The trip into The City was brutal. I missed the train to Penn Station by, quite literally, 10 seconds. Phone call to her brought her answering machine, "Damn."
Train comes, and I get on it, nervous but not nervous enough to not read. My vice, you see. It won't kill you like heroin or make your clothes stink like tobacco but if you are a reader you have to have a book with you, just in case you have some down time. I'm reading something by Heinlein, "Starship Troopers", story about what man owes to Society as much as a good sci-fi military yarn. I settle back and let the train take me.
I'm nervous about going into New York. I'm from everywhere that doesn't have big cities. I've been around them but have never been that comfortable. Even though I've lived in New Jersey, at this point, twenty years, going into The City (it's always capitalized in my head like that, by the way) is an adventure and somewhat worrying.
Train pulls into Penn station and I look at the printed directions I had gotten from her. Okay, take the A Train to 181st Street. Got it. I find the A train and, again, miss it by seconds. Figuring it's New York, I don't bother to call, there will be another train along shortly. 30 minutes later, the A Train comes in. I get on and find a seat. I don't read because I don't have any idea how far along 181st Street is.
"*Squawk*...train runs only to 168th Street due to construction. For points north of *squawk*, you will have to take the provided shuttle buses."
Shuttle buses? Well, this won't be too bad. I'll take the shuttle to 181st and walk from there, no problem. I look at my phone and see that it's currently 8:15. I was supposed to meet her at 8 at the restaurant. At 168th Street, I make another call, get her answering machine and tell it what happened.
"So, I'm on my way. Should be there soon, I hope."
I hang up and get on the shuttle. Sitting near the front so that, hopefully, I will see 181st Street. We get there. You know, there are some very dark alleys in New York. This is one of the darkest alleys I've ever seen. Anywhere. This is supposed to be Manhattan but...I'm not sure. So, I get out of the bus and start walking in a direction. One of my philosophies is: Do something, even if it's wrong. Meaning you can always make a course correction later.
So, I'm wandering around this alley when I see someone and ask them where "Fort Washington Avenue" is. He looks at me like I'm insane. That's because no one in New York asks questions like this. Quite literally no one. Just not done. So, I'm obviously from out of town. He answers me by pointing up the longest and steepest set of stairs I have ever seen. They seem to go straight up in almost a ladder like formation. I look at my phone again. 8:40. I hope she's still there and begin to run up the stairs.
I have to stop half way up, of course. I'm 46 and not used to running. I stop, catch my breath and look at my phone. 8:42. Come on, you can do it! I 'sprint' up the stairs and look panting at the note of where to go. Kismet. I see it across the street from The World's Longest Staircase And Torture Center and cross the street.
Coming in the door, I see the waiter and ask if she's there. He looks surprised and points at a very angry looking woman in the corner, finishing her dinner. I stumble over and say "I'm Andrew." I hit her with a winning smile and start to explain what happened. As I recount the journey, her anger dissipates. She starts to laugh. I order my dinner and eat and we chat and joke. I flick some water in her face which makes her do it back. We're both grinning as we settle the checks and head out of Kismet.
She explains to me that she didn't know about the construction on the A Train and that she would have given me different instructions. I don't worry about it, I made it there. We walk up Fort Washington Avenue, toward the George Washington Bridge and stop at Starbucks. I order a coffee, she orders a hot chocolate. We continue to talk and laugh until they closed up Starbucks around us. We went outside unsure what to do next. So, I leaned in and kissed her and...
The world stopped. The kiss was one of those rare first kisses that seems to go on forever. I pulled her tighter to me and continued to kiss her. Then, we broke the kiss, looked at each other and have been together ever since.
That happened six years ago today. Happy Anniversary, My Marcy. I love you.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Friday, June 20, 2014
On Being Twenty-One
On June 12, 1993, in the dark, early morning hours my son arrived. He was a larger than average baby and very alert. He was also mad as hell. His little face scrunched up, he bellowed his displeasure to the world as he lie on the air bed that they put all babies in so they can put goop in their eyes and perform incomprehensible tests. I reached out a hand and touched his belly.
"It's all right, Alex, Daddy's here."
His head whipped around and he stopped yelling and started grousing at me. He had recognized my voice and was comforted by my touch. I just kept rubbing his tummy and talking quietly to him until they were ready to swaddle him and give him to his mother. I was a father, not yet a Dad. This small person was going to help me figure it out.
As with all my children, I have flash memories of him growing up.
Before he was born, I was talking with my wife and noticed this foot shape showing in her belly. He was stretching. It was causing her considerable discomfort, so I put my hand gently on the foot and pushed a little bit. He started kicking enough that my wife was bouncing around on the couch yelling "Stop touching the foot! Stop touching the foot!"
He's two and we're Trick or Treating in our development. He's dressed as a farmer and doesn't quite understand what's going on. He's walking ahead of me with his straw hat on and one hand raised at shoulder height in an "I don't get it" gesture. He's talking to himself. I'm walking behind him grinning my fool head off.
He's two and a half and is in the hospital. We had gone to Thanksgiving at my parents' house in Maine. We didn't know he was allergic to cats until he couldn't breathe. We took him to the emergency room twice that night, the second time, we stayed until he was admitted. The doctor is trying to show us that 93% blood oxygenation is just fine on him. Newsflash, asshole, he should be at 97% he's 2. They get a pediatric pulmonologist who admits him immediately.
They need to put in an IV and he's not cooperating. I have to hold him down so they can. I'm stroking his face and whispering to him. He looks at the needle going in and passes out. I spend the night in the hospital room with him. For the next two nights. His mother hates hospitals, but eventually, I need to go get a shower. So she comes into the hospital room. I head to my parents and have a shower, some turkey stew and a cry. I come back and he's hopping mad. He's crying at the top of his lungs. I ask him, "Alex, where's your mom?" He says the first words I can recall him ever saying "I don't know!"
I calm him down and tell him I'll be right back. Go to the nurses station to discover that his mother has been taken to the emergency room in labor. False labor, but still. I say to her "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take." She smiles and tells me that I have to take it because I'm the strong one.
On the way back to New Jersey, we have to stop every 4 hours to give him a nebulizer treatment. There was nowhere at this one rest stop in Connecticut where I could plug in the nebulizer. I asked the guy at the candy counter there if I could. He smiled and said "Sure, I have kids too."
He's five and we're at an ATM getting some money to go to the movies. Alex is standing next to me and says at the top of his voice: "How much money did you get out, Dad?"
He's six and I've brought home a laptop computer from work. We sit at it for 3 days, playing video games together.
He's seven and is being praised as one of the brightest children that his teachers have ever seen.
He's 9 and we're having a birthday party that involves super soakers. No one, even his grandparents, escape dry. He's made only one request for music, which I'm in charge of: Souza's "Stars and Stripes Forever."
He's 13 and showing me a painting he's done for art class. Along with his very talented writing he's on a bright course.
He's 14 and standing stoically while his mother and I tell them we are getting divorced. I notice his eyes are glistening but he's refusing to cry.
He's 16 and I'm looking at him while we talk about his bouts with Depression. I tell him how much I love him and that I am afraid he will do something drastic. He assures me he will not. I hold him to that.
He's 18 and just graduated from high school. I cannot find him in the crowd, he finds me. His hand claps me on the shoulder and I spin around and catch him in a titanic bear hug. Lifting this young man who is a good 4 inches taller than I am up and squeezing him.
He's 19 and in his sophomore year at college. He's been having problems with Depression. Bad ones. I drive up to his college and wait for him. He comes around the corner and I'm reminded of myself. He's not happy, I can see that. He's incredibly down. I'm worried, but I try not to let it show.
Over the next three hours, we talk about things. We buy him snacks. We buy him stuff he needs. He takes a shower while I wait. We go to dinner at a local Ruby Tuesdays and continue to talk. I think it will work out.
On June 12, he turned 21. He ended up leaving college. The Depression, that flaccid, suffocating bitch, almost killed him. He's been home, getting his head together. He's much happier. He smiles, he jokes, he's 21 so he knows everything. Just like I did.
He was the first gift of Grace. I have two others, but he was the first. Although this post seems to be very down, it's very true. I look at my boy as a blessing. A bright spark in my universe. He will find his way, hell, I did. His grandfather did too. I have no doubts.
I love you, Alex. I always will.
Dad.
"It's all right, Alex, Daddy's here."
His head whipped around and he stopped yelling and started grousing at me. He had recognized my voice and was comforted by my touch. I just kept rubbing his tummy and talking quietly to him until they were ready to swaddle him and give him to his mother. I was a father, not yet a Dad. This small person was going to help me figure it out.
As with all my children, I have flash memories of him growing up.
Before he was born, I was talking with my wife and noticed this foot shape showing in her belly. He was stretching. It was causing her considerable discomfort, so I put my hand gently on the foot and pushed a little bit. He started kicking enough that my wife was bouncing around on the couch yelling "Stop touching the foot! Stop touching the foot!"
He's two and we're Trick or Treating in our development. He's dressed as a farmer and doesn't quite understand what's going on. He's walking ahead of me with his straw hat on and one hand raised at shoulder height in an "I don't get it" gesture. He's talking to himself. I'm walking behind him grinning my fool head off.
He's two and a half and is in the hospital. We had gone to Thanksgiving at my parents' house in Maine. We didn't know he was allergic to cats until he couldn't breathe. We took him to the emergency room twice that night, the second time, we stayed until he was admitted. The doctor is trying to show us that 93% blood oxygenation is just fine on him. Newsflash, asshole, he should be at 97% he's 2. They get a pediatric pulmonologist who admits him immediately.
They need to put in an IV and he's not cooperating. I have to hold him down so they can. I'm stroking his face and whispering to him. He looks at the needle going in and passes out. I spend the night in the hospital room with him. For the next two nights. His mother hates hospitals, but eventually, I need to go get a shower. So she comes into the hospital room. I head to my parents and have a shower, some turkey stew and a cry. I come back and he's hopping mad. He's crying at the top of his lungs. I ask him, "Alex, where's your mom?" He says the first words I can recall him ever saying "I don't know!"
I calm him down and tell him I'll be right back. Go to the nurses station to discover that his mother has been taken to the emergency room in labor. False labor, but still. I say to her "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take." She smiles and tells me that I have to take it because I'm the strong one.
On the way back to New Jersey, we have to stop every 4 hours to give him a nebulizer treatment. There was nowhere at this one rest stop in Connecticut where I could plug in the nebulizer. I asked the guy at the candy counter there if I could. He smiled and said "Sure, I have kids too."
He's five and we're at an ATM getting some money to go to the movies. Alex is standing next to me and says at the top of his voice: "How much money did you get out, Dad?"
He's six and I've brought home a laptop computer from work. We sit at it for 3 days, playing video games together.
He's seven and is being praised as one of the brightest children that his teachers have ever seen.
He's 9 and we're having a birthday party that involves super soakers. No one, even his grandparents, escape dry. He's made only one request for music, which I'm in charge of: Souza's "Stars and Stripes Forever."
He's 13 and showing me a painting he's done for art class. Along with his very talented writing he's on a bright course.
He's 14 and standing stoically while his mother and I tell them we are getting divorced. I notice his eyes are glistening but he's refusing to cry.
He's 16 and I'm looking at him while we talk about his bouts with Depression. I tell him how much I love him and that I am afraid he will do something drastic. He assures me he will not. I hold him to that.
He's 18 and just graduated from high school. I cannot find him in the crowd, he finds me. His hand claps me on the shoulder and I spin around and catch him in a titanic bear hug. Lifting this young man who is a good 4 inches taller than I am up and squeezing him.
He's 19 and in his sophomore year at college. He's been having problems with Depression. Bad ones. I drive up to his college and wait for him. He comes around the corner and I'm reminded of myself. He's not happy, I can see that. He's incredibly down. I'm worried, but I try not to let it show.
Over the next three hours, we talk about things. We buy him snacks. We buy him stuff he needs. He takes a shower while I wait. We go to dinner at a local Ruby Tuesdays and continue to talk. I think it will work out.
On June 12, he turned 21. He ended up leaving college. The Depression, that flaccid, suffocating bitch, almost killed him. He's been home, getting his head together. He's much happier. He smiles, he jokes, he's 21 so he knows everything. Just like I did.
He was the first gift of Grace. I have two others, but he was the first. Although this post seems to be very down, it's very true. I look at my boy as a blessing. A bright spark in my universe. He will find his way, hell, I did. His grandfather did too. I have no doubts.
I love you, Alex. I always will.
Dad.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
A cab ride to remember
Last Saturday, I was privileged to attend a surprise 50th birthday party for a friend of mine at a local brew pub. (By the way, it's Iron Hill Brewery in Maple Shade, NJ. Awesome beer.) So, I had had a few by the end of the party. My fiance and I decided that, as she's a native New Yorker and doesn't know how to drive and I was in no condition to drive, we would get a ride to the hotel from some friends and then come back for the car the next day.
Spent a lovely evening and night with her and, the next morning, went to call a cab. After about 20 minutes, a huge Cadillac Escalade shows up, a short, dapper Indian gentleman with a bluetooth headset screwed into his ear comes in and collects us. We climb up and into this huge vehicle and we're off! The first thing I notice is that the leather seats are polished. I don't have my seatbelt on and the arm rest is up so I go sliding off the seat. I laughed and put on the belt and put down the arm rest as we began careening down the Burlington County and State roads heading to Maple Shade.
The driver begins talking to us, asking where we are from. What we had been up to. Why we were going to Maple Shade and not to, say Philadelphia International Airport. Now, my fiance is from New York City but the driver seemed unwilling to accept her word that she was from there. I guess the accent wasn't enough for him. He seemed to accept, readily enough, that I was from "everywhere" and we barrelled down the roads.
About ten minutes into the ride, he turns on the radio, or at least the sound system. Indian pop music plays and a screen lights up on his dashboard with the accompanying music video. Thinking we want to see the video, he reaches behind him and fumbles around, dropping the Escalade's rear seat video screen down and we are treated to a song that sounds like "Dirty Disco". Did some research later and the song is actually called "Dard e Disco" or "Pain of Disco". It was, indeed, painful. The music video seemed to be completely about a very buff Indian man (later found out it was actor Shahrukh Khan) lip syncing and dancing along with a lot of blonde ladies. He emerged out of water. They threw water on him so the fabric of his shirt clung to his awesome abs. This was followed by an Indian woman singing something, I haven't been able to track down what her song was, even though we heard it twice.
As we caroomed down the highways, our driver alternately singing along with the music and shouting in Hindi at whoever was on the phone with him, I noticed that, according to his GPS, we were coming up on our exit. Then, we passed our exit. Dard e Disco. Then we came up on another one, and while he was shouting along with the lyrics, we passed that one too, Dard e Disco. Finally, he noticed that he could exit at the next exit and zoomed over and got off the highway. After zipping around the backroads a bit, I saw Iron Hill and pointed it out to him. I also pointed out to him the jug handle he would need to take to get over there*, as he looked like he was going to simply drive on the wrong side of the road for about 100 yards to get to the driveway. Dard e Disco.
We got out of the Escalade and paid the man $60 which included a $15 dollar tip because we didn't want to talk to him any more, we just wanted to get out of the truck. We were laughing about the whole thing, it was another adventure of a marvelous weekend.
Dard e Disco.
*In New Jersey, you can't make left hand turns, a lot of times. You have to proceed to a traffic light which will have a turnoff that will allow you to cross traffic. These are called "Jug Handles" because of what they look like on a map.
Spent a lovely evening and night with her and, the next morning, went to call a cab. After about 20 minutes, a huge Cadillac Escalade shows up, a short, dapper Indian gentleman with a bluetooth headset screwed into his ear comes in and collects us. We climb up and into this huge vehicle and we're off! The first thing I notice is that the leather seats are polished. I don't have my seatbelt on and the arm rest is up so I go sliding off the seat. I laughed and put on the belt and put down the arm rest as we began careening down the Burlington County and State roads heading to Maple Shade.
The driver begins talking to us, asking where we are from. What we had been up to. Why we were going to Maple Shade and not to, say Philadelphia International Airport. Now, my fiance is from New York City but the driver seemed unwilling to accept her word that she was from there. I guess the accent wasn't enough for him. He seemed to accept, readily enough, that I was from "everywhere" and we barrelled down the roads.
About ten minutes into the ride, he turns on the radio, or at least the sound system. Indian pop music plays and a screen lights up on his dashboard with the accompanying music video. Thinking we want to see the video, he reaches behind him and fumbles around, dropping the Escalade's rear seat video screen down and we are treated to a song that sounds like "Dirty Disco". Did some research later and the song is actually called "Dard e Disco" or "Pain of Disco". It was, indeed, painful. The music video seemed to be completely about a very buff Indian man (later found out it was actor Shahrukh Khan) lip syncing and dancing along with a lot of blonde ladies. He emerged out of water. They threw water on him so the fabric of his shirt clung to his awesome abs. This was followed by an Indian woman singing something, I haven't been able to track down what her song was, even though we heard it twice.
As we caroomed down the highways, our driver alternately singing along with the music and shouting in Hindi at whoever was on the phone with him, I noticed that, according to his GPS, we were coming up on our exit. Then, we passed our exit. Dard e Disco. Then we came up on another one, and while he was shouting along with the lyrics, we passed that one too, Dard e Disco. Finally, he noticed that he could exit at the next exit and zoomed over and got off the highway. After zipping around the backroads a bit, I saw Iron Hill and pointed it out to him. I also pointed out to him the jug handle he would need to take to get over there*, as he looked like he was going to simply drive on the wrong side of the road for about 100 yards to get to the driveway. Dard e Disco.
We got out of the Escalade and paid the man $60 which included a $15 dollar tip because we didn't want to talk to him any more, we just wanted to get out of the truck. We were laughing about the whole thing, it was another adventure of a marvelous weekend.
Dard e Disco.
*In New Jersey, you can't make left hand turns, a lot of times. You have to proceed to a traffic light which will have a turnoff that will allow you to cross traffic. These are called "Jug Handles" because of what they look like on a map.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
A Matter Of The Law
I promised a friend I would post this. It started as fanfic, but, with some editing, it comes off better than 50 Shades.
* * *
A Matter Of The Law
Andrew J. Rowland
He sat at his desk, looking down at papers when the man entered the room.
"Lucius Flavius Sardinus, I want to speak with you!"
Lucius was reading of an incident on the back wall. Savages had been at it again, staking some poor sailor out along the rail. Looked like Lia had painted him. He tried not to deal with them, generally speaking, they were trouble but they amused him. This sailor, though, had been taken on the docks, drug back to their lair and...he raised his head from the lurid descriptions and looked at the man. His bass voice growled,
"So? Speak."
Lucius looked at the man, dressed in his finest blue, signifying he was a scribe. Judging from his air, a magistrate. Lucius continued to look levelly at him. The man said nothing and was obviously waiting for him to finish his sentence. Lucius decided to let him wait. The wait got oppressive, but still, Lucius kept looking directly at the man, holding his eye. He made no attempt to get to his feet, nor did he offer the scribe a chair.
Finally, the scribe coughed, looked away and said, "I am here on behalf of Merchant Salazar Crealt."
"Who?"
"Salazar Crealt is the leading silk merchant in Barbary."
The man spoke as if Lucius would know this bit of trivia. He also spoke as a man would to someone he considered himself better than. Lucius shrugged.
"You're an awful long way away from home, friend."
"Quite. I would thank you to address me by my title."
Lucius's face broke into a lopsided grin.
"Would you now?"
"Yes."
Lucius gave a low rumble of a chuckle.
"I would be happy to if I knew who you were. So far, all I know is you represent some merchant in Barbary, Salty Crack or something."
"Salazar Crealt, the leading silk merchant of Barbary."
"So, you are Salazar Crealt?"
"No."
Lucius's grin got wider, his voice got lower and more reasonable.
"Well, then, just who are you?"
The man put on an exasperated air and said in a huff, "I am Magistrate Samos Falden of Barbary. You will address me as Magistrate."
Lucius scratched his ear and grinned.
"Oh, I surely will. What can I do for you, Magistrate?" The way Lucius stressed the title left no doubt of the esteem he held Falden in. He continued to steadily hold the man's eye, not dropping his gaze in deference to the title.
"Yes, well, I have some questions about this place, Sardinus..."
"Administrator Sardinus."
"Beg pardon?"
"I am the Administrator. I do not normally like to be addressed by title, but you have just earned the honor of doing so."
Falden was momentarily stunned into silence. This circumstance didn't last, though. He stammered to a start again, "I have some questions about this place, Administrator."
"Oh? Why do you think I will answer them?"
"Merchant Law. Being an Administrator, you obviously came from the Caste of Scribes so, you should be aware of the niceties of Merchant Law."
Lucius grinned.
"I am a Slaver."
Nonplussed, Falden asked, "Are you aware of Merchant Law?"
"I have heard of it. What about it?"
"By Merchant Law, I can ask any question I want in pursuit of stolen chattel."
Lucius's amusement grew. He looked at Falden with a twinkle in his eye.
"Oh? What has been stolen?"
"The Merchant's wife was stolen by The Silken Bond from Barbary two months ago."
The Outpost was a den of thieves. Pirates, Outlaws, Savage Women. The Silken Bond, that seemingly ubiquitous slaving organization, also had their home here. They would obtain their merchandise from Gods knew where and bring them here for "processing". They had a very profitable trade in both male and female slaves. Lead by a man known only as The Harvester, they paid Lucius handsomely to have their headquarters at The Outpost. Being the Administrator had its advantages.
"A Free Woman is hardly chattel, Magistrate."
"True."
"Then..." he trailed off.
"Obviously, Sard...Administrator", Falden stressed the first syllable of "obviously" in an obnoxious fashion in Lucius's eyes, "she was stolen, enslaved by Silken Bond and brought here. I demand that you help me get her back."
Lucius's humor ran out at that point.
"Where do you think you are?"
"I am trapped in a backwater in the back and beyond."
"You are in the Outpost, Falden. I am the authority here. Not you or your Merchant Law. In the interest of being...helpful, however..."
Lucius raised his voice. "Guard!"
The burly head of an Outpost guard stuck around the corner.
"Yes, Lucius?"
"Go to the Bond and ask The Harvester to come see me, please? Stop by the Fisherman's village on your way there and tell the Fisher Elder "Red Seven". Got it?"
"Yes, Lucius."
Lucius nodded, the guard's head disappeared and Lucius turned back to his reading. Falden spoke.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Are you going to acknowledge my claims under Merchant Law?"
"I am going to finish reading this report. When The Harvester gets here, we will talk."
He turned back to his report, pointedly ignoring the fuming man in Blue. Lucius considered the markings on the sailor. Yeah, no doubt about it, Lia. He'd have to have a talk with their leader.
After a while, a huge man came into the room. He nodded at Lucius.
"You summoned me?"
"Yes, my friend. I have a present for you."
The Harvester's eyes narrowed.
"Present?"
"Yes, this fine fellow is here investigating the disappearance of the Wife of Salty Crack of Barbary. Claims the woman was stolen by you!"
"Salazar Crealt!"
The Harvester fixed the man with a glare which would stop a river crocodile, turned to Lucius and growled.
"Present?"
"Yes. I'm giving him to you. Perhaps he can investigate Salty Cracks up at the mines? You might want to remove his tongue, though. His voice is rather irritating."
Falden sputtered with fury.
"I have a company of Barbary's finest troops with me!"
The clash of steel, the splash of bodies, the scream of men in pain began down on the docks. It didn't last for long.
Lucius looked at the Magistrate. "'Red Seven' tells the Captain of the Fishermen of Laurius, a rather notorious pirate clan, that I have found a nice prize for him at dock seven and that there are soldiers. As forewarned is forearmed, the Fishermen went heavily armed. As a result, your men are dead. If someone comes looking for you; I never saw you. A tragedy, seems you were lost at sea."
The Harvester looked at Lucius again.
"My present is this ratty, scabby thing?"
"Well, yes and five silver."
"Ten."
"Six."
"Nine."
"Eight it is. Good bye, Magistrate."
Lucius watched as The Harvester neatly knocked Falden out and slung him over his shoulder. He handed his friend 8 silver and went back to his reports.
* * *
A Matter Of The Law
Andrew J. Rowland
He sat at his desk, looking down at papers when the man entered the room.
"Lucius Flavius Sardinus, I want to speak with you!"
Lucius was reading of an incident on the back wall. Savages had been at it again, staking some poor sailor out along the rail. Looked like Lia had painted him. He tried not to deal with them, generally speaking, they were trouble but they amused him. This sailor, though, had been taken on the docks, drug back to their lair and...he raised his head from the lurid descriptions and looked at the man. His bass voice growled,
"So? Speak."
Lucius looked at the man, dressed in his finest blue, signifying he was a scribe. Judging from his air, a magistrate. Lucius continued to look levelly at him. The man said nothing and was obviously waiting for him to finish his sentence. Lucius decided to let him wait. The wait got oppressive, but still, Lucius kept looking directly at the man, holding his eye. He made no attempt to get to his feet, nor did he offer the scribe a chair.
Finally, the scribe coughed, looked away and said, "I am here on behalf of Merchant Salazar Crealt."
"Who?"
"Salazar Crealt is the leading silk merchant in Barbary."
The man spoke as if Lucius would know this bit of trivia. He also spoke as a man would to someone he considered himself better than. Lucius shrugged.
"You're an awful long way away from home, friend."
"Quite. I would thank you to address me by my title."
Lucius's face broke into a lopsided grin.
"Would you now?"
"Yes."
Lucius gave a low rumble of a chuckle.
"I would be happy to if I knew who you were. So far, all I know is you represent some merchant in Barbary, Salty Crack or something."
"Salazar Crealt, the leading silk merchant of Barbary."
"So, you are Salazar Crealt?"
"No."
Lucius's grin got wider, his voice got lower and more reasonable.
"Well, then, just who are you?"
The man put on an exasperated air and said in a huff, "I am Magistrate Samos Falden of Barbary. You will address me as Magistrate."
Lucius scratched his ear and grinned.
"Oh, I surely will. What can I do for you, Magistrate?" The way Lucius stressed the title left no doubt of the esteem he held Falden in. He continued to steadily hold the man's eye, not dropping his gaze in deference to the title.
"Yes, well, I have some questions about this place, Sardinus..."
"Administrator Sardinus."
"Beg pardon?"
"I am the Administrator. I do not normally like to be addressed by title, but you have just earned the honor of doing so."
Falden was momentarily stunned into silence. This circumstance didn't last, though. He stammered to a start again, "I have some questions about this place, Administrator."
"Oh? Why do you think I will answer them?"
"Merchant Law. Being an Administrator, you obviously came from the Caste of Scribes so, you should be aware of the niceties of Merchant Law."
Lucius grinned.
"I am a Slaver."
Nonplussed, Falden asked, "Are you aware of Merchant Law?"
"I have heard of it. What about it?"
"By Merchant Law, I can ask any question I want in pursuit of stolen chattel."
Lucius's amusement grew. He looked at Falden with a twinkle in his eye.
"Oh? What has been stolen?"
"The Merchant's wife was stolen by The Silken Bond from Barbary two months ago."
The Outpost was a den of thieves. Pirates, Outlaws, Savage Women. The Silken Bond, that seemingly ubiquitous slaving organization, also had their home here. They would obtain their merchandise from Gods knew where and bring them here for "processing". They had a very profitable trade in both male and female slaves. Lead by a man known only as The Harvester, they paid Lucius handsomely to have their headquarters at The Outpost. Being the Administrator had its advantages.
"A Free Woman is hardly chattel, Magistrate."
"True."
"Then..." he trailed off.
"Obviously, Sard...Administrator", Falden stressed the first syllable of "obviously" in an obnoxious fashion in Lucius's eyes, "she was stolen, enslaved by Silken Bond and brought here. I demand that you help me get her back."
Lucius's humor ran out at that point.
"Where do you think you are?"
"I am trapped in a backwater in the back and beyond."
"You are in the Outpost, Falden. I am the authority here. Not you or your Merchant Law. In the interest of being...helpful, however..."
Lucius raised his voice. "Guard!"
The burly head of an Outpost guard stuck around the corner.
"Yes, Lucius?"
"Go to the Bond and ask The Harvester to come see me, please? Stop by the Fisherman's village on your way there and tell the Fisher Elder "Red Seven". Got it?"
"Yes, Lucius."
Lucius nodded, the guard's head disappeared and Lucius turned back to his reading. Falden spoke.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Are you going to acknowledge my claims under Merchant Law?"
"I am going to finish reading this report. When The Harvester gets here, we will talk."
He turned back to his report, pointedly ignoring the fuming man in Blue. Lucius considered the markings on the sailor. Yeah, no doubt about it, Lia. He'd have to have a talk with their leader.
After a while, a huge man came into the room. He nodded at Lucius.
"You summoned me?"
"Yes, my friend. I have a present for you."
The Harvester's eyes narrowed.
"Present?"
"Yes, this fine fellow is here investigating the disappearance of the Wife of Salty Crack of Barbary. Claims the woman was stolen by you!"
"Salazar Crealt!"
The Harvester fixed the man with a glare which would stop a river crocodile, turned to Lucius and growled.
"Present?"
"Yes. I'm giving him to you. Perhaps he can investigate Salty Cracks up at the mines? You might want to remove his tongue, though. His voice is rather irritating."
Falden sputtered with fury.
"I have a company of Barbary's finest troops with me!"
The clash of steel, the splash of bodies, the scream of men in pain began down on the docks. It didn't last for long.
Lucius looked at the Magistrate. "'Red Seven' tells the Captain of the Fishermen of Laurius, a rather notorious pirate clan, that I have found a nice prize for him at dock seven and that there are soldiers. As forewarned is forearmed, the Fishermen went heavily armed. As a result, your men are dead. If someone comes looking for you; I never saw you. A tragedy, seems you were lost at sea."
The Harvester looked at Lucius again.
"My present is this ratty, scabby thing?"
"Well, yes and five silver."
"Ten."
"Six."
"Nine."
"Eight it is. Good bye, Magistrate."
Lucius watched as The Harvester neatly knocked Falden out and slung him over his shoulder. He handed his friend 8 silver and went back to his reports.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Happy Birthday
I thought it was bullshit too, the advice from old fathers, who had been at this for 20 some years. Time goes by as a snap, they would say. Time doesn't matter. You turn around and they are young adults, barely needing you. Maybe needing you even more, hard to say.
When she was born, to be quite frank, she looked like a yellow lizard. She was vaguely jaundiced. She was skinny. But my heart belonged, irrevocably, to her, as it had belonged to her brother before her and to her sister after her. We took her home on the third night after she was born, it was early February and it was snowing. Cold. We put her into her tiny snowsuit, that was large enough for her to swim in and took her home.
A few hours after we got her home, we became a little alarmed by her yellow color. She didn't look like a sunflower, or anything, she just looked yellow. So, I bundled her back into the car and took her to the Pediatrician who was on duty at the hospital who told me not to worry, she was fine. So we all began our lives together.
*snap*
She's 4 and eating my dinner with me. For years, I would come home late from work. Her mother would have my dinner set aside for me. She would come up and say "Whatcha' eatin', Dad-dy?"
"I'm eating my dinner."
"Can I haf some?"
Whereupon, I would sit her on my lap and we'd eat my dinner. I didn't have a meal to myself until she turned 6.
*snap*
She's 7 and it's her birthday party. Her hair is loose and flowing around her happy, smiling face. Surrounded by her friends, as she dances the freeze dance to "Who Let The Dogs Out?" You know, we never DID find out who did.
*snap*
She's 12 and her face is awash in tears as her mother and I tell them we are getting divorced.
*snap*
She's 14 and smiling in my parents' front yard, in Maine. Watching as her aunts, uncles and cousins, who she has not had much contact with, come home. Everyone gets a kiss, everyone gets a hug in our family.
*snap*
She turned 17 yesterday. She got her license today. She doesn't need her Dad as much. My heart is still irrevocably hers.
Happy birthday, Veronica. I love you.
Dad
When she was born, to be quite frank, she looked like a yellow lizard. She was vaguely jaundiced. She was skinny. But my heart belonged, irrevocably, to her, as it had belonged to her brother before her and to her sister after her. We took her home on the third night after she was born, it was early February and it was snowing. Cold. We put her into her tiny snowsuit, that was large enough for her to swim in and took her home.
A few hours after we got her home, we became a little alarmed by her yellow color. She didn't look like a sunflower, or anything, she just looked yellow. So, I bundled her back into the car and took her to the Pediatrician who was on duty at the hospital who told me not to worry, she was fine. So we all began our lives together.
*snap*
She's 4 and eating my dinner with me. For years, I would come home late from work. Her mother would have my dinner set aside for me. She would come up and say "Whatcha' eatin', Dad-dy?"
"I'm eating my dinner."
"Can I haf some?"
Whereupon, I would sit her on my lap and we'd eat my dinner. I didn't have a meal to myself until she turned 6.
*snap*
She's 7 and it's her birthday party. Her hair is loose and flowing around her happy, smiling face. Surrounded by her friends, as she dances the freeze dance to "Who Let The Dogs Out?" You know, we never DID find out who did.
*snap*
She's 12 and her face is awash in tears as her mother and I tell them we are getting divorced.
*snap*
She's 14 and smiling in my parents' front yard, in Maine. Watching as her aunts, uncles and cousins, who she has not had much contact with, come home. Everyone gets a kiss, everyone gets a hug in our family.
*snap*
She turned 17 yesterday. She got her license today. She doesn't need her Dad as much. My heart is still irrevocably hers.
Happy birthday, Veronica. I love you.
Dad
Monday, January 14, 2013
Blathering and The Necropolis
I've got nothing I really want to write about today, yet, I feel that writing something is a must. Since last I wrote, I've begun very, very slow work on a novel. I've got some good ideas and characters and about the first chapter written. It looks like it will be a treasure hunt/mystery type affair around Manhattan. Having spent the last 4+ years going out to see Marcy in the Fort Washington section of Manhattan, I have lots of available locations.
So far, I'm looking at including The Cloisters, Yeshiva University, Times Square, a bar down on 9th Street that we visited once, MoMA and one or two others that have yet to be identified just yet. Marcy is going to be helping me write it, so this will be a fun sort of project. Although, at the rate I'm actually getting any writing DONE, it may be ready sometime around the turn of the century. Well, maybe the decade. Soon. Soonish, at any rate.
The plans are to write it, then self publish. Probably with an attendant podcast of the book. Similar to how Mike Bennett and Scott Sigler do things. Still, first, I have to write the bloody thing. With that said, I am going to put my story "The Necropolis" here for you to read. It needs some editing, but not much. Feel free to comment.
- Reticent Blatherer
This story came to me along time ago and has been banging around in my head. If you drive up the Garden State Parkway, North, toward I280 (At the time of writing, between exit 143 and 145) you will come across a graveyard on both sides of that highway. It stretches almost as far as you can see. In New Jersey, of course, that isn't very far. I never found the place particularly dark, but it did inspire this.
The Necropolis
Andrew J. Rowland
Most people would balk at the idea of buying a house next to a cemetary. My wife and I, though, found theneighbors to be quiet and the scenery picturesque. It was a magnificent Victorian or Edwardian house next to thegraveyard. At one point, I suppose, the house had been part of the graveyard's sextant quarters. Perhaps the vicar of the nearby church had lived there. We had no idea, really. Alas, in the intervening years, the church had shrunk in congregants and, needing the money, the church had sold the house. Depending, instead on having a traveling vicar to tend the local flock.
Be that as it may, my wife and I were more than happy to purchase the house. Which had been empty for some time. As I said, most don't like to live so close to the constant reminder that all flesh is dust. One happy, Spring day, she and I put down the payment and happily signed away our lives to buy the two story house. With theMaster Bedroom Veranda that overlooked what we came to, jokingly, call "The Necropolis". The City of the Dead.
It was beautiful in Spring. Spring, with the fresh grass and aptly named forget-me-nots peeking up through the new melting snow. Which would cup the gravestones, old and new, in its snowy embrace, the ice dripping down thefacings of the stones. It was marvelous in Summer. Summer, with the smell of fresh cut grass, the deep green ofthe trees, and the fresh scent of daisies, roses and lillies of the relatives coming to pay their respect to their dead. Fall, of course, meant Halloween. We got no Trick or Treaters due to our proximity to The Necropolis, to my wife's dismay. Children and their parents do not understand,or want to understand,though. Winter brought the humped snow across the stones and then it began again.
We were happy, although we had no children. That blessing was denied us. In those days, there was no such thing as In Vitro or anything else. We merely went on. Cherishing each other and our life. We continued to be happy. Could we have adopted? I suppose so. It didn't occur to us, to be quite honest. To quote F. Scott Fitzgerald "So we beat on". Life went from year to year. We grew older as people are wont to do. Happy in our lives. Happy with each other.
I don't remember when I first noticed them, to be quite truthful. I do remember it was evening. I was sitting on theveranda outside the bedroom, enjoying a beer and a smoke when I noticed the woman. She was simply standing there. In the middle of The Necropolis. Looking south. I couldn't see her face, although her body was quite solid, as near as I could tell. I turned to call my wife, but by the time I turned back, the figure was gone. Feeling like a fool, I told my wife, never mind, I must have imagined it.
The next day, I saw the grave diggers. In the same general area as I saw the woman. The pair of them dug thegrave in the morning. In the afternoon, the funeral came. The diggers returned afterward and filled in the grave. A few weeks later, the stone went up. These things take time, after all. I watched it all from the veranda and pondered.
The years went on. I saw a few of these people. Just standing, looking some direction or another. The next day,the gravediggers would show. The funeral would happen. The grave would be filled. The stone would be put up. Life, and death, went on.
I had no warning when she went. I came home from work one day and the love of my life was lying in the middle ofthe kitchen floor, dead. Cold. I tried to revive her, but it was futile. I raged. I cried. Later, they told me that it was an aneurysm. Something in her head let go and took her away from me. Random chance. Uncaring gods. Uncaring sky.
I was, needless to say, devastated. Friends tried to console me and I let them. Companionship is good. Loss shared is loss lessened, or so they say. I never really found it to be like that. After some, respectful amount of time, they tried to pair me with others. I politely declined. My Aphrodite was gone. My goddess of Love. My Heart. How could you replace her with Lulu Belle from down the corner? The short answer was: You couldn't and you cannot. I was never rude, I was just uninterested. They never stopped trying, though, bless them.
I put her in The Necropolis, of course. Where else? A nice place, close to the house. She was laid out in her finest silk and satin. Her hair had greyed over the years, but her luster did not fade for me. I put her favorite red ribbon in her braided hair. Then, I closed the box over her face. Let the mortician lock it with that key he had andthe procession of her friends and mine laid her to rest where I could see her.
In the Spring, the snow melted around the stone. The summer, I made sure to plant daffodils on her site. Her favorite flower. I didn't bother with the other flowers, although I would sometimes bring callalillies. It was somewhat of a joke between us. Some god awful movie with Lucille Ball and some woman, famous I'm sure, who would talk about "The callalillies being in bloom." Nights, I would take a bottle of whiskey up to the veranda with me. Smoke and sip bourbon and talk to her as if she was still with me. Of course, she was, but people don't understand.
Over the intervening years, I would, of course, see the figures standing in The Necropolis. Facing this way, or that. The next day, the Diggers would show. The grave. The funeral. The stone. So we beat on. I would smile at theperson standing in the Necropolis, if they were faced my way. Raise a glass to them. Never got a response but I did it anyway. Then, I would stumble my way to our bed and sleep.
Then, one night, I sat on the veranda and saw her. Standing next to her spot. Her stone. Looking at me. Me. There was a smile on her lips, ghostly, of course. What else would it be? Her eyes were bright and I could almost see the hint of blue that I remembered when she was in our bed. Her braid was unraveled in my mind, perfect in thespirit. I raised my glass to her and she grinned at me.
I took a drag of the cigarette, drained from my glass and looked at her. She looked back. That smile. Gods, that smile. I finished the smoke. She looked devilishly at me. I laughed and went to bed.
So far, I'm looking at including The Cloisters, Yeshiva University, Times Square, a bar down on 9th Street that we visited once, MoMA and one or two others that have yet to be identified just yet. Marcy is going to be helping me write it, so this will be a fun sort of project. Although, at the rate I'm actually getting any writing DONE, it may be ready sometime around the turn of the century. Well, maybe the decade. Soon. Soonish, at any rate.
The plans are to write it, then self publish. Probably with an attendant podcast of the book. Similar to how Mike Bennett and Scott Sigler do things. Still, first, I have to write the bloody thing. With that said, I am going to put my story "The Necropolis" here for you to read. It needs some editing, but not much. Feel free to comment.
- Reticent Blatherer
This story came to me along time ago and has been banging around in my head. If you drive up the Garden State Parkway, North, toward I280 (At the time of writing, between exit 143 and 145) you will come across a graveyard on both sides of that highway. It stretches almost as far as you can see. In New Jersey, of course, that isn't very far. I never found the place particularly dark, but it did inspire this.
The Necropolis
Andrew J. Rowland
Most people would balk at the idea of buying a house next to a cemetary. My wife and I, though, found theneighbors to be quiet and the scenery picturesque. It was a magnificent Victorian or Edwardian house next to thegraveyard. At one point, I suppose, the house had been part of the graveyard's sextant quarters. Perhaps the vicar of the nearby church had lived there. We had no idea, really. Alas, in the intervening years, the church had shrunk in congregants and, needing the money, the church had sold the house. Depending, instead on having a traveling vicar to tend the local flock.
Be that as it may, my wife and I were more than happy to purchase the house. Which had been empty for some time. As I said, most don't like to live so close to the constant reminder that all flesh is dust. One happy, Spring day, she and I put down the payment and happily signed away our lives to buy the two story house. With theMaster Bedroom Veranda that overlooked what we came to, jokingly, call "The Necropolis". The City of the Dead.
It was beautiful in Spring. Spring, with the fresh grass and aptly named forget-me-nots peeking up through the new melting snow. Which would cup the gravestones, old and new, in its snowy embrace, the ice dripping down thefacings of the stones. It was marvelous in Summer. Summer, with the smell of fresh cut grass, the deep green ofthe trees, and the fresh scent of daisies, roses and lillies of the relatives coming to pay their respect to their dead. Fall, of course, meant Halloween. We got no Trick or Treaters due to our proximity to The Necropolis, to my wife's dismay. Children and their parents do not understand,or want to understand,though. Winter brought the humped snow across the stones and then it began again.
We were happy, although we had no children. That blessing was denied us. In those days, there was no such thing as In Vitro or anything else. We merely went on. Cherishing each other and our life. We continued to be happy. Could we have adopted? I suppose so. It didn't occur to us, to be quite honest. To quote F. Scott Fitzgerald "So we beat on". Life went from year to year. We grew older as people are wont to do. Happy in our lives. Happy with each other.
I don't remember when I first noticed them, to be quite truthful. I do remember it was evening. I was sitting on theveranda outside the bedroom, enjoying a beer and a smoke when I noticed the woman. She was simply standing there. In the middle of The Necropolis. Looking south. I couldn't see her face, although her body was quite solid, as near as I could tell. I turned to call my wife, but by the time I turned back, the figure was gone. Feeling like a fool, I told my wife, never mind, I must have imagined it.
The next day, I saw the grave diggers. In the same general area as I saw the woman. The pair of them dug thegrave in the morning. In the afternoon, the funeral came. The diggers returned afterward and filled in the grave. A few weeks later, the stone went up. These things take time, after all. I watched it all from the veranda and pondered.
The years went on. I saw a few of these people. Just standing, looking some direction or another. The next day,the gravediggers would show. The funeral would happen. The grave would be filled. The stone would be put up. Life, and death, went on.
I had no warning when she went. I came home from work one day and the love of my life was lying in the middle ofthe kitchen floor, dead. Cold. I tried to revive her, but it was futile. I raged. I cried. Later, they told me that it was an aneurysm. Something in her head let go and took her away from me. Random chance. Uncaring gods. Uncaring sky.
I was, needless to say, devastated. Friends tried to console me and I let them. Companionship is good. Loss shared is loss lessened, or so they say. I never really found it to be like that. After some, respectful amount of time, they tried to pair me with others. I politely declined. My Aphrodite was gone. My goddess of Love. My Heart. How could you replace her with Lulu Belle from down the corner? The short answer was: You couldn't and you cannot. I was never rude, I was just uninterested. They never stopped trying, though, bless them.
I put her in The Necropolis, of course. Where else? A nice place, close to the house. She was laid out in her finest silk and satin. Her hair had greyed over the years, but her luster did not fade for me. I put her favorite red ribbon in her braided hair. Then, I closed the box over her face. Let the mortician lock it with that key he had andthe procession of her friends and mine laid her to rest where I could see her.
In the Spring, the snow melted around the stone. The summer, I made sure to plant daffodils on her site. Her favorite flower. I didn't bother with the other flowers, although I would sometimes bring callalillies. It was somewhat of a joke between us. Some god awful movie with Lucille Ball and some woman, famous I'm sure, who would talk about "The callalillies being in bloom." Nights, I would take a bottle of whiskey up to the veranda with me. Smoke and sip bourbon and talk to her as if she was still with me. Of course, she was, but people don't understand.
Over the intervening years, I would, of course, see the figures standing in The Necropolis. Facing this way, or that. The next day, the Diggers would show. The grave. The funeral. The stone. So we beat on. I would smile at theperson standing in the Necropolis, if they were faced my way. Raise a glass to them. Never got a response but I did it anyway. Then, I would stumble my way to our bed and sleep.
Then, one night, I sat on the veranda and saw her. Standing next to her spot. Her stone. Looking at me. Me. There was a smile on her lips, ghostly, of course. What else would it be? Her eyes were bright and I could almost see the hint of blue that I remembered when she was in our bed. Her braid was unraveled in my mind, perfect in thespirit. I raised my glass to her and she grinned at me.
I took a drag of the cigarette, drained from my glass and looked at her. She looked back. That smile. Gods, that smile. I finished the smoke. She looked devilishly at me. I laughed and went to bed.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Something to eat!
My partner and I went to the Green Markets in NYC yesterday. Spent the morning roaming around. Originally, we were going to get the ingredients for ratatouille, but there was no zucchini to be had. So, I had a thought, why not make a vegetable stew? Better, let's cook it in a small pumpkin. Thus this recipe was born.
My partner is vegan and is also on something called Dr. Fuhrman's Diet, so there is no salt or oils added to this recipe. You can, as with any recipe, adjust to your taste.
Reticent Blatherer's Vegan Pumpkin Stew.
5 pound sugar pumpkin
1 small eggplant
1 large piece of garlic
1/2 pound of fingerling potatoes
1 small winesap apple
1 medium small onion
1 tomato
1 teaspoon each of ground cumin, ground allspice and ground black pepper
Open the pumpkin and remove the seeds. Remove about a half of the meat inside the pumpkin and set aside. Cut all the ingredients up and mix them together with the spices and pumpkin meat. Place it all back into the pumpkin and put the top on (probably won't go). Wrap it up in foil and bake in a 250 degree oven for 3 hours.
-Reticent Blatherer
My partner is vegan and is also on something called Dr. Fuhrman's Diet, so there is no salt or oils added to this recipe. You can, as with any recipe, adjust to your taste.
Reticent Blatherer's Vegan Pumpkin Stew.
5 pound sugar pumpkin
1 small eggplant
1 large piece of garlic
1/2 pound of fingerling potatoes
1 small winesap apple
1 medium small onion
1 tomato
1 teaspoon each of ground cumin, ground allspice and ground black pepper
Open the pumpkin and remove the seeds. Remove about a half of the meat inside the pumpkin and set aside. Cut all the ingredients up and mix them together with the spices and pumpkin meat. Place it all back into the pumpkin and put the top on (probably won't go). Wrap it up in foil and bake in a 250 degree oven for 3 hours.
-Reticent Blatherer
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