Over Under Sideways Down

Chapter 1, The Weird Silence 

Sidenote: Gen is of the opinion that I am easily swayed by the ramblings of drunks and bullshitters, anyone with a pissy hair up their ass trotting out a sad tale. She might have a point -- kind of stick in the eye kind of point, bringing a tear to this old hoser’s rosy cheeks. You may not know it from a casual glance, but Gen can be twice as evil as I could ever invent her.

I use to know this old tap dancer, Morey. During the Second World War he became something of a popular attraction in the Northwest, working the USO shows. His popularity with the soldiers may have had something to do with his side business -- pot dealer to some of the hepcat G. I.’s. Yeah, the Army band loved backing up this guy. Made a good living, Morey said. But in the five, six decades since VJ day, and like a few too many other vets, providence never gave him a second glance. When I met him, he was this bitter one-legged slab of a man. Pissed and ancient, mean as hell and still looking for a bar brawl. I’d run into him late at night at my local watering hole, Morey leaning cockeyed on a barstool prattling on philosophical like, jawing on about his take on life to anyone within earshot. “The whole goddamned shebang is about rhythm,” he’d spit, beating out a cadence with his gnarled, but impeccably manicured fingers. And if you replied, “you got something there, Morey,” he’d perk up, scratch that empty pant leg and point to the bartender, “put this fella’s beer on my tab.” 

Well Morey, here’s to your long gone left leg, and piss on that evil bitch we call bad luck who snatched it away. “Rhythm is everything, the essence of everything everywhere,” he’d decree, “the nth of all things buzzing on this sweet green sphere.” 

You Morey, my friend, you were dead on friggin’ right. We need that pulse -- tapping, spinning, ticking, breathing. Kvetching. 

But Morey, here’s the catch. Corralling a rhythm that works -- the right rhythm, the one that moves you? It’s as illusive and fickle as a great Saturday night when you’re stuck tits deep in the pity pot. Morey, I’m right. Right?

“Goddamn right! Sonovabitch. This man needs a refill!”

Needless to say, I don’t dance. Can’t dance. I am graceless. Even walking or talking a straight line, even sober, is a difficult enough venture. I’m a bit scattered, like buckshot, shot into the wind or splattered across some dead critter’s carcass. That’s where I am these days -- splat and flat and plummy fat. Tappity tap-tap. Over under sideways, up and down the entire west coast. I’m not here, nor there, just everywhere and yet nowhere at all. This is my insanity. And this is the routine. Plugged in like koo-koo ticking clockwork, preordained by some celestially juggernaut for the sole purpose of kicking around my sorry mick ass. 

All I wanted tonight -- all I wanted -- was the warm, sudsy comfort of washing-up some dirty dishes after a tasty pre-packaged saltlick kind of meal. The gods, no doubt find buggery among cutlery very entertaining. They’ve orchestrated this mess. I know. I recognize it. I can taste it. Smell it. And its gonna be a pain in my ass. 

When Gen circled the kitchen once and then twice, I studied the spiral, the rotation of her hands in hands. She looked nervous. Tense. Pissyness sat thick on her shoulders. I loathe Pissyness. Of course at the first opportunity Pissyness, that smirking sonuvabitch, flipped me off behind her back. Gen had no idea how it tugged at her neck -- nor the agenda it hid. As for Gen’s intentions, there were no secrets. 

Still I couldn’t help notice the sway of her hips. Model tall. Curvaceous, like women of our grandmother’s era matched with full hypnotizing lips that always found clever things to voice -- brutally clever things. I’m just a parrot here. Squawking since day one. But Gen. All bright hazel eyes, smarts to no end … holy shit, pure bravura. 

Look at her. Without a doubt she is the most desirable brunette I’ve ever met, ever wanted to slip it to. But at this moment, right now … she stands there on edge. Over the edge, more like it. And I’m not thrilled. 

The sure, indubitable sign of trouble ahead -- her fingers twitched when she touched my shoulder and once again as she sat down at our kitchen table pushing aside newspapers and her stack of notebooks. Shit, here it comes. There she is. And here it comes. Destiny has a knack for ignoring allure. Parrots have a knack for empty mimicry.

Anyone who knows Gen would recognize her ‘got-something-to-say-and-pay-attention-now’ gestures. When she wrings her fists in tight circles in each opposing palm and pinches her fifty-nine dollar wedding ring, the one that matches mine … something said is due. And there’s a good chance that for me, no good will come out the other end. She has something to say, but slow in coming as she stares out the window. Shit Gen, there’s nothing new out there. The same exact conifers. The same incessant layer of clouds and fog -- spring in the Northwest dawdles a lot like Gen. Both have the same penchant for taking its goddamned sweet-ass time. 

And there it is … from up high -- oh yeah -- enthusiastic gods sniggering so tickled sweet. 

Gen get on with it for chissakes. I hate this shit. Yeah, but don’t be coy Whitmore. You know what’s coming.