Feb 25, 2019 | Blog - Mary Marcus
Lady
“What’s your name? I might have asked before, but I forgot.”
“I’m calling myself Lady these days.” What I don’t say is “after my Lady Smith revolver” that I keep it in my underwear drawer.
“Lady,” smiles my handsome friend. “If you’re Lady I wanna be the Tramp.”
We both smile.
We had met at yoga. We both like Nate who goes slowly, doesn’t blast you with constant oldies-but-goodies or even worse, fake spiritual crap. We had walked out together twice and chatted. Now we are having cappuccino, his treat. That’s the first step in the dating ritual. Cappuccino and then if the spark is there, a date soon after in the evening. I’d been through dozens of variations of this dance since my divorce, but had abandoned all such activities once the dark arm of the angel of death, the big C, had appeared and just as mysteriously disappeared like a miasma of smoke that clears after the bomb goes off. I’m in remission. But for how long?
Photo: Joel Goodman
Until this handsome classmate sidled up next to me after class, the only thing on my mind has been another man, one who haunts my days, and appears in my fantasies and often my dreams. I’d even tracked him down and seduced him. And he’d liked it. Had I liked it? Certainly I’d enjoyed that my motivations were unknown to him, just as his had been unknown to me back when I was young, sweet and naive. His hobby I discovered later was popping cherries then saying cheerio, so to speak. It was a long time ago, but the night is seared in my memory. He did what he wanted and vanished.
Looking at this gentle man across from me, I know he would never do such a thing to a girl. That night, so long ago, became a sort of template for my future relationships, meaning I learned to suck it up young and expect the worst – and blame myself when it didn’t work out. I could never get back all those years, those feelings I lost, because I had to squash them down. Squash them down and let them rot inside me. No wonder I had gotten the big C.
“And you? What’s your name?” I ask my handsome yoga friend who smiles.
His teeth aren’t very white. I like the off-color teeth. It is like a slap in the face to the prevailing zeitgeist. Should I tell him this? When you are single and “out there” you have to be very careful with big words. Big words intimidate men and sometimes women too. But fuck it. This last act of my life is just for me. I can say all the big words I want.
“So?” I’m still smiling
“I’m Blue,” he tells me, “like the color…”
Blue
It’s been three weeks since Endless showed up. Already Blue feels at home in the two small neat rooms above the antique shop. He’s grown accustomed to the food cards, the yoga pass, though he’s still in awe of the wonderful cappuccino he gets to drink every single day here at the café on Montana. He has stopped being friends with Nate, the yoga teacher, because naturally that’s whom Endless wants gone. It makes him almost sick thinking of it. Why the fuck do the good always have to die young?
This woman, Lady, and she is a lady, feels like icing on the cake of his new life. He likes her, she doesn’t push his buttons. He knows right away when his buttons are pushed. She’s smart; she has a sense of humor. He supposes they are around the same age, with maybe a couple of years more for her.
Blue has sought her out, even though he’s supposed to be figuring out how to off Nate, or as he told himself last night, help him leave the planet for a better place. He thought of that phrase last night as he lay in bed, waiting for sleep inside his nice clean bed, near the window with the moon and street lights outside, even the telephone wires that kind of hiss are sweet sounds to him. The sounds of being out of prison: bits of polite conversation, a laugh, one made without someone getting kicked or punched or reamed or slammed into solitary. Prison makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end at the sound of laughter, and even the sound of tears. For a man, anger and
tears are a dangerous combination.
Still, Blue is getting used to the idea. Endless has told him he can stay here for a while in the new life. They want him to stay in place. That’s fine with him. A life like this, with his needs met, suits him just fine. On one of his earliest runs, he’d had a house, a car, and then of course he lost it all at the tables. Or maybe they’re just shitting him. The hit man is often the next to go.
“I’d like to see the ocean, would you?”
“Yes,” Lady replies, and takes a last sip and wipes her mouth not so daintily then blows her nose. He likes her forthrightness. Nothing phony about Lady. My Lady he feels like saying.
They take the ten blocks west at a fair clip, not talking much, past stores that sell nothing and fancy salons that promise straight hair or no hair. Does Lady wax it all off? He hopes not.
Halfway there he takes her firm warm hand and she squeezes it back, with just the right kind of squeeze. How does she know how to do everything right? Probably she leaves just a little.
The weather has been cool lately, cool and often there is rain, unusual for southern California. They get to the ocean at five forty-five, just as the beautiful sky is lit with the sunset. It really does look like a ball of fire about to drop in the water. Colors he’s never registered before are registering now: the grays near the blues, the light purples and the bits of orange. Best of all are the rosy clouds that are starting to lose the light.
Blue leans toward her, their heads touch for a moment, he closes his eyes.
He opens them to a now familiar voice. Endless, who is standing in front of them is asking for the time. Endless, holding his watch up, smiling sweetly to Lady, “I think my watch has stopped.”
Fucking Endless.
Blue stares back mildly, but inside he’s roiling. Endless – maybe Endless is the one who has to go – not Nate. He wonders if he could pull it off – killing a Federal agent…
Blue smiles sweetly at Lady and then at Endless, “No problem.”
The characters in this story also appear in Hot Water, Safe Zone, Christmas Eve, New Year, Blinded by the Light, A New Man, The First and Aftermath.
by 
Feb 14, 2019 | Blog - Mary Marcus
“What are you calling yourself now?”
He takes in the blond guy, who looks like a lot of forty-something year old men who make good money, maybe go to Vegas for their kicks, have a wife, kids, an affair or two. His mind races around the fact that the guy knows all about him, has been following him for some time, has mentioned his twin. Has also mentioned the woman who died some months ago, and the one who had not on Christmas Eve. He’s busted. The blond guy’s next few words confirm it:
“We’re guessing you don’t want to go back inside, do you?”
He shakes his head, trying not to appear guilty. “I’ve been calling myself Blue. Like the color.”
The blond guy’s own blue eyes take him in. “Blue, it suits you. I like it.”
Photo: Joel Goodman
His mother had named him Steve. Not Steven just Steve. He never liked that name. His twin had gotten the far better name, Anthony. Anthony and Steve, identical twins, one good as gold, the other, a bad ass from the get go.
“So, what’s your name as long as we’re getting personal?”
“For now it’s Greg Endless. Would you like to see my ID?”
“Not unless you want to show it to me.”
This makes Endless smile.
Endless had been following him for a couple of days. He was there when he came out of the shelter. He was there when he did some panhandling in Beverly Hills in the Neiman Marcus parking lot, one of his favorite spots. He was even there when he walked off the metro, at the last stop in Santa Monica under an umbrella in the pouring rain, wearing one of those old fashioned trench coats, collar turned up, like a man in gangster movie.
About an hour ago, on the first bright day in a week, when the sky is the blue of postcards, and the trees a deep primal green, Endless quietly approaches and asks him to have a cup of coffee.
He and Endless are now sitting in the corner of a stylish café in Santa Monica. The coffee he had just enjoyed, in a small cup, made the shit at Starbucks taste like swill. His time inside, his time on the street hadn’t adulterated his innate good taste. He knows—without having a lot of experience of it—what good food and drink is. He appreciates it and wants more in his life. Could he afford to, he’d have the cappuccino they served here three times a day.
“We’d like you to do a job for us.”
“You don’t look like a cop. FBI?”
“Not exactly,” Endless replies. “It’s complicated—national security.”
“Can I get another one of these? As long as you’re paying?”
“Yeah, but get it to go…”
II
Blue now has a clean furnished room above a shop that sells antiques, on the trendiest street in Santa Monica, a couple of blocks from the café where he enjoys his morning coffee, wearing decent looking sweats, good sneakers. His soft thick hair is clean and cut and tied back in a pony tail with another clean band. He has soap, shampoo, socks, underwear, pots and pans. Right away Endless had handed him store cards for the Whole Food market, for a restaurant a few blocks from here, and a pass for the yoga studio across from the market.
“I get it,” Blue had told Endless. “You want me to off someone.”
Endless merely shrugged his shoulders.
“We know you liked yoga when you were inside. I’d try Nate’s class.” He handed Blue a sheet with a schedule on it and certain classes highlighted.
Probably they wanted Blue super cool before he did their dirty work for them.
“Piece of cake, Mr. Endless.”
III
“Welcome to class Blue!” This from the pretty girl behind the desk when ever she sees him.
The teacher Endless suggested is great. Who would have thought? Nate is around his own age, and is funny. His clothes no better than Blue’s maybe a little worse. He has an innocence Blue admires, something like his own twin brother. This teacher seems to like him, his twin never did—always looked at him a little scared. Was Blue learning to act like a rich shit head, or was the teacher just naturally hip? What did it matter? Outside had always been sweet, but never this sweet. Whatever he had to do for Endless would be worth it.
Within a couple of weeks or so, Blue could feel himself calmer, his anger not boiling up inside, even slipping away, like a heavy coat that has fallen off his shoulders on the first warm day. With a place to live, a place to have coffee, clean food to eat, and now this yoga practice that suits him in every way.
Updog, Downdog, Triangle, Half Moon; he’s getting better at the transitions. He can go from Tree pose, to holding his leg out almost straight. He vows he’ll learn how to stand on his head.
His teacher Nate gives him the thumbs up.
His second week, after class, the two of them end up walking on Montana Avenue.
“How long have you been practicing?”
Without thinking Blue replies, “I practiced for a couple of years in prison. A while ago.”
The teacher nods. “Good place to learn yoga.” No sarcasm in his voice, just acceptance. Blue has a warm rush of unaccustomed pleasure in his chest, like someone is patting his heart then rubbing his chest.
Nate says, “Looks like things are going ok now?”
“So far, so good,” Blue replies. And seeing where they are, at the café where he comes every morning, Blue asks, “Hey, Nate, let me buy you a cappuccino?”
Inside, the place is almost empty, not like the rush and the line he’s gotten used to in the morning.
“Sit,” Blue says, “Cappuccino, macchiato?” Blue’s always been an excellent mimic, and he’s enjoying the foreign names, knowing he’s saying them as exactly as the guy who makes them does.
Nate smiles. “I’ll have a chai, they make great chai here!”
Blue is enjoying himself, being host. Glad to be in the company of the yoga teacher he likes, feeling almost proud to have a friend, it’s obvious the dude could be his friend. How long has it been since he had a real friend?
Someone once during his first time in juvenile detention… a lifetime ago.
He places his order, watching the barista expertly fill his cup, and then do something different with the chai Nate has ordered.
He puts a dollar in the tip jar. Why not? Cups and saucers in both hands, he turns and heads toward the table.
It is then, he sees Endless standing at the door, sun behind him, partly in shadow. Endless who tilts his head very slightly indicating Nate. Nate, whose back is turned to the door. Endless makes the faintest gesture of his pointer finger across his throat, and then vanishes as swiftly as he appeared.
Fuck, It’s him…. do I hafta? Not him. Anybody but him.
*The characters in this story appear and reappear in Hot Water, Safe Zone, Blinded By The Light, Christmas Eve and New Year.
by
