Bob who’d fled to Thailand first, and his tales of glorious beaches and days in the sun had lured Clay away from California and his quixotic ideas about making it on the silver screen. At least twice a day, Clay wondered why he was still here when it was pretty obvious Bob didn’t need him to help teach.
Only Bob was gone, chasing something that was either a hoax, a dream, or a cruel joke, and now Clay was staring down at a crying five-year-old and wondering what the hell he should do. Bob usually handled things like this. Clay knelt so he was eye-level with the girl.
“Hey,” he said, doing his best to mimic Bob’s comforting tone. “He didn’t mean to hurt you - you just bonked heads. He said he’s sorry. Are you going to stop crying now?”
That just made her cry more.
Clay winced. He held out one hand. “Hey, you...want to come help Teacher Clay play his guitar while everyone eats lunch?”
Her tears subsided for a moment, and she stared at his hand. Clay had every urge to tug it back and let it fall to his side, and then she put her hand in his. For a moment, Clay could only stare. Her hand was tiny compared to his. Her entire hand, palm and chubby splayed fingers at all, fit onto the palm of his hand. He’d always had spidery hands for being the skinniest of the brothers Summers, but then he’d always joked he’d needed it for his bass - after all, his instrument was almost too much music for one man.
“Where Teacher Bob?” the girl asked.
“You mean where is Teacher Bob? He had to go to America, but he’ll be back.” I hope. Clay closed his hand carefully around hers, starkly aware of how tiny and fragile her bones were, how soft her skin was. “Now, you want to learn to play a song?”
Her eyes lit up at the word “play”, and Clay supposed he should have been glad that this wasn’t one of his good guitars, just a cheap acoustic he’d picked up at a pawn shop.
It took a bit of maneuvering, but then Clay had the girl on his lap and the guitar semi-perched on her knees even though he was supporting most of its weight. He let her explore the strings and the neck, the fretboard, the body and the pegs - although he turned the strings as soon as she was done poking at them. Her tiny hands were like little spiders alive with curiosity, and her eyes were wide with wonder, and Clay wondered when he’d stopped looking at music like that, when it became a shield and a retreat and the only way he knew how to be human once more.
Only Bob was gone, chasing something that was either a hoax, a dream, or a cruel joke, and now Clay was staring down at a crying five-year-old and wondering what the hell he should do. Bob usually handled things like this. Clay knelt so he was eye-level with the girl.
“Hey,” he said, doing his best to mimic Bob’s comforting tone. “He didn’t mean to hurt you - you just bonked heads. He said he’s sorry. Are you going to stop crying now?”
That just made her cry more.
Clay winced. He held out one hand. “Hey, you...want to come help Teacher Clay play his guitar while everyone eats lunch?”
Her tears subsided for a moment, and she stared at his hand. Clay had every urge to tug it back and let it fall to his side, and then she put her hand in his. For a moment, Clay could only stare. Her hand was tiny compared to his. Her entire hand, palm and chubby splayed fingers at all, fit onto the palm of his hand. He’d always had spidery hands for being the skinniest of the brothers Summers, but then he’d always joked he’d needed it for his bass - after all, his instrument was almost too much music for one man.
“Where Teacher Bob?” the girl asked.
“You mean where is Teacher Bob? He had to go to America, but he’ll be back.” I hope. Clay closed his hand carefully around hers, starkly aware of how tiny and fragile her bones were, how soft her skin was. “Now, you want to learn to play a song?”
Her eyes lit up at the word “play”, and Clay supposed he should have been glad that this wasn’t one of his good guitars, just a cheap acoustic he’d picked up at a pawn shop.
It took a bit of maneuvering, but then Clay had the girl on his lap and the guitar semi-perched on her knees even though he was supporting most of its weight. He let her explore the strings and the neck, the fretboard, the body and the pegs - although he turned the strings as soon as she was done poking at them. Her tiny hands were like little spiders alive with curiosity, and her eyes were wide with wonder, and Clay wondered when he’d stopped looking at music like that, when it became a shield and a retreat and the only way he knew how to be human once more.
Not Your Fault
“Don’t touch me!” The woman screamed and kicked out when Ellis tried to approach. He grunted when her heel connected with his thigh, and he staggered back.
Scott froze in the doorway. The woman’s face was bruised and swollen on one side, and she had thick scratches on her throat. Her shirt was torn and exposed more bruising on her ribs, scratches and bruises on her hips. After one horrified moment, Scott knew.
His hands curled into fists, and he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.
“Ma’am,” Ellis said. He reached for her.
She shrieked and tossed her head wildly, sank back against the closet door. Her chest heaved, and Scott realized she was crying.
“Ellis,” he said, “get back.”
“Summers, she’s obviously high --”
“Get back, moron.” Scott set down his emergency bag and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My name is Scott Summers and I’m an EMT. We’re here to help. Officers will be here as soon as possible to secure the scene, but we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked over --”
“Stay back, monster!” She threw one of her shoes at him.
Scott ducked instinctively, then lowered himself to his knees. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”
She twitched like a rabid animal when he extended one hand, palm up.
“I promise.” Scott caught her gaze and held it.
She lunged at him and sank her teeth into his hand. Scott bit back a curse and took the pain, felt the burn in his palm and let it wash through him, calm him down. He remembered sitting in his room with his beat-up old acoustic and playing till his fingers bled, playing louder and angrier so he didn’t have to hear Bob’s quiet sobs in the next room. Scott knew there was something wrong with him, that physical pain calmed his fury, but he took it.
After a moment, the woman pulled back. She was trembling. Scott instinctively curled his fingers over the wound and was surprised to realize that his calluses from playing the guitar were gone. Had it been that long?
“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry --”
Scott reached out to her once more. “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re here to help. Come on with us.”
The woman reached out and curled her hand tightly around his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Scott wished he’d been able to say these words to his brother back when he needed them. “It’s not your fault.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, but he ignored the pain, just stared at the convergence of fingers and skin where her hand clutched his. He studied the contrast in light and shadow, the delicate shadows between her knuckles and the thickness of his fingers compared to hers. Her fingers were almost as long as his, but more slender, and they curled like claws against his skin while she cried.
Scott froze in the doorway. The woman’s face was bruised and swollen on one side, and she had thick scratches on her throat. Her shirt was torn and exposed more bruising on her ribs, scratches and bruises on her hips. After one horrified moment, Scott knew.
His hands curled into fists, and he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.
“Ma’am,” Ellis said. He reached for her.
She shrieked and tossed her head wildly, sank back against the closet door. Her chest heaved, and Scott realized she was crying.
“Ellis,” he said, “get back.”
“Summers, she’s obviously high --”
“Get back, moron.” Scott set down his emergency bag and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My name is Scott Summers and I’m an EMT. We’re here to help. Officers will be here as soon as possible to secure the scene, but we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked over --”
“Stay back, monster!” She threw one of her shoes at him.
Scott ducked instinctively, then lowered himself to his knees. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”
She twitched like a rabid animal when he extended one hand, palm up.
“I promise.” Scott caught her gaze and held it.
She lunged at him and sank her teeth into his hand. Scott bit back a curse and took the pain, felt the burn in his palm and let it wash through him, calm him down. He remembered sitting in his room with his beat-up old acoustic and playing till his fingers bled, playing louder and angrier so he didn’t have to hear Bob’s quiet sobs in the next room. Scott knew there was something wrong with him, that physical pain calmed his fury, but he took it.
After a moment, the woman pulled back. She was trembling. Scott instinctively curled his fingers over the wound and was surprised to realize that his calluses from playing the guitar were gone. Had it been that long?
“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry --”
Scott reached out to her once more. “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re here to help. Come on with us.”
The woman reached out and curled her hand tightly around his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Scott wished he’d been able to say these words to his brother back when he needed them. “It’s not your fault.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, but he ignored the pain, just stared at the convergence of fingers and skin where her hand clutched his. He studied the contrast in light and shadow, the delicate shadows between her knuckles and the thickness of his fingers compared to hers. Her fingers were almost as long as his, but more slender, and they curled like claws against his skin while she cried.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Which Wire
"Okay, now locate the primary and the secondary switches and trace them back to the source," David's voice sounded loud and clear in his ear.
Steve's quick hands sifted through the wires attached to the bomb that he was practicing on. "Okay, this is the primary, but it looks like there is a third redundancy down here," Steve's long fingers traced a blue wire gently as it twisted back on itself and into the core of the device.
"Now the real question," David said, "is which wire do you cut? Bear in mind that you only have three more minutes before it goes off."
Steve grasped a small pair of wire cutters in his left hand, looking at the bomb. He looked again at the bundle of wires. Smiling, he grasped the green wire gently and cut it with a quick motion.
Steve couldn't help his cry of surprise when the little bomb went off in a shower of confetti.
Picking the colored paper out of his hair, Steve scowled in frustration. "I though I had it right for sure that time," Steve said as David came into the practice room.
"Don't worry about it, You'll get it eventually," David said, patting Steve on the shoulder. "Lets just hope it's before you have to disarm am bomb for real."
Steve's quick hands sifted through the wires attached to the bomb that he was practicing on. "Okay, this is the primary, but it looks like there is a third redundancy down here," Steve's long fingers traced a blue wire gently as it twisted back on itself and into the core of the device.
"Now the real question," David said, "is which wire do you cut? Bear in mind that you only have three more minutes before it goes off."
Steve grasped a small pair of wire cutters in his left hand, looking at the bomb. He looked again at the bundle of wires. Smiling, he grasped the green wire gently and cut it with a quick motion.
Steve couldn't help his cry of surprise when the little bomb went off in a shower of confetti.
Picking the colored paper out of his hair, Steve scowled in frustration. "I though I had it right for sure that time," Steve said as David came into the practice room.
"Don't worry about it, You'll get it eventually," David said, patting Steve on the shoulder. "Lets just hope it's before you have to disarm am bomb for real."
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Used To Play Piano
Dan could only stare at his hands, white-knuckled and trembling, as they curled around his gun. The shot was still ringing in his ears, and all he could think was, I used to play piano with these hands.
He remembered being fifteen years old and sitting at a grand piano in a hotel restaurant, smiling at a camera and showing a stranger how his brothers’ rock’n’roll could be converted into a slow, poignant melody.
He’d always had the prettiest hands of the lot - whenever they rewatched old videos of themselves hosting the Juno awards, Clay would make fun of how girly his hands were for the Celine Dion joke. Dan always defended himself - he was the piano player. His hands were supposed to be graceful.
“Summers, I need you to let go of the gun.”
Dan blinked. Officer Henry was standing beside him, trying to ease the gun out of his hands. Dan’s hands tightened reflexively, and hell, when had his hands become so pale?
“Officer, the gun. It’s safe now.” Henry smiled weakly.
Dan took a deep breath. “Just give me a moment to unclench, okay?” He could remember twelve-hour-days in the basement in the house in Nashville, how swollen and cramped his hands were after rehearsals. His pretty little hands would curl into tight claws because he’d been playing so hard and so long, and he usually had to soak them in hot water and get Bob to rub them before he could even move them again.
Not even Bob would help now.
“Is he dead?” Dan asked.
Henry glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “You’re lucky - he has a piece on him.”
He remembered being fifteen years old and sitting at a grand piano in a hotel restaurant, smiling at a camera and showing a stranger how his brothers’ rock’n’roll could be converted into a slow, poignant melody.
He’d always had the prettiest hands of the lot - whenever they rewatched old videos of themselves hosting the Juno awards, Clay would make fun of how girly his hands were for the Celine Dion joke. Dan always defended himself - he was the piano player. His hands were supposed to be graceful.
“Summers, I need you to let go of the gun.”
Dan blinked. Officer Henry was standing beside him, trying to ease the gun out of his hands. Dan’s hands tightened reflexively, and hell, when had his hands become so pale?
“Officer, the gun. It’s safe now.” Henry smiled weakly.
Dan took a deep breath. “Just give me a moment to unclench, okay?” He could remember twelve-hour-days in the basement in the house in Nashville, how swollen and cramped his hands were after rehearsals. His pretty little hands would curl into tight claws because he’d been playing so hard and so long, and he usually had to soak them in hot water and get Bob to rub them before he could even move them again.
Not even Bob would help now.
“Is he dead?” Dan asked.
Henry glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “You’re lucky - he has a piece on him.”
Monday, July 6, 2009
Boy With the Beat
“Do you even know how to play a guitar?” Sonny asked. He hovered over Bob and watched while Bob fumbled with the chords.
Bob dragged a hand through his hair and stared down at the crumpled napkin where he’d scribbled hasty lyrics and a dash of chords, then set the guitar aside for a moment.
“You done with it?” Sonny asked. His breath was rancid and he definitely had several old meals in his beard, but Bob didn’t care.
“No, not yet. It’s just --”
“Can you even write a song?” Sonny asked.
“Yes! I’ve been writing songs since I was seven. It’s just -- I was the drummer, all right? Clay tried to teach me how to play the guitar, but my hands just weren’t made for that.”
Sonny blinked. “Breathe, kid. It’s just a song.”
Just a song. Bob wanted to laugh. He did take a deep breath, and then he stared down at his hands. For twelve years now he’d pretended that all that mattered was dexterity, the quick rhythm of palms and knuckles, from brushes and sticks to bare hands on a box. Clay had longer fingers, more graceful hands, but then he had the smaller, thinner frame. Somehow, despite the fact that they were twins, he was prettier.
“Going to try again?” Sonny reached for the guitar.
“My fifty bucks isn’t up yet,” Bob said. “I just - need a minute.” He closed his eyes and set his hands on his knees. Then he curled his hands into fists and began to play. It was the first beat, the easy beat, the oldest beat from their oldest song, and it evolved from one song to the next, one album to another. When he opened his eyes, his palms were red and tingling, his knuckles swollen. He stared down at his hands once more. He had blunt-fingered, broad hands, like a carpenter or a construction worker, not a musician.
“That was...you’re crazy,” Sonny said.
Bob scooped up the guitar and tried the chord sequence once more. He was surprised at how steady his hands were this time, and he smiled.
“That sounds pretty good, actually,” Sonny said.
“Thanks.” Bob’s smile widened. “Now, on to the second verse.”
He barely noticed when a crowd began to gather around the edges of his vision.
“Every step along the way is part of who we are today...”
Bob dragged a hand through his hair and stared down at the crumpled napkin where he’d scribbled hasty lyrics and a dash of chords, then set the guitar aside for a moment.
“You done with it?” Sonny asked. His breath was rancid and he definitely had several old meals in his beard, but Bob didn’t care.
“No, not yet. It’s just --”
“Can you even write a song?” Sonny asked.
“Yes! I’ve been writing songs since I was seven. It’s just -- I was the drummer, all right? Clay tried to teach me how to play the guitar, but my hands just weren’t made for that.”
Sonny blinked. “Breathe, kid. It’s just a song.”
Just a song. Bob wanted to laugh. He did take a deep breath, and then he stared down at his hands. For twelve years now he’d pretended that all that mattered was dexterity, the quick rhythm of palms and knuckles, from brushes and sticks to bare hands on a box. Clay had longer fingers, more graceful hands, but then he had the smaller, thinner frame. Somehow, despite the fact that they were twins, he was prettier.
“Going to try again?” Sonny reached for the guitar.
“My fifty bucks isn’t up yet,” Bob said. “I just - need a minute.” He closed his eyes and set his hands on his knees. Then he curled his hands into fists and began to play. It was the first beat, the easy beat, the oldest beat from their oldest song, and it evolved from one song to the next, one album to another. When he opened his eyes, his palms were red and tingling, his knuckles swollen. He stared down at his hands once more. He had blunt-fingered, broad hands, like a carpenter or a construction worker, not a musician.
“That was...you’re crazy,” Sonny said.
Bob scooped up the guitar and tried the chord sequence once more. He was surprised at how steady his hands were this time, and he smiled.
“That sounds pretty good, actually,” Sonny said.
“Thanks.” Bob’s smile widened. “Now, on to the second verse.”
He barely noticed when a crowd began to gather around the edges of his vision.
“Every step along the way is part of who we are today...”
Pictures and Memories
David pulled a scrap of a photo out of his pocket, it was torn and creased. DAvid studied the people in the picture, Arianna and himself. They were holding hands and smiling at the camera. David closed his eyes, he could remember that day as if it were yesterday. They had gone to the fair, Arianna had beaten him in the carnival games. They had ridden the Farris wheel, and cuddled under the stars. One of the carnival workers had agreed to take their picture.
David looked at his hands in the picture; looked at them now. In the picture they had been smooth, strong, yet cleans, unblemished and innocent. David placed the picture in his lap, and spread his hands to see them clearly. Palm, down, his hands were browner now than they were then, fine lines crossed the backs of his hands. Long fingers ended in blunt tips, fingers made leaner by a hard life. Turning his hands over and looking at the palms, David noted the deep red scars running across his fingers; fingers that were also thick with callouses from years of fighting and weapons training. Hands that were broken with years of hard use.
Looking at the photo again David shook his head. He could wish for clean and gentle hands again. He could wish for a lot of things that couldn't be or he couldn't have. Soft hands belong to the her, to the past, he mused. Slipping the picture back into his pocket he looked at his hands once more.
This was his life, his fate. The hands of a warrior.
David looked at his hands in the picture; looked at them now. In the picture they had been smooth, strong, yet cleans, unblemished and innocent. David placed the picture in his lap, and spread his hands to see them clearly. Palm, down, his hands were browner now than they were then, fine lines crossed the backs of his hands. Long fingers ended in blunt tips, fingers made leaner by a hard life. Turning his hands over and looking at the palms, David noted the deep red scars running across his fingers; fingers that were also thick with callouses from years of fighting and weapons training. Hands that were broken with years of hard use.
Looking at the photo again David shook his head. He could wish for clean and gentle hands again. He could wish for a lot of things that couldn't be or he couldn't have. Soft hands belong to the her, to the past, he mused. Slipping the picture back into his pocket he looked at his hands once more.
This was his life, his fate. The hands of a warrior.
Project Assignment # 34 - Hands
This week should focus on hands in the story. Is it an old ladies gnarled and wrinkled hands, a babies smooth perfect skin? Does Vince have strong hands? what kind of Hands does the wordsmith have? Hands can tell a lot about a character. Rough, smooth, calloused, manicured. Do their hands have a nervous twitch?
Have fun with your descriptions.
I promise I will do my overview later today.
Have fun with your descriptions.
I promise I will do my overview later today.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Overview #33: World-Building
Ugh, I am so terrible at making myself write everyday. That, and I am quite scatterbrained in general, so I tend to just... forget. I know, terrible of me to forget M&M! What's wrong with me?!
Anyhow, the two entries I did write this week were... alright I suppose. I didn't really like the bowling alley one, but I wanted to describe a local haunt kind of thing, a place where pretty much everyone hangs out at one time or another. And I wrote about Sam's apartment complex because I feel like all you really get of Sam most of the time is her angsting over Vince. So I wanted to do something that was strictly Sam, for Sam.
Well... I promise I will try harder to write everyday. Not just for M&M, but also for myself. Thanks you guys.
Overview #33: World-Building
I essentially failed at this exercise. But whatever. I think switching to random characters for this week might have done me in, but there are worse things I could do. I'll fully admit to pretty much describing the different places I go to in Omaha, and I definitely caricatured them up a bit, but part of that was for Kyle's character as I made him up. The cheapness of literally calling places North Omaha, South Omaha, and West Omaha (there is no East Omaha - that is downtown) gave the world a more coherent feel than it really had, to me. It isn't easy to balance having characters and building a world, but Jade was right - a world comes alive because of the characters who inhabit it and interact with it, who observe it and comment on it and try to change it.
This exercise mostly brought home my utter inability to spatially process places alone in my head without visibly seeing what I'm describing. I think I improved as the week went, coming up with a lame if coherent story line and developing a fairly solid character for Kyle, who shall go the way of the dodo with whatever the impending challenge may be. In looking back, my sense of description improved, because in considering what I'd write for the day I'd watch the world around me and try to categorize the little visual details that fed into my overall impression of the place. (South Omaha has houses crammed closer together than in North Omaha, but North Omaha somehow feels more ghetto and unsettling than South Omaha.)
Well, better luck next week. At least I got my daily words, right?
This exercise mostly brought home my utter inability to spatially process places alone in my head without visibly seeing what I'm describing. I think I improved as the week went, coming up with a lame if coherent story line and developing a fairly solid character for Kyle, who shall go the way of the dodo with whatever the impending challenge may be. In looking back, my sense of description improved, because in considering what I'd write for the day I'd watch the world around me and try to categorize the little visual details that fed into my overall impression of the place. (South Omaha has houses crammed closer together than in North Omaha, but North Omaha somehow feels more ghetto and unsettling than South Omaha.)
Well, better luck next week. At least I got my daily words, right?
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Alleged Little Mexico
South Omaha was theoretically its own ghetto apart from North Omaha. Most didn’t call it the ghetto, though - it was Little Mexico. Maybe Kyle was just friends with too many white people, but in all his ventures south of Dodge he hadn’t seen a single Mexican market, piñata, taco joint, or remotely Catholic-looking church. The taco place around the corner from where he lived was more Mexican than any place he’d seen in South Omaha.
The alleged Little Mexico didn’t have the same desperate air that North Omaha carried. Its streets had the same bizarre grey overtones that Council Bluffs carried, and some of the houses could do with a new paint job, but Kyle didn’t feel nearly as suffocated there. Sure, the houses were crammed a little closer together, and the different families - most of whom were admittedly Mexican - did seem to spill from one property onto another, but their lawns were neater and Kyle did feel so uneasy as he drove the streets, searching for Drew’s new place. His lady had put the kaibash on a West Omaha mansion pretty quickly.
Children clustered around a new toy on the driveway of one of the houses and barely glanced Kyle’s car as he passed. One of them even smiled and waved. That was different - in North Omaha he’d get flipped off for making eye contact. The children’s mother came out and rounded them up, speaking in rapid Spanish, and she cast a wary look Kyle’s car, but he didn’t mind.
Drew lived in a strange white pocket of Little Mexico in a whitewashed townhome crammed into the middle of a series of identical townhomes. They had less color than the crowded-together houses across the streets, and after a moment Kyle realized it was because no one’s children were playing outside. He parked behind a beat-up black pick-up truck and reached for his cell phone. He still wasn’t going to stand around alone.
(327 words)
The alleged Little Mexico didn’t have the same desperate air that North Omaha carried. Its streets had the same bizarre grey overtones that Council Bluffs carried, and some of the houses could do with a new paint job, but Kyle didn’t feel nearly as suffocated there. Sure, the houses were crammed a little closer together, and the different families - most of whom were admittedly Mexican - did seem to spill from one property onto another, but their lawns were neater and Kyle did feel so uneasy as he drove the streets, searching for Drew’s new place. His lady had put the kaibash on a West Omaha mansion pretty quickly.
Children clustered around a new toy on the driveway of one of the houses and barely glanced Kyle’s car as he passed. One of them even smiled and waved. That was different - in North Omaha he’d get flipped off for making eye contact. The children’s mother came out and rounded them up, speaking in rapid Spanish, and she cast a wary look Kyle’s car, but he didn’t mind.
Drew lived in a strange white pocket of Little Mexico in a whitewashed townhome crammed into the middle of a series of identical townhomes. They had less color than the crowded-together houses across the streets, and after a moment Kyle realized it was because no one’s children were playing outside. He parked behind a beat-up black pick-up truck and reached for his cell phone. He still wasn’t going to stand around alone.
(327 words)
Friday, July 3, 2009
Over The Bridge
When they said Iowa was “just over the bridge”, they meant it. Kyle had been in downtown Omaha before - the place was a harrowing maze of one-way streets. The grid was at its most perfect downtown, all parallel streets and perfect right angles, but the idea that one could simply travel the grid to an intended destination was a fallacy, so Kyle had never ventured below tenth street in his desperation not to get lost.
What he didn’t realize was that Dodge - and Douglas running neatly parallel to it in the other direction - turned into Iowa below tenth street. Omaha went from tenth street to the bridge to a different state entirely.
Kyle could feel it when he crossed the bridge. Drew and the others in the office called Council Bluffs the ghetto, but it wasn’t a ghetto the same way North Omaha wasn’t really a ghetto. Something about the grey tinge to everything - buildings, streets, signs, even the lights - caused Kyle to automatically hunch his shoulders and tighten his grip on the steering wheel as he hunted for the shoe store where Drew’s girlfriend’s shoes were waiting to be picked up.
The sidewalks were disturbingly empty, given that Broadway was supposedly the main drag. Kyle watched the other cars cram the road and tried to figure out what it was that made the place so dingy. He’d rolled up his windows as soon as he hit thirty-second street, because a stench that greatly resembled raw sewage had attacked his car. Perhaps what was most disconcerting was the way none of the buildings were actually on Broadway itself. A dizzying array of dim and flickering signs advertising various establishments crowded for attention above the sidewalk, but everything was set back a ways, and Kyle had to crane his neck to see if the right building was there.
He missed the Payless Shoe Source and had to find a side street to flip around and backtrack. He couldn’t wait to get back over the bridge, but he was sure that once he made it, invisible fingers of unease would claw at the back of his neck until he fell asleep.
(361 words)
What he didn’t realize was that Dodge - and Douglas running neatly parallel to it in the other direction - turned into Iowa below tenth street. Omaha went from tenth street to the bridge to a different state entirely.
Kyle could feel it when he crossed the bridge. Drew and the others in the office called Council Bluffs the ghetto, but it wasn’t a ghetto the same way North Omaha wasn’t really a ghetto. Something about the grey tinge to everything - buildings, streets, signs, even the lights - caused Kyle to automatically hunch his shoulders and tighten his grip on the steering wheel as he hunted for the shoe store where Drew’s girlfriend’s shoes were waiting to be picked up.
The sidewalks were disturbingly empty, given that Broadway was supposedly the main drag. Kyle watched the other cars cram the road and tried to figure out what it was that made the place so dingy. He’d rolled up his windows as soon as he hit thirty-second street, because a stench that greatly resembled raw sewage had attacked his car. Perhaps what was most disconcerting was the way none of the buildings were actually on Broadway itself. A dizzying array of dim and flickering signs advertising various establishments crowded for attention above the sidewalk, but everything was set back a ways, and Kyle had to crane his neck to see if the right building was there.
He missed the Payless Shoe Source and had to find a side street to flip around and backtrack. He couldn’t wait to get back over the bridge, but he was sure that once he made it, invisible fingers of unease would claw at the back of his neck until he fell asleep.
(361 words)
Project in the Works
David walked into his room and placed his backpack on his desk. Kicking off his shoes he placed them on the floor of his closet and tossed his dirty socks into the hamper. Walking back to his desk, David unzipped his backpack and pulled out his textbook and notepads, placing them neatly on his desk.
The room was spacious, the walls lined neatly with posters and pictures in frames. A computer sat humming in one corner of the room. A bookshelf was near the window, the titles organized by genre and author. An electronic keyboard was tucked into one corner, sheets of music spread on the music stand.
Strangely the only disorderly aspect to the room was the bed. Sheets and blankets were tangled on the end of the bed. Papers were crumpled and scattered over the bedding, sketches and snatches of writing. Drawings lay at strange angles and bizarre juxtapositions to each other. A pillow and a light blanket lay on the floor, as if he had chosen to sleep on the floor rather than disturb the pattern of the papers.
David glanced over at the bed, twitching as if he were going to jump up and rearrange the papers on the bed. Sighing he turned back to his homework, working out a few sums. Looking at the bed again, David almost made it out of his chair before he stopped himself. Grinding his teeth, David turned his back squarely on his project and forced himself to finish his work.
"Soon enough," he said.
The room was spacious, the walls lined neatly with posters and pictures in frames. A computer sat humming in one corner of the room. A bookshelf was near the window, the titles organized by genre and author. An electronic keyboard was tucked into one corner, sheets of music spread on the music stand.
Strangely the only disorderly aspect to the room was the bed. Sheets and blankets were tangled on the end of the bed. Papers were crumpled and scattered over the bedding, sketches and snatches of writing. Drawings lay at strange angles and bizarre juxtapositions to each other. A pillow and a light blanket lay on the floor, as if he had chosen to sleep on the floor rather than disturb the pattern of the papers.
David glanced over at the bed, twitching as if he were going to jump up and rearrange the papers on the bed. Sighing he turned back to his homework, working out a few sums. Looking at the bed again, David almost made it out of his chair before he stopped himself. Grinding his teeth, David turned his back squarely on his project and forced himself to finish his work.
"Soon enough," he said.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
West Omaha
“Now this is a house call.” Drew whistled appreciatively as Kyle steered the car off the main drag and down a side street.
Maybe this neighborhood was safer, but to Kyle it was...boring. Sure, the houses were big, and the lawns were neat, but everything looked the same. It was suburban hell at its finest. Most of the houses were cookie-cutter generic, from the fancy molding around the windows and the stylish wooden shutters set to make the places look semi-rustic. If just one of the houses had looked like that, it would have been fine, but driving through a bewildering subdivision of over a hundred of them was like being lost in some sort of Jungian nightmare hell. It was Kyle’s subconscious reminding him why he had a loft downtown on the borders of Little Mexico, the ghetto, and corporate satanism.
“I’d kill to be able to afford a place out here,” Drew said. “When Melissa and I get married, if I can score a place like this --”
Kyle privately thought that if Drew moved Melissa out to one of these mansion-wannabe monsters with the fake chandeliers and overly thick cream carpets, she’d tear her own hair out. All of the streets had ridiculous names on overly-gilded signs that were difficult to read in the glare of fading sunlight. Did that say Black Swan or Black Dawn? And who’d want to live on Black Dawn anyway?
Predictably, the house that had summoned them was at the end of a cul-de-sac, perched at the top of a ridiculously long and curved driveway. Golden light spilled from the massive front windows - a bay window on the second floor - and it felt like a three-eyed demon was staring down at them. The squat doors for the three-car-garage grimaced like so many teeth.
Kyle parked the car at the sidewalk and followed the curving path up the slope, nervous about stepping on the immaculately manicured lawn. From the doorstep, he could see the fake chandelier, and - oh hell, the woman coming to answer the door was wearing a 1950’s house dress, complete with pearls and high heels.
So this was West Omaha.
(370 words)
Maybe this neighborhood was safer, but to Kyle it was...boring. Sure, the houses were big, and the lawns were neat, but everything looked the same. It was suburban hell at its finest. Most of the houses were cookie-cutter generic, from the fancy molding around the windows and the stylish wooden shutters set to make the places look semi-rustic. If just one of the houses had looked like that, it would have been fine, but driving through a bewildering subdivision of over a hundred of them was like being lost in some sort of Jungian nightmare hell. It was Kyle’s subconscious reminding him why he had a loft downtown on the borders of Little Mexico, the ghetto, and corporate satanism.
“I’d kill to be able to afford a place out here,” Drew said. “When Melissa and I get married, if I can score a place like this --”
Kyle privately thought that if Drew moved Melissa out to one of these mansion-wannabe monsters with the fake chandeliers and overly thick cream carpets, she’d tear her own hair out. All of the streets had ridiculous names on overly-gilded signs that were difficult to read in the glare of fading sunlight. Did that say Black Swan or Black Dawn? And who’d want to live on Black Dawn anyway?
Predictably, the house that had summoned them was at the end of a cul-de-sac, perched at the top of a ridiculously long and curved driveway. Golden light spilled from the massive front windows - a bay window on the second floor - and it felt like a three-eyed demon was staring down at them. The squat doors for the three-car-garage grimaced like so many teeth.
Kyle parked the car at the sidewalk and followed the curving path up the slope, nervous about stepping on the immaculately manicured lawn. From the doorstep, he could see the fake chandelier, and - oh hell, the woman coming to answer the door was wearing a 1950’s house dress, complete with pearls and high heels.
So this was West Omaha.
(370 words)
The Trenches
David and Joe huddled in a fox hole; a few feet away, Mark, Bryan, and Steve were crouched in another. The steep earthen walls crumbled and dirt slithered to the ground as another mortar shell landed nearby.
"Join the Army, they said. See the world they said," Joe grumbled, shifting as more dirt found it's way down his shirt. He felt like it was caked on an inch thick by now.
David's smile was crooked, "this isn't the Army, we are a branch of the Marines. We go where they tell us, do what they tell us, no questions."
David stood up and fired a few rounds at the enemy. The screams of pain reported a direct hit. "I feel a bit like that game Whack-a-Mole. We pop up and pop down. And if we're lucky, we don't get hit back," David said as he crouched back beside Joe.
"At least can we have a war where it's cooler?" Joe asked, mopping the sweat out of his eyes and taking a long pull from his canteen.
"Can't help that the hot spots in the world right now are in the Middle East," David said, shrugging, and taking a swallow of his own warm water. He took in one more mouthful, swishing it around, and standing, spit it out quickly to get the grit out of his mouth. "Just imagine being in Alaska, salmon fishing in the rivers," David said, sitting back down, "at least trench warfare is nothing like it was in the other wars. Here it's relatively clean and sanitary."
"Hey Boss!" Steve hollered from the other hole.
"Yeah?"
"What is the deepest part of the ocean?"
"Challenger Deep," David hollered back.
David could hear a scuffle from the next hole over, and a faint, "ha, I told you so. Pay up."
David rolled his eyes. His team could be immature, but he wouldn't trust his life to any other group of men.
"Hey boss!" It was Bryan this time.
"What?"
"When can we go home?"
"We go home when we've won," David said.
"When we've won," He whispered to himself.
"Join the Army, they said. See the world they said," Joe grumbled, shifting as more dirt found it's way down his shirt. He felt like it was caked on an inch thick by now.
David's smile was crooked, "this isn't the Army, we are a branch of the Marines. We go where they tell us, do what they tell us, no questions."
David stood up and fired a few rounds at the enemy. The screams of pain reported a direct hit. "I feel a bit like that game Whack-a-Mole. We pop up and pop down. And if we're lucky, we don't get hit back," David said as he crouched back beside Joe.
"At least can we have a war where it's cooler?" Joe asked, mopping the sweat out of his eyes and taking a long pull from his canteen.
"Can't help that the hot spots in the world right now are in the Middle East," David said, shrugging, and taking a swallow of his own warm water. He took in one more mouthful, swishing it around, and standing, spit it out quickly to get the grit out of his mouth. "Just imagine being in Alaska, salmon fishing in the rivers," David said, sitting back down, "at least trench warfare is nothing like it was in the other wars. Here it's relatively clean and sanitary."
"Hey Boss!" Steve hollered from the other hole.
"Yeah?"
"What is the deepest part of the ocean?"
"Challenger Deep," David hollered back.
David could hear a scuffle from the next hole over, and a faint, "ha, I told you so. Pay up."
David rolled his eyes. His team could be immature, but he wouldn't trust his life to any other group of men.
"Hey boss!" It was Bryan this time.
"What?"
"When can we go home?"
"We go home when we've won," David said.
"When we've won," He whispered to himself.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Vein
Some people are bothered by the sounds of traffic, especially out here. Not me. My apartment complex sat right by the interstate and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The complex was made up of four buildings that stood straight and narrow, all alike, almost like giant bread boxes looming towards the sky. Of course, they weren’t very tall, with only a ground floor and one flight of stairs to speak of. Lights burned quietly between each set of apartments. The doors came in twos, with their numbers rusting away bold and black against the white paint.
The light was out near my apartment. It was the only one that didn’t shine. I didn’t care too much.
All that stood between me and that stretch of freeway was a small drain that bubbled along its way every time it rained, and a fence. If I could climb that fence, I’d be home free, thumbing my way to some other state, to some other city.
But I liked it here. I never heard many sirens, and I could always see the stars - lying on the hood of my beat up car, I could see everything, hear the noise, and at the same time drown it out.
(207 words)
The complex was made up of four buildings that stood straight and narrow, all alike, almost like giant bread boxes looming towards the sky. Of course, they weren’t very tall, with only a ground floor and one flight of stairs to speak of. Lights burned quietly between each set of apartments. The doors came in twos, with their numbers rusting away bold and black against the white paint.
The light was out near my apartment. It was the only one that didn’t shine. I didn’t care too much.
All that stood between me and that stretch of freeway was a small drain that bubbled along its way every time it rained, and a fence. If I could climb that fence, I’d be home free, thumbing my way to some other state, to some other city.
But I liked it here. I never heard many sirens, and I could always see the stars - lying on the hood of my beat up car, I could see everything, hear the noise, and at the same time drown it out.
(207 words)
Home
The place that David had come to call home was austere. On the surface it was a small bunker, but underneath was a world of concrete and florescent lights. Corridors that stretched on forever were designated alphanumerically. The walls were stark, bare concrete, reinforced with re bar at their core. Pipes were exposed in the ceiling, color coded for identification. Blast doors, accessible only through a key card blocked much of the facility. Sound seemed dampened here, the air sterile, scrubbed a thousand times by the filtration system.
Barrack rooms were kept spotless. Fifty beds to a room for new recruits, five to ten beds for the team barracks. The common areas were even silent, as if holding a breath, waiting for a slight movement.
Strobe lights and sirens sat at junctions, waiting to go off. Weapons lockers and equipment storage were immaculately organized. Everything spoke of flawless military precision.
Barrack rooms were kept spotless. Fifty beds to a room for new recruits, five to ten beds for the team barracks. The common areas were even silent, as if holding a breath, waiting for a slight movement.
Strobe lights and sirens sat at junctions, waiting to go off. Weapons lockers and equipment storage were immaculately organized. Everything spoke of flawless military precision.
The Right Address
“We’re not doctors. Why are we making house calls?” Drew asked.
Kyle hitched his laptop bag higher and sighed. “Keep your chin up and walk a little faster. Then we won’t get mugged.”
“Mugged?” Drew squeaked.
Kyle rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a wuss.”
“We’re in the ghetto, man. Two white guys in the ghetto - we’re walking targets.”
“We will be if you keep talking like that,” Kyle said. “And this isn’t a ghetto.” At least, North Omaha wasn’t like the ghettos people saw on TV. The streets followed the semi-organized grid-system that the rest of Omaha pretended to follow, but the further north of Dodge the streets got, the more broken-down they became. Kyle and Drew would have been driving if Drew hadn’t blown a tire on a pothole. The cracks in the broken sidewalk seemed to have been timed to match the potholes in the tar, and Drew had almost tripped over his own shoes five times now.
“You told the caller what a house visit costs?” Drew asked.
“It’s not like Holgren would let us out of the office if I hadn’t pinned the caller down to actual payment,” Kyle said. Drew’s skepticism was understandable, though. Most of the houses in these neighborhoods were from the sixties and seventies, and a good number of them hadn’t had paint jobs since then. Lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, and the scent of grits that wafted from open windows. Drew looked guilty when his stomach growled. Kyle would have paused to admire one of the ma-an-pa corner stores a little longer if the group of teenagers pouting over soda pop bottles weren’t glaring quite so fiercely.
“...Are we still even in the city limits anymore?” Drew asked.
Kyle peered at the GPS on his cell phone, then looked up. They’d reached the end of Maple Street, which had dead-ended here even though it was a main street further west, and there was a single house, ramshackle and made of what looked suspiciously like bamboo. It stood in the middle of a single, grassy field, and Kyle was convinced that a gang of men would emerge, singing songs about picking cotton. The grassy field was huge and dotted with trees, and the rest of the neighborhood seemed to have vanished from around it.
“Well,” Kyle said at last. “It’s the right address.”
Kyle hitched his laptop bag higher and sighed. “Keep your chin up and walk a little faster. Then we won’t get mugged.”
“Mugged?” Drew squeaked.
Kyle rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a wuss.”
“We’re in the ghetto, man. Two white guys in the ghetto - we’re walking targets.”
“We will be if you keep talking like that,” Kyle said. “And this isn’t a ghetto.” At least, North Omaha wasn’t like the ghettos people saw on TV. The streets followed the semi-organized grid-system that the rest of Omaha pretended to follow, but the further north of Dodge the streets got, the more broken-down they became. Kyle and Drew would have been driving if Drew hadn’t blown a tire on a pothole. The cracks in the broken sidewalk seemed to have been timed to match the potholes in the tar, and Drew had almost tripped over his own shoes five times now.
“You told the caller what a house visit costs?” Drew asked.
“It’s not like Holgren would let us out of the office if I hadn’t pinned the caller down to actual payment,” Kyle said. Drew’s skepticism was understandable, though. Most of the houses in these neighborhoods were from the sixties and seventies, and a good number of them hadn’t had paint jobs since then. Lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, and the scent of grits that wafted from open windows. Drew looked guilty when his stomach growled. Kyle would have paused to admire one of the ma-an-pa corner stores a little longer if the group of teenagers pouting over soda pop bottles weren’t glaring quite so fiercely.
“...Are we still even in the city limits anymore?” Drew asked.
Kyle peered at the GPS on his cell phone, then looked up. They’d reached the end of Maple Street, which had dead-ended here even though it was a main street further west, and there was a single house, ramshackle and made of what looked suspiciously like bamboo. It stood in the middle of a single, grassy field, and Kyle was convinced that a gang of men would emerge, singing songs about picking cotton. The grassy field was huge and dotted with trees, and the rest of the neighborhood seemed to have vanished from around it.
“Well,” Kyle said at last. “It’s the right address.”
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