Love A Good Mystery

This morning was another of those near perfect Camelot style mornings in late summer. I was particulary bucked having come off an evening in Southport mingling with the crew on the set of The Waterfront, the newest movie production to be set in that jewel of the Carolina coast.

 

When Irv arrived at Egret Coffee Bar and Dance Club, I was reading a book Ms. Wonder had recommended.  She said it would 'do me good'. 

She was on a river tour getting photos for her next art show and I was to meet her at the docks in a couple of hours. I knew she'd expect me to have started the thing by then.

"What'cha reading?" asked the Islander.

"It's a little thing Wonder recommended," I said.

"Trying to improve you," he said. "You could use a little improvement."

I closed the book and was about to respond to that crack about needing improvement. But I gave it a second thought and decided that he was probably right.

Irv turned the book around to better see the cover. "Until the End of Time," he said. "A subject broad and deep. Any good?"

"Is it good?" I said "It's like this."

But I stopped in mid-sentence because I'd suddenly had one of those ideas that pop up, seemingly out of nowhere, like the demon king in a Thai water opera.

"I can't give you a better example of what this book is like than by reading a random passage from the book. Listen to this," I said and I opened the book and began to read.

"An essential factor, too, is that there wasn't a single, isolated evolutionary flip-book. Every cell division in every organism occupying every nook and cranny of the planet contributed to the Darwinian narrative. Some of these storylines fizzled. Most added nothing new to the ongoing plot. But some provided unexpected twists that would develop into their own evolutionary flip-book."

I closed the book and sipped my coffee because I thought it might add a bit of gravitas to the occassion. You, of course, might have a different opinion and if you do, please leave a comment.

"I'm sure the author is perfect correct," I said, "but it's a bit heavy to spring on a guy with a morning head."

On hearing those words, his expression turned quizzical and I had the strange feeling that he'd given the next question a lot of thought and had wanted to ask it for a while. I don't know why I had that feeling. Just a passing fancy, you think?

"Why you?" he said. "I mean why does she try to mold you?"

"It's no mystery," I said. "She sees promise in me. She wants to bring me up to her level mentally. She does her best too, but I'm more of a physical operator than mental, if you follow me."

"I understand perfectly," he said. "I've always said that the difference in your mental and physical makeup is that  physically, you have substance."

"And you're wrong about it not being a mystery," he said. "Everyone agrees that trying to improve you is contrary to her normally astute and insightful manner."

"There is no mystery!" I said and I said it with feeling. "She believes in me because I try hard to please. And who the hell do you mean when you say everyone?"

His brow furrowed once more as though he were deep in thought but I didn't fall for it. He's never been more than ankle-deep in thought as long as I've known him.

"Hmmm," he said, "no I don't think it's because you try hard but I do love a good mystery and I'm going to analyze the thing further until I find the solution." 

"For the last time, there is no mystery!"

Irv opened his mouth to reply but what he actually said was, "Oh, here she is now."

And despite my doubts that even a woman with her powers could materialize on Castle Street when she was supposed to be on the Riverwalk, Irv was right. There she was.

I wanted to ask how she did it. She makes a habit of shimmering in and out of places. That's where the real mystery lies, if you ask me. But before I could ask, she glanced at the book and her face suddenly took on the look of a vegetarian who had just been served a leg of lamb.

"I read your manuscript on the boat," she said, "and you haven't even started the book I suggested for you."

"I don't understand you," I said. "How can you say I haven't started it. Here it is and you can see by the bookmark that I've read the first several chapters."

"What's the title of that book," she said.

"Until the End of Time," I said holding the book up for her to see.

"And which book did I recommend?" she said.

I looked at the book again as if I expected to find the answer to her question on the cover.

"Not Until the End of Time?" I said.

"I recommended, From Here to Eternity," she said.

Once more I looked at the book in my hands.

"They're close," I said. "A mistake anyone could have made."

"You see," said Irv, "an intriguing mystery. I'm going to enjoy working on this one but it's plain to see that if it's to be solved I'll need the help of all the others."

Something Fresh

The sunshine of a fair summer morning fell graciously on Wilmawood. All along the downtown business district its heartening warmth infused traffic and pedestrians alike with a live and let-live mood. A light, carefree morning.

Bus drivers courteously eased out into traffic when pulling away from the curb. Policemen whistled happy tunes as they patrolled their beats. Dogs pranced ahead of their humans greeting all the passersby with a friendly tail wag.

Of all the spots in Wilmawood, that rise from Riverwalk to the heights of mid-town, none are more deserving of being described as a downtown Camelot.

At precisely nine o'clock the door of 601 Castle Street opened and the Claudia and Lupe duo steeped into Egret Coffee Bar and Dance Club. They were there to meet me.

"Lupe," I said getting right down to it without so much as one word of preamble, I've finally opened that gate and stepped out onto the yellow brick road. I'm on my way to the Emerald City. Nothing can stop me now."

"Watch out for flying monkeys," she said.

"Pay no attention to monkeys," I said, "nor torpedoes for that matter. It's full speed ahead for me."

There was a moment of silence when I expected a reply. I decided to fill it.

"My mom lived in the Emerald City for a while," I said.

"Don't get sidetracked," Lupe said. "Why are you so happy?"

I'm an optimist, Lupe," I said. "Always have been."

"Not really," she said.

"The older I get, the more I agree with Shakespeare about it always being darkest before the storm."

"The dawn," she said.

"I'm sorry," I said, "what did you say?"

"It's darkest before the dawn," she said. "And it wasn't Shakespeare."

"There's always a silver lining," I said. "and whatever you lose on the backswing, you make up on the followthrough."

"I couldn't say," she said.

"No matter, my friend," I said. "The point is that yesterday I was a mug expecting to get it in the neck and today I'm walking on the clouds and sitting on a rainbow and I'm singing while the sunbeams light up the sky."

"I have no idea what you're going on about," she said.

Did I mention that Claudia was with us? She was. I looked at her to get her thoughts.

"Don't look at me," she said.

"Doesn't matter," I said. "I've taken my problem to a higher power and that H.P. has come up with a plan."

"He's talking about Ms. Wonder," Lupe told Claudia.

"What a woman," I said. "What a brain. It must be all the fish she eats. Omega 3 oils and whatnot."

"Possibly," said Claudia.

"It's wild-caught Alaskan chinook," I said.

"I doubt it's the fish," said Lupe.

"You may be right," I said. "I remember her saying once that her mother thought she was a bright child. Perhaps she's just one of the gifted few."

"What about the Emerald City?" said Claudia.

"Yeah," said Lupe.

"Hang onto your hats, girls," I said. "I'm going to publish The Circular Journey in book form."

"Wait a sec," said Lupe. "I thought it was going to be adapted for the stage."

"And don't call us, girls," said Claudia.

"Is that it?" said Lupe. "A book."

"Yes, a book," I said. "And before we get our knickers in a wad, perhaps I should open the curtains and let you get a look of the man working the machinery."

"Not just any book. It's my book. The off-broadway boys want me to make changes and wholesale changes at that. But I'm not that kind of writer. I don't have any particular message that I'm trying to broadcast to the world.

"I just like creating a world where I feel safe and entertained. I'm still plugging away at it and haven't run into any messages yet. It looks as though unless I'm suddenly struck with a spiritual mission, humanity will remain a message short.

"Still, despite our ups and downs--I'm speaking of the two of you--we've somehow become pals. I see you as cute and funny, even though Lupe has a hot temper and a short fuse. And you two agree that I'm looney to the eyebrows. It all works out. Everything's nice and matey."

They looked at each other and then beamed a great big grin of agreement at me.

"Good," I said. "Let's keep it that way."

Make It So

The day began in the usual way. Up early with words to write, as if words could make right the muddle of the heart. Oh, sorry. I've jumped the rails. Came close to writing poetry there for a second. 

Good thing I caught myself in time. I sometimes think I can get away with it just one last time but then it always snags me. One is all it takes as the man said.

As I was saying, nothing unusual about the start of the morning. But that's a recurring theme with me, isn't it? There's never a warning about things to come. 

What I should have said at the beginning of this post is that I'd just gotten off the phone when Ms. Wonder came into my little corner of the world.

"Was that you're agent on the phone just now?" she said.

"It was," I said still in wonder of it all.

"Well, what's the news?" she said. "I can tell by that look on your face that something's up? You look like, the heroine of Israel? What's her name?"

"You're thinking of Jael," I said. "the wife of Heber. Do I look that happy?"

"You do," she said, "but I don't remember what she did exactly."

"She hammered a tent stake into the head of Israel's enemy while he was sleeping on her couch," I explained.

Hearing my words, her brow wrinkled and her eyes looked just a little worried.

"Let's pass over all that," she said. "Just tell me what your agent said."

"You're not going to believe it," I said.

"Don't tell me they're still talking about adapting your blog for the stage," she said.

"Nothing to do with that old gag," I said. "You see it's like this."

And then I told her the whole story about the Baptist deacon in Charlotte who found his daughter reading my blog and decided to read a few random posts to make sure it was up to snuff. He didn't like it. He spoke to his pastor who phoned the Wilma News. 

"Oh no!" she said.

"Apparently the religion columnist reviewed my blog in the current edition. He described my work using adjectives that I find harsh and reactionary and Fox News worthy.”

"Genome!" she said. "This is terrible. What will you do?"

"I suppose an honorable man like myself should write the columnist and thank him. You see since the article came out, The Circular Journey has received more followers than the previous all-time total."

"Ohhhhh," she said.

"Yes," I said. "My agent called to let me know that a couple of studios are considering bringing the blog to a larger audience."

"Larger audience?"

"That's right," I said. "A Wilmawood production."

"Genome?" she said.

"Yes?" I said.

“You’ll lose your anonymity.”

“You mean people will know my true identity. Yes I see. Something to consider for sure. Still, it’s not like I’m in the witness protection program.”

“Aren’t you? But never mind that. My question is can we do the same for my art?"

"All things are possible for those who believe," I said and I thought it pretty cool. Still do. Quotable I think.

“Let’s generate some scandalous scuttlebutt about your art.”

“Data,” she said, “engage!”

The Summer Wind

Waterford was basking in the comforting warmth of a late summer morning. The skies were uniformly blue and the sunshine uniformly cheery. V-shaped depressions might be throwing their weight around in other areas along the coast but here the barometer enjoyed a zen-like repose.

Along the canals, bluebirds were singing some of the classic tunes from the 40's and 50's. The fruit of palmetto palms flashed in the sun like orange pearls. The late azaleas shone in the early morning sun like jewels. The lagoons shimmered like liquid silver. And the ducks. Well, the ducks were like ducks. 

Cooling summer breezes came drifting in from across the sea and the entire world seemed new underneath the blue umbrella sky. It was a good day to be alive and I felt it.

"Poopsie!" I called up the stairway in the direction of the sanctum that I'm sure you know well by now. "Poopsie, I feel good." There was no answer. Probably on an international call. That's where I usually find her.

I got upholstered in the outerwear of a coastal gentleman because today was the day I was to meet my new dermatologist. Before you go off the deep end, let me explain. It wasn't a doctor's appointment that had me bucked. It was an opportunity to explore an unfamiliar district of Wilma. Always a pleasure.

It was the work of an instant for me to crank the self-starter in Wynd Horse and virtually fly down Grandiflora and across the Cape Fear River to Wrightsville Beach. I refer to the town and not to the boardwalk. The boardwalk I'm familiar with already. Who isn't?

The derma office was a pleasant enough place. There was a passing annoyance of the urge to cough too much in the waiting room but I fought it down with a swig of organic, refined guava syrup. I know! Guava syrup! Who'd have guessed it was the coffee sweetener provided for clients?

The coughing fit was alleviated somewhat when my attention was captured by the office terrier, who insisted on getting scratched behind the ears. That's right! A dog in the office. This place was beginning to be as entertaining as the boardwalk. And it was just the beginning.

In minutes, I was escorted to the examing room where the doctor introduced herself and her office attire was the biggest surprise of the day. Instead of the usual lab smock or scrubs that one usually sees in healthcare services, she was dressed like a golfer on her way to an early tee time. Come to think of it, no reason why she shouldn't have a date with girlfriends to get in a quick nine or even eighteen before lunch.

The doctor was very efficient but personable and after a few comments about the top of the scalp, the right ear, and the left shoulder, she wrote a script and I was on my way. The day had begun perfectly and I was ready to enjoy a beautiful afternoon. I toyed with the idea of motoring down to Ocean Isle.

Back on the road listening to Frank Sinatra singing Summer Wind, my attention was again diverted. This time it was a voice in my head.

"Genome," said the voice, and I'm sure it's one as familiar to you as to me. 

"Genome, that spot on your ear," she said.

"What about it?" I said and I put a lot of topspin on it because I wanted it to sting. The very idea, I thought, of my own limbic system working against me when I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

"What if it's cancer?" she said. "It could be cancer."

"It's not cancer," I said. "It's nothing."

"It might be," she said, "and she's going to remove that spot on your scalp when you come back in October. What's that going to be like? You'll probably need to wear a hat for who knows how long."

"No big deal," I said. "My mom had those things removed all the time."

"Yeah, and the healing process was ugly. You don't need any more unpleasant-looking spots."

"Go away," I said. The conversation was bringing me down and I resented her messing with my head.

"At least she'll freeze the top of your head," she said. "That'll be a good thing."

"Why do you say it will be good?"

"Well, having your head frozen can only improve things for you," she said.

That was the last straw. I refused to respond to any more of her comments even though the comments kept coming until I got home.

"Poopsie!" I called up the stairway. "Something terrible has happened.”

"What's wrong?" she said coming down the stairs to console me if consoling was needed.

"What did the doctor say?" she said. "Did she find something wrong?"

"It's not the doctor," I said. "It's Princess Amy. She's back."

Moonlighting

To get to Waterford Hall from the grand old metropolis of Wilmawood, assuming that you can tear yourself away from the most charming and entertaining city in Carolina, you follow the High Street through a flurry of seafood restaurants and jazz cafes, until coming to the broad highway that carries you over the Cape Fear River.

From there you cruise through a few miles of tidal marsh until you arrive at Waterford Village. If you want the most scenic route, and believe me you will want it, turn right onto Grandiflora and stay on it to the gates of Chatsford.

Whereas the morning began with the hustle and bustle of Ocean Highway, a leisured peace prevailed this evening within the walls of Chatsford. It's simply the way things are here, where the men and women are accustomed to mingling in the serene company of cats on the grounds of an estate in the county.

The refined moon that serves the surrounding district was nearly full, and Chatsford Hall had for some hours now been flooded by its silver rays. 

They shone on the gravel drive and the surrounding lawns. They peeped through the windows of the upper room where Uma Maya, the Empress of Chatsford, lay sleeping.

Seeping through the upper levels and floating down the staircase, the moon eventually found someone really worth looking at, the beautiful and enchanting worker of mysterious wonders, the one known as Ms. Wonder herself.

From Wonder's bedroom, the silver rays illumined the length of the hallway and slowly entered the great room with the kitchen in the far corner. Here the moonbeams slowed, respectfully, as if to ask permission to enter. 

The reason for hesitation is no mystery for the kitchen is known to be the domain of Abbie Hoffman, the gentleman ninja. Like all cats, Abbie prefers the heights of the kitchen cabinets for his zen-like evening repose. 

He is quite fond of the moon and welcomes its company. He has a special relationship with the full moon and can often be found staring at it like a lover.

It was with Abbie the work of a moment to leave the upper stories and move down to the kitchen floor where he began retracing the path of the moonlight, which led him to the sleeping place of Empress Uma Maya.

He approached slowly and stealthily, careful not to wake her until the time was perfect. He sniffled her fur. His paw reached out, oh so tentatively, in the direction of her head. His execution was flawless.

He gave her head three sharp taps and then hesitated, paw still raised, in case more work was called for. 

It wasn't necessary. Uma woke. After the few brief moments required for her to fully waken, the fur on her neck stood on end and she hissed the hiss of The Morrigan in Abbie's face.

He blinked but otherwise, for one brief moment seemed frozen in his tracks. Suddenly he turned and bolted out the door and down the hallway to make his report to me.

The knowledge that he had ruined his relative's beauty sleep filled his cup of cheer. It was piled up, pressed down, and running over. In other words, he was full of himself.

He leaped onto my bed and immediately made his way to my side, insisting that I move over to allow him access to his favorite spot. He settled himself, struck a sphinx-like pose, and lay staring wide-eyed at the moon through the open curtains of my window.  I smiled. His self-satisfied air left no doubt in my mind about his recent activities.

"You've come from Uma's boudoir, haven't you?" I said. "You've done something to raise her ire. Don't bother denying it. You can't fool me."

He gave me a look but it neither confirmed nor denied the charge. I give him a little neck massage to let him know that I wasn't cross with him.

"I know you woke her," I said. "I mean, there she was, sleeping so peacefully in the moonlight. You probably thought you could steal into her room, just this once, and resist temptation. Did she have anything to say when you woke her?"

He didn't actually reply but he did take his eyes off the moon just long enough to give me a look that said, 'She didn't have time to say anything. You know how it is. You see her asleep. You nudge her. She wakes and hisses at you, and you feel a sudden impulse to move on.'

"I understand," I said. "Had to be done. Good night, Abbie," I said.

In the master bedroom, Ms. Wonder turned over in her sleep. She was dreaming of ocean-going freighters slowly making the turn at Southport, where the river pilot boards the ship and guides it up the Intercoastal Waterway to the ILM Port.

In her upper room sanctum, Uma Maya gazed sleepily out the window and down on the moon-bathed gardens. She felt the satisfaction that comes only to those who have earned it by dishing out the wages of sin to a vexing housemate.

And I lay next to Abbie Hoffman, lovingly watching him as he lovingly watched the moon. It was a sight that I will continue to see for as long as the moon continues to shine. 

Chatsford Hall was in for the night. The moon beamed down on its occupants. It was not quite full yet but it would be in a few nights. 

And that's the news from Chatsford Hall. We wish sweet dreams to all and to all a good night.