Sunday, August 30, 2015

Mascot, Chapter Twenty Three: Fall

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Fall

In mid-October, the leaves of California finally get around to changing color, and Edward’s macro photography follows suit: the golden oriental fans of gingko, zinfandel stars of liquidambar, rainbow feathers of pistache. A maple leaf lies on the sidewalk, phasing from green to yellow to copper, its ragged edges echoed by a crack in the concrete.

She doesn’t know what to do with this. Edward is a mythical figure, the Oracle at Delphi, these digital images the only evidence that he was once a mortal. She needs corporeal presence, limbs upon limbs, breath upon skin. The pole-dancing doesn’t come close to filling her hours, so she comes to the old coffeehouse, orders a Sinatra Sumatra, fires up her laptop and reads the leaves.

One picture is different: a blossom of mustard against a black background, tributaries of gray and chocolate. All at once she gets it. It’s Einstein, all that crazy hair expressed in a Jackson Pollock outburst. The background is rough, like granite, or slate.

“Okay. Just go for the head. Don’t worry about getting much more. We’ll leave that to the professionals.”

Zelda giggles and studies the plum-size cap. “Hey, can you turn off the water? It’s getting in my eyes.”

“Sheesh. Amateur.”

“Yes! Amateur.”

He turns the knob and the water cuts off. “If you can’t handle liquids in your face, you’re never gonna make it in this biz.”

Zelda is readjusting her knees, about to make a retort when she notices a tile next to the drain.

“Wow! Check that out.”

“What?”

“Next to your right toe. That burst of yellow.”

“Silly woman.” He nudges his dick to the right and squints. “Oh! Huh. Einstein, right?”

“I love that about slate. All kinds of random stuff.”

“Any chance you could suck my dick now?”

Zelda gives a drama-queen sigh. “If I have to.”

Johnny’s laugh echoes off the walls.

Zelda stares at the photo for a long time. She looks into the courtyard, where raindrops freckle the concrete. She expands Einstein to full screen. The world is beginning to make sense.



She directs her driver along Hamilton, past the tennis court to Old Japanese Road.

“Just drop me off here.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

She pays him and begins her trek. It’s a bit of a distance, but it’s all downhill, and she doesn’t mind a little time to strategize. Soon she’s standing at the leftward drop of Alameda Lane, and still has no idea what she’s doing. Well, no alternative but to plow on through.

She heads downhill, careful of her steps, and enters the redwood canopy. A sharp whine makes her jump. It’s a Mexican man in a neighboring drive, working with a bandsaw. Like most Mexican workers, he ignores the crazy white woman and continues with his job.

Zelda ascends the final hill and arrives at Roxy’s, site of the infamous bachelorette party. The phallic fountain stands in still water. Now what? How does one accuse a friend of nasty, unforgiveable betrayal? And how does one execute a “pop-in” in the middle of a redwood forest? I was just in the neighborhood?

She proceeds carefully, peering up at the balcony adjoining the kitchen. Nothing. But Roxy’s Mercedes is here, at the far side of the circular drive. A Steller’s jay lands on the railing and unleashes a raspy alarm. Zelda feels short of breath. She boards the front steps and climbs to the phallic brass knocker. She reaches for it. The door bursts open.

“Zelda! What the hell? How nice to see you.”

Roxy in jeans and a black sweater, her hair tucked under a baseball cap. She wraps her in a hug.

“How the hell did you get here?”

Zelda’s thoughts are a crossword puzzle. Somewhere a neuron tells her to just answer the damn question.

“One of those Uber drivers.”

Roxy takes her by the shoulders. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

“No. Just… bored. And I missed you.”

“How sweet! You can imagine, I don’t get many visitors. When I do, I always assume they’re on the run from the law. Come on up.”

She climbs the stairs to the kitchen. Zelda follows.

“What’s your pleasure? Beer? Wine? Tea?”

“Umm. A Coke? Non-diet?”

“Oh, the sweetener? Yeah. Gives me a headache. Have a seat.”

Zelda sits at the kitchen table. She’s facing the long window, the one through which her sex tape was filmed. Roxy reaches into the cabinet, giving Zelda a chance to study her figure. The pole-dancing classes have done her well. In male terms, she is “doable.” Roxy takes a glass to the fridge and returns with her Coke, carbon bubbles spitting the surface. She savors the first swallow.

“Oh. So good.”

Roxy leans back on the counter, crossing her long legs. “Sometimes the best things are the things that you know are bad for you. Ha!”

Make small talk, says the neuron. “Yes. I get so irritated at these women who try to lose weight by following zero-tolerance diets. I got a handful of stripper poles that will take care of that problem.”

Roxy sips from a cup of coffee. “No one works out harder than you, Zel. I don’t think I’ve known a more remarkable athlete. I describe some of your moves to my friends, and they all think you’re a superhero.”

The thing is, she doesn’t look guilty. And Zelda can’t go blurting out accusations like a TV detective.

“Could I use your bathroom?”

“Of course! Up the stairs, to the… oh, well, you know. Hey and why don’t you meet me up on the hot tub deck?”

“Sure.” Zelda climbs the steps and turns into the dark hall, feeling shadows of Johnny Sequoia. She locks the bathroom door, peers into the shower and locates the Einstein tile. She pulls out her smartphone to take a couple of shots, then sits down for a pee. Afterward, she crosses the master bedroom (devoid of male clothing) and opens the sliding door. Roxy’s at the table, adjusting the patio umbrella, wiping the chairs with a towel. She sees Zelda and smiles.

“Have a seat! I know I’m a little silly, hanging outside in a drizzle, but the rain kicks up all these great woodsy smells. We’ve got some cedar trees just up the hill, and oh! sometimes the aroma just pours down. Here, have a cookie. Lemon ice, my favorite…”

Zelda picks one off the plate. It’s very good, but she’s too deep into analytics to enjoy it. All the chattering is very much Roxy, but paired with a confirmation of the Einstein tile it seems very much like nervous chatter.

“So how are you, Zel? What’s new and exciting?”

Zelda takes time to chew her cookie and wash it down with the Coke.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And… I was looking at some new photos that Edward posted. There’s this one that’s pretty fascinating. It’s a slate tile with a pattern in yellow that looks like Einstein’s hair.”

Roxy laughs, birdlike, like a soprano in an opera. “Is this like seeing the Virgin Mary in a potato chip?”

“It’s like seeing a tile from your shower.”

Roxy blinks a couple of times. “I’m… pardon?”

“The Einstein tile is on the floor of your shower. I saw it when I was there with Johnny. It’s very… distinct.”

Roxy laughs. “But that’s so random! How can you know if…”

“Stop it, Roxy. Just fucking stop it.”

Roxy’s smile flattens to a line. She gets up and walks to the railing, reaches into a bird feeder and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She takes the time to light one and enjoy a drag.

“I was trying to help you.”

“Pshh…”

“No! Listen to me. You were being horrendous. You were being… criminal. And I mean that. You were not a stable person.”

“Oh, I don’t…”

Roxy stomps on the deck. “No! Goddammit, you are going to listen to me. I saw him at the coffeehouse after your last… encounter, and the boy was a wreck. He still had the imprint of your hand on his face. Usually, I would tell someone in Edward’s position to just forget about it, get the hell out of town. When you’re married to a divorce lawyer, you see the shit that goes down in these love-hate relationships. Fistfights. Stabbings. Murder-suicides. Horrible, horrible shit, Zel. But I couldn’t forget what it was like between you two, in the beginning. You made that boy blossom, you brought him back from the dead. So I gave him a place to hide. And yes, I spied on you, but it’s only stuff that a normal friend would ask about, anyway. All I needed was a sign that you were willing to forgive him, and I would have arranged a meeting. Do you realize that every time we talked about Edward, you described some new form of violence you were going to inflict on him? You’re such an awesome person, Zelda. Why are you so obsessed with this idea of justice? Fuck justice. Grab a little happiness. Believe me, you only get so many chances.”

Roxy takes a final drag and crushes the cigarette into a tray.

“Did you fuck him?”

Roxy turns with a start. “Why would you even ask that?”

“You’re a woman. And I’ve been to your parties.”

Roxy’s eyes work their way into a targeted squint. “I could have fucked Johnny Sequoia. But I saved him for my friend, because she needed it more than I did.”

She turns to grab another cigarette. The redwoods are deathly quiet, nothing but the patter of raindrops and Roxy’s hoarse breathing. Zelda realizes the mistake that she has made. If Roxy holds the keys to Edward, she needs to be nicer. She takes a deep breath, planning out her words.

“I’m sorry, Rox. I’m just so lonely these days, it’s apparently turned me into an idiot. You’re my friend, I know that.”

Roxy gives her a careful study. “No shenanigans? No violence?”

Zelda produces a self-deprecating smile. “I’ll be good. I just want to talk to him.”

She takes a drag and considers the options. “He’s staying with some friends in Pacifica. I’ll give him a call tonight and see if I can set something up. Meanwhile, why don’t we head to Santa Cruz and I’ll buy you some dinner?”

“Okay.”

Roxy crushes her cigarette and walks toward the sliding glass door. “Give me a couple minutes to glam up a little.” She laughs. “Okay. Fifteen minutes.”

Zelda eats another cookie, then wanders to the corner of the deck. She leans over to look at a woodpecker and is surprised when the railing gives way – just an inch, but enough to make her heart jump. She backs away and realizes it’s the inset, the section they take out for zip-line launches. The zip-line! She locates the cable, running from a telephone pole next to the deck, and follows it into the forest, where a line of smoke rises through the redwoods. The next image is one of Edward and Roxy in the shower, fucking over the Einstein tile. Lies. Lies upon lies upon lies. Fuck! She feels the pressure building in her head and rubs her temples. When she opens her eyes, she sees the latches on the inset. She flicks them open, pulls the gate and kicks it to the deck. She reaches for the bar, loops the strap around her hands, and takes off.

Flashing over the clearing, Zelda realizes that she should have made use of the safety harness. Still, given her chosen occupation, she’s well-equipped to hang on. (The thought of it makes her laugh; she’s a superhero.) The zip-line hits the slowing mechanism, and the treehouse comes into view. She’s doing fine, feeling very Peter Pan, until she hits the slick deck and falls on her ass. She’s still getting her bearings, taking an accounting of all body parts, when she looks up and sees the mythic figure of Edward in a window, talking on the phone. Talking to Roxy.

She rises, loosens up a knee and walks to the door. She tries the standard triple knock, and is a little surprised when it opens. Edward is clean-shaven, clothed in jeans and a black ski jacket, as if he were about to set out on a hike.

“Hi,” he says.

“Um. Hello.”

“How are you?”

She looks down and finds a rip in her jeans. “I’m not doing well, Edward. I don’t know why you disappeared again. I don’t know what you’re doing here, at the home of one of my best friends. Frankly, I’m pretty fucking confused.”

Edward puts up his hands and pushes them downward, the motion of a person signalling someone to slow down. “Look. Zelda. I love you. I wanted you back. But you were taking me into some weird places, and I was getting the general impression that you hated me. I’m really not into this shit where two people abuse each other for recreation. Plus, I… I was feeling a little frightened of you.”

Zelda takes a step forward. Edward takes a step back.

“Let’s get this straight,” she says. “I am the victim in this relationship. I’m the one who keeps getting fucked over. And you’re the one who’s frightened? I may be a little nuts, but at least I stick around to fight it out. You’re a fucking phantom.”

Edward gives her a long, direct look. “I don’t want to fight. If you’re not going to forgive me, why do you want to be with me?”

Zelda feels the pressure in her head. She lets out a huffing breath. Edward takes a step back.

“Because you screwed me over, Edward. I want what’s due to me. You abandon me to find yourself, and then you just show up and expect everything to be fine? No! There is a price to be paid. And it doesn’t help matters when you’re fucking my friends!”

Edward takes a step back. “That’s ridiculous, Zelda. Roxy did this because she cares about you, she wanted to…”

“You don’t know shit about Roxy. Roxy likes to play the Countess and have everyone kiss her big white ass in gratitude, and then she fucks their boyfriends. You’re not fooling anyone. Nobody’s fooling anyone!”

Zelda’s arms seem to be waving around. Edward takes another three steps and now she sees where he’s headed: the slide. He turns.

“No! Edward! I just…”

She lunges forward to pull him back but she slips on the wet deck and reels out of control. Trying to regain her balance, she knocks Edward sideways and goes tumbling down the slide. She ricochets off the edges, strikes an elbow on a fallen branch and, finally, arrives at the bottom, flying head-first into a bed of fallen needles. After a long while she rolls onto her back, finds a gray opening in the redwood canopy, and hears a groaning sound that boils over into bird-like shrieks.

She struggles to her feet, holding her elbow, and staggers forward, tripping on a root. In the shadow of the deck she finds Edward in an unnatural position, writhing in pain.

“Oh God, Edward…”

A word rises from the groaning: leg. She kneels at his side and works her hands carefully down his jeans. She finds a long rip, covered in dark fluid, feels something sharp and sees a white stick.



The forest has gone dark.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

It’s a man wearing a baseball cap. His face flashes red and black, red and black.

“Who…?”

“Tell me your name, honey.”

“Zelda?”

“Okay. Where do you live, Zelda?”

“Campbell.”

“Good.  You’re doing good.”

“Edward?”

The man smiles. He has a moustache. “Is that your friend, Edward?”

“Yes. Is he…?”

“He’s got a pretty nasty break, but it could have been worse. They’ve taken him to the hospital. They left me here to take care of you. You’ve got a few scratches, but nothing on your head, so I’m guessing you just passed out. Still, I want you to stay under that nice warm blanket for a while, ‘cause I don’t want you going into shock. What do you do for a living, Zelda?”

Zelda smiles. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

The man laughs, a deep woof. “Well, you’re gonna have to tell me anyway.”


Fall

In mid-October, the leaves of California finally get around to changing color, and Edward’s macro photography follows suit: the golden oriental fans of gingko, zinfandel stars of liquidambar, rainbow feathers of pistache. A maple leaf lies on the sidewalk, phasing from green to yellow to copper, its ragged edges echoed by a crack in the concrete.

She doesn’t know what to do with this. Edward is a mythical figure, the Oracle at Delphi, these digital images the only evidence that he was once a mortal. She needs corporeal presence, limbs upon limbs, breath upon skin. The pole-dancing doesn’t come close to filling her hours, so she comes to the old coffeehouse, orders a Sinatra Sumatra, fires up her laptop and reads the leaves.

One picture is different: a blossom of mustard against a black background, tributaries of gray and chocolate. All at once she gets it. It’s Einstein, all that crazy hair expressed in a Jackson Pollock outburst. The background is rough, like granite, or slate.

“Okay. Just go for the head. Don’t worry about getting much more. We’ll leave that to the professionals.”

Zelda giggles and studies the plum-size cap. “Hey, can you turn off the water? It’s getting in my eyes.”

“Sheesh. Amateur.”

“Yes! Amateur.”

He turns the knob and the water cuts off. “If you can’t handle liquids in your face, you’re never gonna make it in this biz.”

Zelda is readjusting her knees, about to make a retort when she notices a tile next to the drain.

“Wow! Check that out.”

“What?”

“Next to your right toe. That burst of yellow.”

“Silly woman.” He nudges his dick to the right and squints. “Oh! Huh. Einstein, right?”

“I love that about slate. All kinds of random stuff.”

“Any chance you could suck my dick now?”

Zelda gives a drama-queen sigh. “If I have to.”

Johnny’s laugh echoes off the walls.

Zelda stares at the photo for a long time. She looks into the courtyard, where raindrops freckle the concrete. She expands Einstein to full screen. The world is beginning to make sense.



She directs her driver along Hamilton, past the tennis court to Old Japanese Road.

“Just drop me off here.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

She pays him and begins her trek. It’s a bit of a distance, but it’s all downhill, and she doesn’t mind a little time to strategize. Soon she’s standing at the leftward drop of Alameda Lane, and still has no idea what she’s doing. Well, no alternative but to plow on through.

She heads downhill, careful of her steps, and enters the redwood canopy. A sharp whine makes her jump. It’s a Mexican man in a neighboring drive, working with a bandsaw. Like most Mexican workers, he ignores the crazy white woman and continues with his job.

Zelda ascends the final hill and arrives at Roxy’s, site of the infamous bachelorette party. The phallic fountain stands in still water. Now what? How does one accuse a friend of nasty, unforgiveable betrayal? And how does one execute a “pop-in” in the middle of a redwood forest? I was just in the neighborhood?

She proceeds carefully, peering up at the balcony adjoining the kitchen. Nothing. But Roxy’s Mercedes is here, at the far side of the circular drive. A Steller’s jay lands on the railing and unleashes a raspy alarm. Zelda feels short of breath. She boards the front steps and climbs to the phallic brass knocker. She reaches for it. The door bursts open.

“Zelda! What the hell? How nice to see you.”

Roxy in jeans and a black sweater, her hair tucked under a baseball cap. She wraps her in a hug.

“How the hell did you get here?”

Zelda’s thoughts are a crossword puzzle. Somewhere a neuron tells her to just answer the damn question.

“One of those Uber drivers.”

Roxy takes her by the shoulders. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

“No. Just… bored. And I missed you.”

“How sweet! You can imagine, I don’t get many visitors. When I do, I always assume they’re on the run from the law. Come on up.”

She climbs the stairs to the kitchen. Zelda follows.

“What’s your pleasure? Beer? Wine? Tea?”

“Umm. A Coke? Non-diet?”

“Oh, the sweetener? Yeah. Gives me a headache. Have a seat.”

Zelda sits at the kitchen table. She’s facing the long window, the one through which her sex tape was filmed. Roxy reaches into the cabinet, giving Zelda a chance to study her figure. The pole-dancing classes have done her well. In male terms, she is “doable.” Roxy takes a glass to the fridge and returns with her Coke, carbon bubbles spitting the surface. She savors the first swallow.

“Oh. So good.”

Roxy leans back on the counter, crossing her long legs. “Sometimes the best things are the things that you know are bad for you. Ha!”

Make small talk, says the neuron. “Yes. I get so irritated at these women who try to lose weight by following zero-tolerance diets. I got a handful of stripper poles that will take care of that problem.”

Roxy sips from a cup of coffee. “No one works out harder than you, Zel. I don’t think I’ve known a more remarkable athlete. I describe some of your moves to my friends, and they all think you’re a superhero.”

The thing is, she doesn’t look guilty. And Zelda can’t go blurting out accusations like a TV detective.

“Could I use your bathroom?”

“Of course! Up the stairs, to the… oh, well, you know. Hey and why don’t you meet me up on the hot tub deck?”

“Sure.” Zelda climbs the steps and turns into the dark hall, feeling shadows of Johnny Sequoia. She locks the bathroom door, peers into the shower and locates the Einstein tile. She pulls out her smartphone to take a couple of shots, then sits down for a pee. Afterward, she crosses the master bedroom (devoid of male clothing) and opens the sliding door. Roxy’s at the table, adjusting the patio umbrella, wiping the chairs with a towel. She sees Zelda and smiles.

“Have a seat! I know I’m a little silly, hanging outside in a drizzle, but the rain kicks up all these great woodsy smells. We’ve got some cedar trees just up the hill, and oh! sometimes the aroma just pours down. Here, have a cookie. Lemon ice, my favorite…”

Zelda picks one off the plate. It’s very good, but she’s too deep into analytics to enjoy it. All the chattering is very much Roxy, but paired with a confirmation of the Einstein tile it seems very much like nervous chatter.

“So how are you, Zel? What’s new and exciting?”

Zelda takes time to chew her cookie and wash it down with the Coke.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And… I was looking at some new photos that Edward posted. There’s this one that’s pretty fascinating. It’s a slate tile with a pattern in yellow that looks like Einstein’s hair.”

Roxy laughs, birdlike, like a soprano in an opera. “Is this like seeing the Virgin Mary in a potato chip?”

“It’s like seeing a tile from your shower.”

Roxy blinks a couple of times. “I’m… pardon?”

“The Einstein tile is on the floor of your shower. I saw it when I was there with Johnny. It’s very… distinct.”

Roxy laughs. “But that’s so random! How can you know if…”

“Stop it, Roxy. Just fucking stop it.”

Roxy’s smile flattens to a line. She gets up and walks to the railing, reaches into a bird feeder and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She takes the time to light one and enjoy a drag.

“I was trying to help you.”

“Pshh…”

“No! Listen to me. You were being horrendous. You were being… criminal. And I mean that. You were not a stable person.”

“Oh, I don’t…”

Roxy stomps on the deck. “No! Goddammit, you are going to listen to me. I saw him at the coffeehouse after your last… encounter, and the boy was a wreck. He still had the imprint of your hand on his face. Usually, I would tell someone in Edward’s position to just forget about it, get the hell out of town. When you’re married to a divorce lawyer, you see the shit that goes down in these love-hate relationships. Fistfights. Stabbings. Murder-suicides. Horrible, horrible shit, Zel. But I couldn’t forget what it was like between you two, in the beginning. You made that boy blossom, you brought him back from the dead. So I gave him a place to hide. And yes, I spied on you, but it’s only stuff that a normal friend would ask about, anyway. All I needed was a sign that you were willing to forgive him, and I would have arranged a meeting. Do you realize that every time we talked about Edward, you described some new form of violence you were going to inflict on him? You’re such an awesome person, Zelda. Why are you so obsessed with this idea of justice? Fuck justice. Grab a little happiness. Believe me, you only get so many chances.”

Roxy takes a final drag and crushes the cigarette into a tray.

“Did you fuck him?”

Roxy turns with a start. “Why would you even ask that?”

“You’re a woman. And I’ve been to your parties.”

Roxy’s eyes work their way into a targeted squint. “I could have fucked Johnny Sequoia. But I saved him for my friend, because she needed it more than I did.”

She turns to grab another cigarette. The redwoods are deathly quiet, nothing but the patter of raindrops and Roxy’s hoarse breathing. Zelda realizes the mistake that she has made. If Roxy holds the keys to Edward, she needs to be nicer. She takes a deep breath, planning out her words.

“I’m sorry, Rox. I’m just so lonely these days, it’s apparently turned me into an idiot. You’re my friend, I know that.”

Roxy gives her a careful study. “No shenanigans? No violence?”

Zelda produces a self-deprecating smile. “I’ll be good. I just want to talk to him.”

She takes a drag and considers the options. “He’s staying with some friends in Pacifica. I’ll give him a call tonight and see if I can set something up. Meanwhile, why don’t we head to Santa Cruz and I’ll buy you some dinner?”

“Okay.”

Roxy crushes her cigarette and walks toward the sliding glass door. “Give me a couple minutes to glam up a little.” She laughs. “Okay. Fifteen minutes.”

Zelda eats another cookie, then wanders to the corner of the deck. She leans over to look at a woodpecker and is surprised when the railing gives way – just an inch, but enough to make her heart jump. She backs away and realizes it’s the inset, the section they take out for zip-line launches. The zip-line! She locates the cable, running from a telephone pole next to the deck, and follows it into the forest, where a line of smoke rises through the redwoods. The next image is one of Edward and Roxy in the shower, fucking over the Einstein tile. Lies. Lies upon lies upon lies. Fuck! She feels the pressure building in her head and rubs her temples. When she opens her eyes, she sees the latches on the inset. She flicks them open, pulls the gate and kicks it to the deck. She reaches for the bar, loops the strap around her hands, and takes off.

Flashing over the clearing, Zelda realizes that she should have made use of the safety harness. Still, given her chosen occupation, she’s well-equipped to hang on. (The thought of it makes her laugh; she’s a superhero.) The zip-line hits the slowing mechanism, and the treehouse comes into view. She’s doing fine, feeling very Peter Pan, until she hits the slick deck and falls on her ass. She’s still getting her bearings, taking an accounting of all body parts, when she looks up and sees the mythic figure of Edward in a window, talking on the phone. Talking to Roxy.

She rises, loosens up a knee and walks to the door. She tries the standard triple knock, and is a little surprised when it opens. Edward is clean-shaven, clothed in jeans and a black ski jacket, as if he were about to set out on a hike.

“Hi,” he says.

“Um. Hello.”

“How are you?”

She looks down and finds a rip in her jeans. “I’m not doing well, Edward. I don’t know why you disappeared again. I don’t know what you’re doing here, at the home of one of my best friends. Frankly, I’m pretty fucking confused.”

Edward puts up his hands and pushes them downward, the motion of a person signalling someone to slow down. “Look. Zelda. I love you. I wanted you back. But you were taking me into some weird places, and I was getting the general impression that you hated me. I’m really not into this shit where two people abuse each other for recreation. Plus, I… I was feeling a little frightened of you.”

Zelda takes a step forward. Edward takes a step back.

“Let’s get this straight,” she says. “I am the victim in this relationship. I’m the one who keeps getting fucked over. And you’re the one who’s frightened? I may be a little nuts, but at least I stick around to fight it out. You’re a fucking phantom.”

Edward gives her a long, direct look. “I don’t want to fight. If you’re not going to forgive me, why do you want to be with me?”

Zelda feels the pressure in her head. She lets out a huffing breath. Edward takes a step back.

“Because you screwed me over, Edward. I want what’s due to me. You abandon me to find yourself, and then you just show up and expect everything to be fine? No! There is a price to be paid. And it doesn’t help matters when you’re fucking my friends!”

Edward takes a step back. “That’s ridiculous, Zelda. Roxy did this because she cares about you, she wanted to…”

“You don’t know shit about Roxy. Roxy likes to play the Countess and have everyone kiss her big white ass in gratitude, and then she fucks their boyfriends. You’re not fooling anyone. Nobody’s fooling anyone!”

Zelda’s arms seem to be waving around. Edward takes another three steps and now she sees where he’s headed: the slide. He turns.

“No! Edward! I just…”

She lunges forward to pull him back but she slips on the wet deck and reels out of control. Trying to regain her balance, she knocks Edward sideways and goes tumbling down the slide. She ricochets off the edges, strikes an elbow on a fallen branch and, finally, arrives at the bottom, flying head-first into a bed of fallen needles. After a long while she rolls onto her back, finds a gray opening in the redwood canopy, and hears a groaning sound that boils over into bird-like shrieks.

She struggles to her feet, holding her elbow, and staggers forward, tripping on a root. In the shadow of the deck she finds Edward in an unnatural position, writhing in pain.

“Oh God, Edward…”

A word rises from the groaning: leg. She kneels at his side and works her hands carefully down his jeans. She finds a long rip, covered in dark fluid, feels something sharp and sees a white stick.



The forest has gone dark.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

It’s a man wearing a baseball cap. His face flashes red and black, red and black.

“Who…?”

“Tell me your name, honey.”

“Zelda?”

“Okay. Where do you live, Zelda?”

“Campbell.”

“Good.  You’re doing good.”

“Edward?”

The man smiles. He has a moustache. “Is that your friend, Edward?”

“Yes. Is he…?”

“He’s got a pretty nasty break, but it could have been worse. They’ve taken him to the hospital. They left me here to take care of you. You’ve got a few scratches, but nothing on your head, so I’m guessing you just passed out. Still, I want you to stay under that nice warm blanket for a while, ‘cause I don’t want you going into shock. What do you do for a living, Zelda?”

Zelda smiles. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

The man laughs, a deep woof. “Well, you’re gonna have to tell me anyway.”

Zelda can’t decide between team mascot or stripper-pole instructor. But it’s nice to have a man who cares.
Zelda can’t decide between team mascot or stripper-pole instructor. But it’s nice to have a man who cares.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Mascot, Chapter Twenty-Two: Rally

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Rally

He’s been tracking the swallowtail for a hundred yards. Problem being, he wants to use the macro setting without using the zoom, so he has to get in close. The swallowtail finds a small yellow flower that seems to captivate her. Edward squats on the trail, raises the lens at a glacial pace, focuses and snaps. The sound sends her fluttering, a piece of confetti in the breeze. But that’s okay. He’s got her.



She expects that Zarita might be mad at her, might even give her a good chewing out, but their lunch follows the usual patterns. Z greets her at the door with a hug. They cross the parking lot to the thin-slice pizza joint near the coffeehouse. Founded in Santa Cruz, the Pizza My Heart chain operates on a surfing theme. The walls are covered in posters for surfing movies, and the combos have oceanic nicknames. Zarita gets the Maui Wowie, Canadian bacon with pineapple. Zelda gets the Big Sur, with garlic cloves, pepperoni, sausage, portobello mushrooms and green onions.

“Once in a while, I think I’m in a rut, so I order something else, but then I think, Damn, I should’ve gotten the Big Sur!”

Zarita laughs entirely too much. Zelda gives her a puzzled look.

“What’m I, Seinfeld ovah heah?”

“No,” says Zarita. “I was just remembering that time we were here and we saw Roxy making out with that college kid.”

Zelda’s eyes get big. “That was awesome!”

“I wonder what became of that guy?”

“You know, I never asked her. I think I didn’t want to admit that I was spying.”

Zarita takes a big bite and nom-noms all the way through to indicate her pleasure.

“It’s nice to have a crazy rich aunt.”

“Everybody should.”

Zarita takes a sip of soda and plants her cup on the table. “So! I have some business.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Number one. Zelda. Darling. I know Jackson can be a dick, but please, if you’re going to kick him, anywhere but the jewels.”

“Oh.” Zelda hides her face.

“It’s just that I get some good use out of those things.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Quickly to number two. I have this trainer at my gym. The women’s gym? And she’s also the manager. The other day she’s teaching me some new yoga moves, and these workers are making all this noise in the corner and I say Margie what the hell is going on? And she says they’re installing stripper poles. And I say, Oh! Are you going to have classes? And she says Yes, but I haven’t found an instructor. Where the hell do you find a stripper pole instructor? And I say, I know just the woman for the job.”

Zelda can’t speak, because her mouth is full of Big Sur.

“Put your resume together, Z. You are so in.”

Zelda nods and chews. “Zhee! Ah wuv oo!”

“Ah wuv oo too.”



A dozen brave women sit on their stretching mats as “Lady Marmalade” plays over the PA. A curvaceous brunette struts to the center pole, takes a couple of recreational spins, then grabs it with both hands, flips herself upside-down and splits her legs into a dangling spread-eagle. The women gasp and applaud. She rotates around the pole, hand-over-hand, pulls her legs together, pointed at the ceiling, then flips backward into a dismount. The song cuts off; her students hoot and holler.

“Thanks you! I wanted to make sure that you knew, that I know what I’m doing.” She pauses to catch her breath. “Now the bad news. You will not be doing that.”

“Aww!” the students moan.

“Uh-oh,” says Zelda. “I’ve got one of those entertaining classes. Anyways, I do hope that you will learn some fun moves in this class, maybe live out some fantasies and develop a little attitude. Along the way, you may find yourself in some very unexpected positions, and that is why I am declaring this studio a non-judgement zone. Just remember, the next woman with her ass stuck in the air might be you.”

She stops to allow some snickering.

“You will find that pole-dancing requires much strength and flexibility, so if you want to maximize what you get out of this class I would recommend you also pursue yoga and weightlifting. Aesthetically, I will spend a lot of time stressing two important basic skills: pointing your toes like a ballet dancer or gymnast to elongate your legs, and keeping your shoulders back to produce the best posture. Now! Why don’t we start with some basic stretching, and then we can introduce you to your poles.”

At first, Zelda was hesitant about having friends in the class. But the idea of speaking to a room full of strangers scares the bejeesus out of her, and it helps to see a couple of familiar faces. Afterward, they adjourn to a neighboring juice bar to conduct a recap.

“Well, Z, I gotta say, the yoga training gives you a distinct advantage. You’re very graceful.”

“Thanks, Z!”

“Now we just have to build up those biceps and you’ll be flipping around like Cirque de Soleil.”

“Okay. As long as I don’t look like Popeye.”

Zelda takes a sip of her Mango a Go-Go. “As for you Countess, there are certain subtleties to pole dancing that come not from learning but from doing. Perhaps occupational doing.”

Roxy gives a sneaky, close-mouthed smile. “How do you think I worked my way through college?”

“Aha!”

“For that matter, how do you think I snared Carson Alameda?”

“Oho!”

“But that inspires a question, dear Zelda. How did you get so good at this?”

“I was quite the hot gymnast as a kid, but then I began to develop hips, and the gymnastic world is pretty brutal when it comes to body types. So I quit competing, but I still found time to mess around on my own. A few years later, I got hooked on that show The Sopranos, and I especially liked the scenes at the strip club. Lots of different bodies working those poles, and it sure looked like fun. I found that studio in Campbell with the proper equipment, and I visited a few strip joints to pick up some moves. I never dreamed that pole-dancing would become this, like, female empowerment thing, but I gotta say, I like the way it worked out.”

“You’re a natural teacher,” says Roxy.

“You are!” says Zarita. She finishes her Very Berry and stands. “Well, sistahs. I need to get home to my husband. ‘Husband.’ I still feel funny saying that.”

“How does hubby feel about the class?”

“Oh, he thinks this is an aerobics class. He’s going to be very surprised when I break out some of these moves.”

Zelda laughs. “You may have to install a pole in your bedroom.”

“Let’s hope!”

They exchange a round of hugs and see her off, then Roxy and Zelda sit back down.

“How are you doing?” asks Roxy.

“Fine,” says Zelda. “Like I said, it’s the public speaking part that…”

“No,” says Roxy. “I mean, how are you doing?”

“Oh!” says Zelda. “That. Well, I’ll tell ya, the avalanche was building force. It’s so great to have this class to focus on. I mean…” She covers her face and laughs. “I was getting bad, wasn’t I?”

Roxy smiles and touches her hand. “You were getting to be a scary-ass bitch.”

Zelda swats Roxy’s arm. “You don’t have to be so fucking honest all the time.”

“That’s okay. I knew that really wasn’t you. It’s good to have my Zelda back. Hey, but I need to head out, also. Take care, sweetie. And congrats! You were terrific.”

“Thanks, Countess.”

Zelda gives her a kiss on the cheek and watches her saunter away. She powers up her phone and is surprised to see a text from Mr. Piccone.

Hi Zelda. Got a new guy covering the games, but I need a second Gigante to do a fundraiser Thursday. Would you be interested?

Well! thinks Zelda. The avalanche is in full reverse.



It’s not the best year for the Giants. They fall into a slump in August and find themselves out of the playoffs for the first time in years. After the final game, a week after Labor Day, Zelda showers up and reports to the seats behind home plate, where Tee awaits for a post-season strategy session.

Zelda has been developing a theory of mascots. The classic high school mascot is an energetic nerd. College, an energetic nerd with a major in dance or theater. Once you get to the pros, the mascots tend more toward former athletes with theatrical leanings. This is certainly true of Tee, who possesses a lean, gangly physique and a tremendous wingspan. The long arms, once useful for blocking shots, now fit nicely into playing a gorilla. Zelda teases him, calling him a “knuckledragger.”

What’s more helpful to Zelda, given her recent history, is that Tee is newly married, to a shapely brunette named Luisa. In addition to the differences of thick and thin, short and tall, Tee is black and Erin is about as white as a woman can be. Their kids, four-year-old Eric and one-year-old Grace, are freakin’ adorable, a testament to the benefits of interracial breeding.

Tee’s face is sleek and aerodynamic, a bit like a friendly viper, and he’s got a snake’s wide mouth, as well. At the moment, he’s using it to grin as he pops the cork on a bottle of champagne.

“Well!” says Zelda. “And here I thought we were having a business meeting.”

“Yes! And the business is celebrating.” He pours the bubbly into two Giants beer cups and passes one to Zelda. “Have a seat. Enjoy the view.”

The sun has just ducked behind the Santa Cruz Mountains and is sending up a crown of goldenrod. The groundskeeper, Caravel, is dragging the infield one last time, the dust rising in his wake.

“Hey Tee, I always wondered, when the kids come to the games, do they know it’s you in there?”

“Well, not Grace of course. But one night Eric saw through the screen and said, ‘Hey, it’s Daddy!’ I spoke with him later and said that Daddy’s job was to help out the team by pretending to be a gorilla, and that is was very important for him to play along.”

“Oh yeah. No kid can resist a game of pretend.”

Tee laughs. “I hear you encountered one kid who didn’t want to.”

Zelda hides her face. “Oh God. They told you about that?”

“Through the grapevine. You’re a hero, you know. You know how many mascots have wanted to tell off one of those little shits?”

Zelda laughs out loud. “I’m a hero. Haven’t felt like a hero in a long time.”

Tee takes a drink and swishes it around his mouth. “Hero to me. Your little Tourette’s attack got me some much-needed work.”

“Glad I could help. I hope my return didn’t cut into your wages.”

“Your return saved my ass. Remember that heat wave, late July?”

“Yeah.”

“Second game of a doubleheader, got a full-body muscle cramp. They had to put me on an IV! That’s when they decided I needed some help.”

“Yikes.”

“So what do you do in the off-season?”

“Well, I teach a… class.”

Tee points a finger. “What’s that about?”

“What?”

“That pause. ‘I teach a… class.’”

“I teach a stripper pole class.”

“Well! Innocent little Zelda.”

“Yep, that’s me. And in two months, it’s gone from one class to three.”

“Wow!”

“Yeah, I’m trendy. Hey, speaking of, I really like your moves.”

“Thanks,” says Tee. “I’ve been studying with a friend.”

“You’re very smooth. I was wondering if you’d like to do some couples dancing?”

“Two Gigantes?”

“No! I used to do this, well, human counterpart, Gigantina.”

“Awesome! Yeah, let’s meet sometime and see if we can come up with something.”

That decided, they lie back in their seats and watch the darkening field.

“What about you?” asks Zelda. “What’s your off-season like?”

“I work with a D League basketball team in Santa Cruz. I am a dancing sea turtle.”

Zelda laughs. “Does he have a shell?”

“Yes. But it’s very aerodynamic.”

Zelda looks past the right-field fence, where the final cars are leaving the parking lot. “So your job description is sea turtle-slash-gorilla. That is wild.”

“Hey, whatever feeds the kids.”

“And what cute kids they are.”

Tee smiles. “What about you, Zelda? Family? Family to be? Hot dates? Just tell me if it’s none of my damn business.”

Zelda flashes on Edward’s latest post, a rust-colored salamander. “Boyfriend.”

“Serious?”

“Three years.”

“Yep. That’s serious. Does he come to the games?”

“Used to. He’s away right now.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. Business?”

“Yeah. He’s a photographer.”

“Nice!”

“Yeah. He’s really good.”

Tee’s eyes get bigger. “Hey, hear that?”

“What?”

He trots to the fence behind home plate. “Hey, Caravel! Crank it up.”

Caravel grins and runs to his radio. It’s a salsa number, “Suavamente.”

Tee holds out a hand. “C’mon. It’s your audition.”

Zelda hops down the steps and takes Tee’s long arms. She lets the rhythm climb from her feet into her hips. Tee pulls her into a wrap, reels her back out, and then keeps the spin going – two, three… Zelda whips herself away, kicks a leg high and out, and returns to the salsa step, her hips in full swivel.

“Oh, yeah!” says Tee. “This’ll work.”


He pulls her back in.


Photo by MJV