The Deringer Files

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Meet me on Wednesday

There’s a little used book shop down town that is very easy to find, for the smell of aging pages fills the air in the neighborhood like fresh brewed coffee rising to great the rain. It sits tucked away at the end of a row of brown stones off Gold Street. It is small and dusty and crowded with books and dreams and poems that might never be read. The shelves are huddled close together as tight as they can be, allowing only the minimal amount of space for a wayward adventurer to walk between them swaying your body this way and that way with a quick turn here and skip right there and you must remember to look up and stay conscious of falling works by forgotten masters of the art of blah, blah, blah... This place has got more traps than an Aztec Temple... but what you will find... dreams you never though you would ever get to see... words you thought you would never speak again... are here waiting for you... I’ll be waiting for you...

Meet me on Wednesday in the after noon but don’t let anyone know where you are going, in fact, don’t let anyone know you have left... sneak out like a thief with a purse full of precious stones meant to pay the ransom of some captured prince who doesn't deserves to sit on his fathers throne, but take those jewels and hand them out to the poor and the hungry and those longing to be loved wandering the city streets with no memory of a joyful past and no direction toward a hopeful future... throw those cursed jewels into the sky and let the beggars reach for the heavens to find them... but... don’t let anyone know you have left and where you are going and don’t take the shortest rout, go through alleyways and byways... enter this shop and that one making your way to their back entrance and leave through there, zig zag the city in dark glasses and hide the color of your hair under a scarf... to keep any would be pursuers confused... but wait! Before I forget, get us a box of chocolates or a bag of pastries from you know where...

When you get there leave your glasses on - I don’t want to see the memory of another trapped in the green of your eyes like some poor beast caged in emeralds... save that sweet torture for me. If you can make your way past the desk that sits in front of the window in the small entrance turned into the sports and hobby section you will enter into the main room of the store... turn left to avoid all the boxes on the floor piled high in front of the windows and then make a right at the end of that long shelf... to the right of you, there should be a section on psychology and philosophy... feel free to gently stroke the spines of the books as you pass by... I’m sure they will like that very much. Somewhere in that chaos you might find your beloved Nietzsche... just keep walking until you get to the end of that row and make a right... just a few more steps and you will come to an entrance to another room on your left... you might have to jump over a couple of boxes... and if you can... past the biographies of long dead American presidents and a few Europeans... in the history section by the very last shelf... I will be waiting... hungry and in need of the kisses you promised... and if you can’t make it... I will leave you a poem hidden in the pages of the "Tale of Genji" which I keep a copy of in the back of the books on the third shelf from the bottom... or leave it there as a humble offering to the Gods of the written word that they too may know that I once wrote... inspired only by my lust...

A rainy afternoon at Bruno's

The rain fell on me like a curse from Heaven. It poured down on the city with a vengeance I had not felt in many years, and a small part of me knew that I deserved this punishment. I ran up Central Avenue dodging tourists and locals dazed and confused and blinded by the droplets of water as thick as crystals, piercing the skin right to the soul, and those rocks of rain that missed their targets shattered on the ground releasing screams of desire and lust... and anger and pain in a howl that haunts me still. By the time I got to Bruno’s I was drenched. I stepped in the door as if I had swam up from the sea and the customers, warm and dry looked on me with amazement and disgust... except for one... a lonely one sitting at the counter next to my usual spot, gazing up from her book with tenderness and understanding... her lips formed a smile of pity that said to me "Sweet, darling angel sit and rest for a while - but once your wings have dried and your belly nourished, back to the battle field you go...".
I sheepishly made my way to the counter and dropped my bag on the floor. Looking up to find Bruno shaking his head at me as he throws a dry towel my way, mumbling curses at me in French as if the storm outside was all my doing... or maybe it was because I dripped have the sea onto his restaurant floor - just get me some coffee, thank you...
And she laughed - it’s a good thing you two are friends...
I shake my head into the towel - I think I’m pushing it...
Coffee sits on the counter in front of me. Fingers tapping annoyingly - I suppose you need cream for that?
Yes, that would be nice, thank you...
He turns and walks away... those French curses fading into the distance.
I yell out - My father’s French you know...
Yes! He yells back from the other end of the counter - But your grandfather was a Nazi...
Now everyone is looking at me and judging me for things I had absolutely no control over... talk about feeling uncomfortable... I hold my head up as proud as I can, bringing the coffee cup to my lips and raise it just a bit the way one does in making a last minute toast... and the words escaped before I could stop them - Here’s to the master race... and God’s chosen people alike... (I told you, I couldn’t stop them).
gasps from the crowd as I take a sip from my cup... where’s that cream...?
She laughs - So what exactly does that make you?... she asks.
I look at her and smile - I’m all Mexican, baby... did I just call her baby? Yes, I did.
She laughs and my cream arrives. Bruno stretches his hand out to display his wet floor.
I raise my hands offering him the fact that he has employees to take care of these things.
He offers me another French curse and walks away.
I look at her apologetically - It just sounds like he’s mad but that’s how the French speak... with lots of passion...
She smiles in agreement - Hmm... my father’s French as well...
I reach for the cream - aren’t we lucky bastard’s...
She giggles...
I forget the cream and offer her my hand -I’m... (insert real name here)...
She takes my hand - Hi (insert real name here), I’m Dianne...
And so it was... a Rainy afternoon at Bruno’s with Dianne, coffee and pastries, poetry books and wet hair...we talked for three hours and shared stories of far away cities and childhood tales of adventures gone terribly wrong, we shared eclairs and accidental strokes of our fingers in reaching for sugar or cream or pieces of delicate bread crusts, we shared smiles and glances that would make onlookers believe we were lovers on a scheduled lunchtime rendevous, and if we caught ourselves in a lingering gaze... we looked away trying to find objects on the counter that may perhaps need re-arranging. We spoke of poetry and art and film... She praised Godard and I the works of Michael Bay... she wasn’t buying it, but I’m a guy and I had to try... Godard...
We tried to talk philosophy until she mentioned Nietzsche... and the words two bit hack slipped out... and we moved on to other subjects... stealing glances and smiles and gentle touches of fingers gliding across ones hand when trying to get a certain point across... the crowd disappeared and we lingered with our coffee and pastries... with Bruno and Sabine... and we never noticed that the rain had stopped...