Nine of Clubs

First, I must dictate that writing is easy. (Certain Individuals may sometimes forget this) Everyone who writes, regardless of what is being hastily scrawled upon any surface, is a writer. Writing is expression on experience— for even the most lushes litterateur basis poem or prose on individual thoughts or memories. Of course, dramatic license allows for some embellishments; otherwise Stephen King and Isaac Asimov would not draw as quite a crowd. Moreover, anyone who reads also writes (even if just in their mind)— reading is just the other side of writing, after all. 

I had meant to publish this blog post quite some time ago, however for one reason or another I never had the chance to get around to it. Not sure I’m about to foreclose the reason, but I’m almost certain that same reason is preventing me from digging out my journal and refreshing my mind on the outline I ran through in my head during the time of this particular piece’s inspiration… so I hope I can accurately present the same enthusiasm here.

Although the title of this post is somewhat of an idiom, I do actually wear a flag on my back. I often sport a black BDU jacket, riddled with patches and other embellishments. Sewn on it’s back, just between my shoulder blades is a contemporary incarnation of the stars and stripes. I suppose I am patriotic, though not overly so. I wear it more in the same way a fan of East Bay Ray might sew a Dead Kennedy’s patch to their leathery shroud with dental floss. I feel a deep connection to my country, despite strong european ethnic routes, and wish to honor (and perhaps embellish) the noble and rebellious nature of it’s birth. 

Below this flag, on the right rear corner of the jacket sits a Vietnam War memorial patch. Why Vietnam? Surely there’s been more bloody wars, wars with higher national casualties, conflicts with less impeccable tactical results— but none in the history of my nation where it’s defenders were greeted with less honor. And to imagine, (sadly little imagination is needed) the crowd which neglected and ridiculed their nations warriors the most were the ones whom were most in their debt. 

I found myself exiting the counter inside a Starbuck’s cafe— this in itself is odd, as I normally cringe away from such tweed YUP. This was another day for firsts, as it was my introductory encounter with chilled coffee. I normally (always) drink my black deliciousblack. Occasionally with a not so modest amount of cane sugar. It so happens I was side stepping my way to the condiment counter holding a thirty ounce black iced coffee (which I might add was thoroughly enjoyable). 

His smooth-rounded frameless glasses set the outline for his face as I turned around. This quite healthy-looking gray haired caffeine enthusiast had a firm grip when he patted my shoulder to introduce himself. “I know one of them, you know” he indicated through his transitions at my jacket— which took me a moment or two to realize, as my mind was anticipating the beverage in hand with an emotion which could only be properly described as pornographic. 

One of them, meaning of course, one of his 57,939 young brothers whom never returned from Vietnam from ‘59 to ‘75. He’d just graduated from college when he volunteered. As a Phantom pilot he had to have, as pilots must be officers and not conscripts. Just out of a dogfight (if your dog lacked vulcan teeth) he’d escaped a positive lock, however the missile had detonated close enough to his F-4 toaugment some of his control surfaces. The damage had made the yaw and pitch movements somewhat sluggish. Telling his backseater to hang on, he could see he was closely approaching friendly airspace along the coast through a canopy caked with blood. 

The shockwave which ripped through the fuselage of the Phantom has also knocked out the power, which among other things, completely disengaged the interface. Indicators for his navigator’s respirator were non-funcional— not surprising as the rest of the damn gauges were needle down as well. 

Having to ditch in the ocean close to the coast for fuel concerns, his F-4 was promptly recovered by search and rescue personnel. Pulled up from cockpit with the canopy now open and removed, only one command was engrained on his memory, as if that’s the only voice he heard: “Just don’t look back.”

Watching Oddities on the science channel— the reality television showcase of Obscura Antiques. 

So many reasons one might have a back-up plan or plan B for their life path or career; art, performance, non-profit, bankruptcy, outlaw, starvation, outcast… and I’ve just thought of a great idea!

Become a mortician. 

It’s been said ebooks are the way of the future. Writers and book lovers alike may not appreciate the digital dots to the turn of a page, but at least one does— Lawrence Block.

And many of his titles are now being issued on the popular ebook catalogues. Currently I have been Kindling some of his late 80s monthly columns in Writer’s Digest. I must say it’s getting my spidy sense tingling, and as a result I’ve been flipping through pages in my journal more frequently as of late— I’ve got less than 20 page sides left!

Journaling is a new thing to me, in the sense that I’ve not always kept one through out the twenty-two years of my life. This journal I speak of is my first. I must say I love it thoroughly. Medium sized black Moleskine. Soft cover. The pages themselves are blank, of course. 

This has been a battle, with tragic and bloody battles. Both sides have had their good days and bad. And are in stalemate. 

So I’m asking. Lines, or no lines for my next moleskine?

keep in mind this is for my personal journaling use; not that of screenplay, manuscript, novelizing, etc. 

This morning I found myself in my shower, soaking up the warmth, and enjoying a cup of coffee; black with sugar. What? Drinking coffee in the shower?! 

I should inform you now what I do in the shower is my own business, and is primarily an unwinding, reflexive, and meditative period— and has nothing to do with what your perverted mind is inclining. 

Now, back to the story. I’d like to say I read this somewhere, but in this day and age it’s more likely that I obtained this piece of information via video documentary or internet. Dripping in my tap water womb, I noticed I was sipping my coffee. Why was I sipping it? Why not slurp it; thus I began to slurp away.

I seem to remember that some nice sommelier of sorts gave me invaluable information. I’m sure it was a documentary now. Although, I must say I cannot remember if the subject was coffee, wine, beer, liquor, well water, tea, or noodle soup. Regardless of the liquid, I shall continue my tale.

The best way (proper way, really) to enjoy and taste this liquid is to slurp. The vigorous action mixes the ingredients and airates the solution. Westerners may frequent specialty shops abroad ( and in remembering this detail, I am so inclined to believe this whole story is about tea ) but seldom taste this rich beverages properly. 

The host/author informs you to slurp, rather than sip. By slurping, you will impress the native around you— and advance your prowess in the arcane culture of drink. 

Still enjoying my moist morning java, I ponder… why not just be safe in slurp everything. And if you act pompous enough, ignore the lesser folk around you with distain, and brandish your tweed like a badge, you just may be able to pull it off

“Ryan, you do know that we have other books on space exploration, right?”

“Uh Huhm, I know,” I said quietly, sharply nodding my head. My brief response was not withheld by intimidation, but distraction. Not unlike a kid in a candy store, I had already begun to ignore the world outside of what was in my hands— of course, it was actually the result of a kid with an astronomy book.

The library was the best place in the world, and of course it had all the characteristics of the best place in the world. Slight moldiness from decades of collected books, a fine layer of dust on the top shelves of less loved but more remembered sections, and little direct sunlight creeping from the ground level windows would be an adequate description of the Child Street School catacombs. At some point earlier in the century it was decided that books needed to be kept like mushrooms, thus whatever morbid task this long dank chamber used to fulfill was now an archive of knowledge. 

I felt comfortable down in the Library. Isolated from the instruction and oversight of adults during class lessons, or group crafts, and even recess; the Library was where I could always just drop all pretenses and jump into pages of experience my young mind had yet to know. Of course when not doing its day job, the Dewey Decimal System- lined walls was also the cafeteria to second and third grade students who’ve brought their own lunch from home. The room seemed to have no edges, like a nicely worn piece of furniture; the short cut, springy carpet seemed to melt into the dark wood of the bookcased walls, whose secondary purpose was to hold up the ceiling. 

This particular learning establishment, on Rhode Island route 103 in Warren, housed three elementary grades during its operating hours.   By my third year I’d had learned to relish in the time allocated to the Library. Two activities incorporated much of my time there, the first of which was struggling to peel open the pull tab of canned peaches with the pair of my juvenile thumbs without injury. The later slowly became my first love, and one which I would prove to never outgrow. 

Out of all the pages I have read in various books which I was introduced to, only the words in Astronomy demanded to be committed to memory. It was the cover which told me to first grab it, or actually the spine. I had always been gravitated towards non-fiction in my early years, although I don’t recall what started that. Perhaps it was that book. Published in 1959, the cover artwork of Astronomy was boldly colored with bright yellows and reds. At least, my experience told me that itwas bright at one point. It was also different than the other books; hard covered in thick paperboard, larger in height, and worn to the point where the edges felt soft like tissue.

For three years my library time always included the habit of cracking open the bound tome labeled Astronomy in science-fiction-space-aged lettering. I didn’t know what the term cover to cover meant, but I regarded the fine print of the publishing marks and the illustrative descriptions of outer belt planets and moons with the same intense respect. After many readings, I learned the book was published in the 1950s, but what did that matter to me I hadn’t any previous knowledge of astronomy or aeronautics. Astronomy, in its ending chapters, introduced the solid-state rocket booster and orbiting satellites as The Technology of the Future!. Artist renderings of what modern scientists thought of Saturn’s surface were that of a blue skied utopian Earth, with green soil, red clouds, eighteen moons, and sleek smooth rings rising over the horizon. Mars was accepted to have lakes and rivers, and Venus primitive plant life. The lack of any prior knowledge in objection allowed me to suck in and be mesmerized by what I read. My curious nature made me crave Astronomy. Of course I read other things on the subject, as the nurturing librarian said: we did have other books on space exploration.

The sprightly jerk of an Uh huhm I uttered back may have been externally brief, but I suppose manners were of low priority in my brain, and were appropriately turned off in lieu of information input. Of course I knew the exact volume she spoke of, and I had the inclination she knew that I knew. 

Large and towering in physical form to myself, the all too familiar librarian projected an attitude of anything but. Her curly black hair and round spectacles balanced out her exuberant smile, which she often employed as she followed my self directed knowledge hunts during my periodic library hours in my three year sentence at Child Street. 

Despite the mutual understanding I had read everything to do with space, astronomy, aeronautics, and science in the dank dungeon did not deter her habitual recommendation to sit with another hardcover on the subject. I assume her goal was to immerse me with less out-dated information— the publication date of my favorite volume was by no means a proper modal average of the total book population. Frankly however, the NASA book she encouraged did not appeal much to me.

The other astronomy books were filled with high resolution photographs, printed on glossy paper, and filled with astronauts like that flashy popular Neil Armstrong. Also the less exciting, unimaginative space shuttle replaced the colorfully drawn rockets I have since based as my foundation of orbital vehicles. The Hubble telescope photographs captured images of all the nine planets I had come to love, but they were sterile and cold. And the book was a lot smaller, and had less information. It seemed that the more outlandish aspects of extra planetary characteristics were proved inaccurate; however no new discoveries were introduced. I then threw it aside as a novelty. Unimportant. 

Eventually the urge to discover new knowledge and to live curious revealed the out-dated status of my favorite book. It was still my favorite though; a scapegoat or shrine. It was a symbol of what first sparked my imagination and thirst for learning. Because of it, I associated 1950s era science and astronomy as myscience or astronomy— a sense of nostalgia made me view anything later as  somehow less concrete, even if rationally I knew it to be more accurate. 

The closing months of my final stretch at Child Street School eventually dawned. Apparently, mine was to be one of the last third grade class to pass through the doors, and run up and down the lacquered wooden stairs. As the library books were to be then sent to the other district schools, some less read volumes were to be donated or discarded. By unanimous vote, although I have yet to  discover who the ballets were filled out by, I was to be given one of the two copies of Astronomywhich belonged to the library. At that point I felt it just, as the thing was pretty much mine anyway. I hate to admit the stamp card on the back cover was used by none other than myself for some time. I recall seeing loan stamps from the 1970s, and maybe one or two before my own— however I’ll be dammed if that lovely tome was checked out at any point of the 1980s. It’s a shame, really. To think that a partially degrading pile of illustrated paper could move my little mind so. I wonder the feelings and thoughts of those who read it before me; or of the individual who creased open its’ spine for the first time. Was it a librarian? A Teacher? Or perhaps a small school child, who is now well into their age. 

My memory of Astronomy outside Child Street School is limited. It has been more of an ingrained feeling in my conscious mind, hidden in the background of all of my emotions. The last physical glance it met with my eyes was from the edge of a dusty music stand, in my basement at home. I believe I had just liberated it from some storage box, then proudly placed it on display in my own catacomb. By that time, it must have already been three years into the next century. Astronomy had asserted that at that date, a good percentage of the scientific population would be permanently living on the Earth’s only natural satellite, conducting energy experiments. Since the relic itself has yet to be found, I have since begun a hobby of a crusade— On occasion I search for that specific publication of The Golden Age of Astronomy on various websites over the internet and purchase them. Though the volumes may be the same, I have yet to unearth a copy bound in the same cover. The hunt continues, and if luck shall have it I may rediscover the original some time before we actually colonize the moon. 

Chapter One

I looked down at the glazed document in my hand. Miraculous, the slivers of gold and silver inlayed in a transparency over the photo I do not remember posing for. I don’t remember, of course, because I’d never had it taken. A fantastic job they’ve done on it. I wonder if they have some massive cache of semi-doctored photographs on file— listed by ethnicity, hair color, eye color, age, height, and so on. They must. Hardly, could I imagine wasted effort on tracking down some street rat, dressing him up to a presentable level, and snapping his mug. Of course I’m still assuming that they are a  they. It all seems fresh, and genuine. In this day an age, you wouldn’t think a product of such professional level would be crafted by a single master in his workshop, sweating over a hanging filament bulb and scapulae.  

The name on the passport was Alderic Morrou. How glorious of him to give me such a name. I’d met the man in some dark pub off the main way. I hardly sleep at night any longer; and even if I had the urge, doing so in my current housing arrangement would not have been the most secure of ideas. So instead I went for a walk. The dirty mattresses, the dirty floors, grimy and peeling wallpaper, and the apparent lack of lavatory facilities all represent the type of persona which occupy such a space. Eventually  I found a bartering practice which didn’t deal in sex or chemicals. That, of course, only left firearms. Nothing particularly of use though. You can’t count on anything of quality to be procured in the drug infested gutter of England’s sixth most populated urban scape.  

The man was out in the open, barely visible under the cut shadow of the yellowing streetlight. The more conscious of my fellow tenants told me where I might find him. The description, although undoubtedly not recent, still fit. Which means the prick thought himself cleaver, wearing that soot stained three-button over and over again. I suppose he felt it professional to lie in the center of the triangle security force he employs. “Do they honestly think they’re inconspicuous?” I thought. Three men standing aside rusted industrial walls, sucking down fags, and doing a good job at noticeably nothing. I couldn’t see any bulging. They were carrying the best wares for his protection, which assured me of his mediocre supply. He’d nothing but the same snub nosed thirty-eight specials, plastic forties, and aged single actions which have been circulating the pockets of the drug fiends of Bristol for years. Hard to come by unregistered product at this level, so everyone just uses the leftovers of the leftovers. I approached the sharp dressed prick with the appropriate referral I was given. This guy was so green he’s probably hung on the same dope his clients need protection from. I was straightforward. These types always know who to see for papers. I paid him for a 1911 I didn’t take, and he gave me directions to a pub where my mark would be. He said this lot ran guns through the isles and forged papers well enough to have people thinking the IRA had recently developed a conscience. 

He introduced himself as Dominik. I imagined the k from the eastern european accent he either was putting on, or had lost some time ago. I told him there was no need for names. He took that into consideration, pausing briefly. When he came back to Earth he assured me he knew someone who could forge me a clean passport to get to the continent. Dominik named some ungodly price I was only prepared to pay half of, and I talked him down a third. He agreed, but insisted I pay him the original amount, as I only had dollars on me. With the documents, I would receive the extra share in GBP and Euros. I said it was acceptable and then told him in Russian, should the exchange fee be higher than my liking he’d soon find a new affinity for drinking straws. As I imagined, he only understood a touch of it. He gave me a stern confirming nod, and left the table. I ordered a heated rum punch, and waited for the return of Dominik and the associate from this false document crew I’ve been hearing so much praise of. 

I was sitting at this wooden table in the shadow of this pub. Waiting for this idiot Dominik to return with the craftsman. It was really uneventful when they returned. I’ll save you the torture of reading about it. We just went over some of the minor information; previous port stamps, citizenship, addresses, and of course the price for the service. Perhaps it’s because I was thinking about this all the moment the slav left the bar— after all, not much is left up to anticipate. I was already in a clouded mindset, the deal and the warm rum having their way with my perception. Yes I know you thinking about it this very moment! I’ll assure you first hand, dear reader, warm rum is comforting. That’s when it happened. The memory forced its way into my consciousness. Naturally, thoughts like that hadn’t left my mind for days now, but this was different. The kind of recollecting which substitutes itself for your vision and senses. All other preceptive nerves went silent to the physical world. Instead, I just remembered her, felt her. 

“Why don’t you come closer? Let me hold on to you” I said in a rather direct tone. She’d just entered the room. It was dark, and she was still cold and jittery— the kind of anxiety which always presents itself and quickly dissipates when you enter through a threshold. I might have said more words, but my primary communication was now through my fingertips. Remove your sunglasses I touched. With almost preternatural speed I was at her jaw, using my lips to find my way to her neck— or was that a side effect of this recollection. Surly it didn’t really happen this fast. I moved my mandible, gnawing at her. Slowly, my teeth playfully grabbed hold of her tight flesh as I let go a sensually seductive grunt. What a beautiful noise she made. As if time had near stopped, I heard in perfect clarity the parting of her mouth and the click of her tongue. Along came a short breath of air, the very sound you hear when one is about to commence a whisper. My perfectly synchronized animal of a contraception my body is took care of that. Left handed fingertips dove through the thick waves of her hair onto her scalp as my canines sank into her neck. Counting her vertebrae with my right, my lower half pushed and lifted her into my grasp and into the air. The next thing I knew, we were drowning in soft furs. I had her taste in me, it was what I was becoming, what was making me warm. I had devoured her near completely, and let her take it all back from myself. Now we lay taking up each others warmth. I still craved her. Never completely am I subdued.  Just about as I was to hear her voice once again.

I awoke. It was the pub. Who cares. The idiot slavic man. The passport maker could not have been more stereotypic. Who cares, I didn’t. I wanted her again. I left. Blocks I walked out in the snow. I stopped under a streetlamp. As the flakes were accumulating over me like a statue, I reached into my pocket. It really was an impressive forgery. No sleeping. I will get to London tonight. Then I will make it under the North Sea during the day. I can sleep in Brussels or on the Eurostar. Once in Anderlecht I’ll find access to the crypt under San Guido. Then, I can finally make my way into Paris. Soon this will all be over.