Michael's Chronicles: Laney

Mostly Michael writes about stuff that happens between art shows, but occasionally some fiction comes bubbling up from his subconscious, vignettes inspired by life on the road and life in general. Hey, he can't spend all of his time making drum boxes and peddling them all over the country. Sometimes the self expression takes a different form.

Laney

She was a hair twirler. Index finger and thumb. Sometimes the middle one too. It was one of those absent minded habits. Better than nose picking or knuckle cracking - the kinds of things guys do. But habit, nonetheless. And it caught his attention.

She felt his gaze before she caught it in her eye.

“Are you staring at me?” Her mother had always encouraged her to be direct.

“Well, no, actually. I’m watching you.”

“Watching me what?”

“Twirling your beautiful hair.”

She turned up her nose and looked away dismissively.

“You asked.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Do I call you “Twirly” or do you go by something else?”

The voice in her head said, “Who is this guy? Who does he think he is?”

“I can live with “Twirly.”

“That’s not my name and you know it.”

“Throw me a bone then. What do your friends call you? Got any of those?”

It had been three days since she broke up with Jimmy - well, technically, two and a half and she’d sworn off relationships forever. She’d made an agreement with herself and she wasn’t going to break it just like that. 

“Been working on your pickup lines, huh?”

“Sure have. Started with dogs and gerbils. They follow me everywhere I go now.”

She looked around.

“Don’t see any gerbils.”

He furrowed his brow, leaned forward and cupped one corner of his mouth squeezing out a whisper as though it were some sort of state secret. 

“Dogs ate em.”

She cocked her head sideways and squinched out a look of fake disbelief, then looked around once again.

“Don’t see any dogs.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Wha…….why?”

“Just do it.” Slowly, she complied.

“ Woof……………………woof.”

She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed with a guy. Thoughts of Jimmy began to percolate up from somewhere inside but were quickly dashed by a question: “Who’s Jimmy?” She opened her eyes. He was smirking. Not smiling. Smirking.

“Okay, it’s Laney. Laney Harper. How about you? You got a name?”

 

Michael's Chronicles: Snowme

Michael lives in Flagstaff, a high altitude place the he loves because it's got mountains (in fact, it's got volcanoes), but there's a price to pay for that real estate. No wonder he would rather be on the road most of the time . . .

Snowme
March 14

Let me make a disclaimer here, paragon of truth that I am. I am not a malcontent. There are plenty of things in my life that please me no end. Snow simply is not one of them. Trouble is, I live in snow country. Seven thousand feet off of sea level in the direction of the universe to be precise. There’s a reason there are no palm trees here. They don’t like snow either. See? I’m not alone. And we’re not the only ones. What about citrus and rubber plants? Oh, yeah, and throw in Venus fly traps for good measure. Getting my drift?

So when they call it God’s country it sets me to wondering just what god they’re referring to. Boreas was the Greek god of winter and ice, as well as the God of the north wind. In ancient art, he was depicted as an elderly man or a strong, bearded man with ice in his hair. Not my kind of guy. I don’t even like his name. If I saw him walking down the road I might run over him with my car. Johnny Nash got it right in his song, I Can See Clearly Now, when he said “gonna be a bright, bright, bright sunshiny day.”

But for me, even bright sun isn’t enough. I gotta have warmth. I mean, if the Good Lord had wanted us to worship the cold so much don’t you think he’d have lined the birth canal with ice, and we’d have all slid out with popsicle sticks for legs? News flash: he didn’t. 

By the way, have you ever looked at snowshoes? Who had the audacity to call those things footwear? Oversized tennis rackets or trout nets if you ask me. But don’t go out on this day in your Buster Browns or your Keds. The drifts that fell outside last night will eat your feet alive. Can’t a man just walk around without having to pull on fleece lined boots? If I spent the money on those things I won’t be able to feed my turtle (who, by the way, doesn’t like snow any more than I do) for six months. What do I write on his gravestone? “Paid the ultimate price for snow boots?” Hope the ASPCA doesn’t hear about me.

Fortunately I don’t have to shovel the junk. I can just have son, Joah, do it and listen to him bitch and moan about it for the rest of the day. It’s worth it. Perhaps he could shovel some heat into the air while he’s at it. I’m ready for my lawn chair and sandals. Am I the only one?