Our next appointment was with Bull, Tulip’s business partner and possible lover, at his office by the Port. Before meeting with Bull, Mittens insisted we have a drink with a mouse informant at a bar called The Devil’s Liver. I find mice distasteful, and would prefer not to deal with them. They can be just as smart and insightful as any cat or dog, and always more so than the toy breeds of any species. But in the final analysis they are prey. How can you trust prey? Their world is distorted by a lens of constant fear.

The moment we sat down, even before we ordered our drinks, the small rodent spilled out his story: he was anxious both to begin and be gone. “Everyone always asks so I’ll tell you the gossip is true. Tulip did date Bull. I don’t know whether they mated, but judging from those ears of hers I bet they did.”

“What did Bull’s pack think of Tulip?”, Mittens asked. As usual, his voice was insinuating. He couldn’t ask directions to church without sounding like he was implying something dastardly.

The mouse shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Bull is an alpha dog. His pack is loyal.”

The mouse emphasized the word loyal, and well he should have. There was never dissension within a pack unless there was a competing alpha.

“Any pooch challenge Bull’s authority?” I inquired.

“Hah.”

“What about the breakup with Tulip? Was it ugly?”

The mouse shrugged, “They didn’t break up. I mean they did break up, but not the way the Press tells it. They did it for politics. They get – got – along just fine, at least they did until that last time.”

“What do you mean?” Mittens purred.

“Well, I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but the last time I saw Bull and Tulip they were having an argument in Bull’s office. They shouted at each other.”

“About what?”

“Wages? Another molly? I dunno. There was a loud noise; a crash. They both left immediately afterward, in different directions.

“Did they see you?”

“No. But I got a good look at them. I didn’t see what I expected. Not at all.” The mouse was so nervous he was chattering. Mus musculus never like being in the open for long. “Tulip was crying. Not yowling, but real crying, with tears. Can you imagine a cat crying? After they left I sneaked into the office. There was a glass container shattered on the ground in the middle of the floor. That was the odd part.”

“How so?”

“The container held a velvet pillow on which there was an imprint.”

“Paw?”

“Yeah. The left hind paw of a right-leading dog.”

“You’re certain?”

“Whaddaya think they teach us in mouse school?”

“We believe you”, I hastily tried to diffuse the situation.

The mouse continued, “You know what else they teach in mouse school? – that the left hind paw of a right-leading dog is the least likely one to kill you. Its the weakest. Just like the lead paw is the strongest.”

“What’s that have to do with this paw print on velvet?” I asked.

“Nothing. I’m just saying”, the mouse replied.

“Did you – borrow – the velvet pillow?” Mittens asked.

“No way. You think us mice want trouble with Bull? I left everything exactly the way it was.”

“Do you know what happened to the pillow? Or the left hind paw that lay on it?” I asked.

“That’s the funny thing. Tulip came back. I hid in a mug. I didn’t see nothing. When she left, the whole mess was gone. She must have taken it with her. Even the hind leg she pretended to hate.”

“When exactly did this happen?”

“Tuesday afternoon. Just before she was murdered.”

How did this mouse know Tulip had been murdered? It was a stupid question. Mice always knew everything, because they were ubiquitous, and they talked. What one mouse knew, every mouse knew.

The timorous rodent continued, “You know what else is weird. After Tulip left, Bull came back. I saw his face. He was afraid. Can you imagine that. The most alpha dog in Montréal was afraid.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Naw, I didn’t stick around.”

I thought of the murids1 we’d smelt on the velvet pillow in Tulip’s apartment. I asked, “Did Tulip or Bull have any rat trouble?”

The mouse never answered my question. Someone knocked a glass over and he disappeared.

The sudden disappearance of the nervous mouse annoyed me to the point of anger. When I had composed myself, I wondered why. Upon reflection I realized that it was because the mouse had acted like a mouse. I had an insight into my bias against small rodents at that moment: I hate the way the way they quiver; I hate the way they scatter in the face of danger.

Why are my feelings about them so strong?

Because in my heart I know that I too am prey.

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Mittens and I talked as we strolled toward our next destination, Trouble’s lair, a halfway home for ferals in V’Chat, the feline district of old Montréal.¹

“Qu’est-ce-que vous pensez?”² Mittens asked, referring to our recent meeting with Euphemia.

I replied, “I was struck by Euphemia’s lack of emotion. Her sister, her litter-mate, her twin has just died. I expected more grief”.

“Do not make the mistake my friend of thinking she was not sad enough”, the feline replied. “Certainly there are cats who suffer from remorse, but no one would call remorse ‘cat-like’ behaviour.”

“She had lots of remorse for Trouble”, I noted.

“Bien sûr. A crying cat.” Mittens replied, meditatively. This uncommon image caused both of us to lapse into thought.

The halfway home where Trouble lived had no rooms. Instead, its feline tenants occupied portions of a large open space. Trouble’s territory was on the south-west corner of the building, which meant that when we arrived it was flooded with afternoon light. His core turf was perhaps 100 square metres.

A pile of middens was strewn across a welcome mat at the point where his personal territory met that of the colony.³ Underneath the middens, I could see a cartoonish painting of a primate nest made of bricks, which was emitting a cheerful cloud of white smoke from a slanted chimney.

Mittens made a point of sniffing each fecal lump in the midden pile. He did this with an aloofness only cats can muster in such a situation. Any/every dog would have taken at least one nip of the dung-pile to get a sense of context and history. When done, he hopped to the centre of the entrance and meowed once. My knowledge of the cat language is not nuanced, but I believe he was announcing his presence. After-all, we had entered Trouble’s territory uninvited. I held back, just beyond the middens. I kept my nose close to the ground.

The space before us was large and empty, except for a dark shadow with slits for eyes sitting in a box-like depression in the floor. Although you will periodically read about a mass murderer named Buttercup or a ballerina named Butch, I have always been struck by how most animals become their names. I assume that expectations others attach to a name, mold the animal bearing it. One glance at the black cat in front of me left no doubt in my mind that he was trouble, the only question was what kind.

While I took a seat in the corner, Trouble raised himself, arched his back, and then sat upright. Mittens, who was seated in the middle of the room, blinked slowly and methodically. He approached Trouble at an angle, being careful to remain perpendicular to the feral’s line of site. At intervals Mittens repeated an odd sound, like a meow without the m. Sometimes he appended a rraarw, which I assume was because of Trouble’s Latin roots.

Trouble watched these antics with unblinking eyes. He entire body remained still, except for his ears, which tracked Mittens’ movements. This continued for perhaps thirty seconds, and then Trouble began to groom himself as if we did not exist, indeed as if nothing existed but the fur that covered his testicles and his tongue.

There wasn’t much for me to do while the cat introductions lingered on, so my eyes wandered. I noticed a public service announcement poster on the wall behind Trouble. It had a picture of a kitten poking its nose into a blender, the baby cat’s right foot one milimetre from the blender’s purée button, its left paw reaching toward a cluster of razor sharp blades. The tag-line, Curiosity: its a killer/Curiosité, la tueur des innocents framed Trouble’s head. I know that it is politically incorrect to laugh at the ridiculous ways kittens kill themselves, but that is not what I’m doing when I say the poster made me smile. It was the word innocent that got to me. I had just met Trouble for the first time, and my mind was made up that he was not only trouble but guilty of murder. The poster reminded me to think twice. Cats are different from dogs.

Trouble jumped from the cement box he had been crouching in, up into the nook of one of the low lying metal branches that adorned the ceiling. His new perch had good feline feng shui: he was equidistant from the most important points in the room, Mittens, myself, the fire escape, and the main entrance.

With our introductions now finally complete, Mittens spoke, “Bonjour, Monsieur Trouble. My name is Detective Mittens. This is Inspector Barks. We would like to ask you some questions.”

Trouble looked at us with the alien manner that feral – and wild – cats have. All of his superb senses, ears, nose, whiskers, were slyly focused, and yet he acted like we were nothing more than cardboard cut-outs, not something to interact with at all.

Pause.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you that Tulip is dead”, Mittens continued. I was surprised to detect genuine grief in the Cat Detective’s voice.

Trouble became tense. He exclaimed, “What?! Tulip is dead?”

I remember as a Cadet being quizzed on the cat language’s fifteen core words. The tortured diphthong that Trouble uttered next was certainly an instance of the word yowl, although he uttered it with an intensity I had not encountered in school.

While Trouble mourned, I examined our context. I noticed a piece of paper beside the box where Trouble had been sitting, before leaping to his perch. I moseyed distractedly toward it and settled down as if bored. It was a letter. On one side was an artistic rendition of Tulip’s name, on the other side was written these words,

“What can ail thee cat-with-claws, alone and darkly stalking? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.”

It was the first stanza from the Keat’s poem we had found in Tulip’s apartment. On the facing page was a paw imprint – Trouble’s signature. I was leaning over to investigate it more closely, when Trouble suddenly stopped his histrionics. All cats are like that – they have switches. One moment they’ll be calm, the next moment they’ll be crazy. Two breaths later they’re back to calm. Switch off, switch on, switch off.

Mittens resumed the interrogation. He said, “Monsieur Trouble, when did you last see Tulip?”

“Tuesday afternoon.”

“Did anything remarkable happen at this meeting?”

“I called her names.”

“What kind of names?”

“Button kins, dipsy doodle, perky-snips, flouncy-wouncy …”

“I see. What did you do next?”

“I sat in a tree and watched bugs.”

“For how long?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did anyone else see you?”

“No. Not that I know of. Actually, there was a mouse who saw me, but I eviscerated him.”

“Where was Tulip?”

“Around.”

“When you say you called her names, were these friendly names?”

“When I called her names I was in heat. Are Tom’s friendly when aroused?”

“Touché. We found fang marks on Tulip’s neck. Were they yours?”

“Maybe. She liked it rough. And I am a feral.” He shrugged.

“Let me rephrase that” Mittens said politely, “We found your teeth marks near Tulip’s carotid artery and she was dead.”

“I’m rough, not murderous” the feral cat replied, with a distant voice.

“Even when aroused?”

Trouble arched his back. I prepared for the worst.

“There were also dog claw marks.” Mittens spoke an instant before Trouble launched. “From a big dog, like a Rottweiler or German Shepherd.”

“Tulip didn’t have any dog enemies”, Trouble hissed as he partially settled down.

“The claw that killed her was not necessarily attached to a dog.”

“You mean the murderer used a weapon? Other than claws and fangs …?” There was disdain in his voice.

Mitten didn’t respond.

“Was someone trying to make it look like a dog killed her?” Trouble asked.

“Peut-être⁴.” Mittens replied. “All of the wounds were caused by a left hind leg of a right facing dog. But who knows? There were traces of rat and mouse at the crime scene. Perhaps Tulip’s was killed by mice?”, Mittens mused.

The thought of a handful of mice fumbling with a half-metre long dog’s claw club while Tulip – the cat with lioness ears – waited to be murdered, was too much for me.

“Tulip was not killed by mice!”, I barked.

“Then by whom was she killed… ?” Mittens asked with a soft purr.

It was a good question.

A dog barked loudly. Trouble leaped to the darkest, most remote part of the room, a mesh of rebar branches just above the fire escape. Watching Trouble’s instantaneous reaction, I reflected on how domestication had attenuated my senses.

And how sharp are the senses of the wild.

The dog barked again.

Trouble was gone.

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Our next stop was the classics department at McGill University, where Tulip’s litter-mate and twin Euphemia was an associate professor. Her office was in a quiet corner of an ivy-covered stone building that was as old as Canada.

We interpreted the indistinct grunt that greeted our knock on Euphemia’s office door as an invitation to enter. The office was long and narrow. Every surface was covered in books and manuscripts. Even the telephone tucked away in the corner behind the door was covered in papers. Illumination was provided by a low wattage fluorescent bulb, which gave the scene a damp, cold aspect.

I was surprised when a tabby – who I hadn’t noticed because he was as greasy and drab as the books that lined the walls – addressed us. “You must be looking for Euphemia.” The academic spoke with a croaking, tired voice, “She’s expecting you.” I noted disapprovingly that the academic’s collar was dusted with catnip.

We were spared having to socialize further by the appearance of Euphemia, who poked first her ears and then her head, body and tail through the doorway. Once through, she said, “Inspector Barks and Detective Mittens. I trust you have not been waiting long?” She slunk into the office, and sat in a corner, equi-distant from us both. Euphemia was not one of those fashionable cats who has adopted a primate style of dress, so it is more accurate to say that she was adorned, not clothed. She wore a modest kerchief around her head, she had three metal studs in her right ear, and her whiskers were dyed. Her most prominent adornment was her ankle bracelets, to which were attached tiny ceramic bells. These bells rang as she moved – useless if hunting birds, but no doubt quite effective at alluring toms.

Because my readers will range from mice to snow leopards, I hesitate to describe her eyes. If a small rodent encountered the glow of those eyes in a field at night, it might think “here is the Death Goddess”. Through those same eyes a dog might peer into the soul of a worthy adversary. But for a feline those eyes must have been special indeed, for they captured all of the ambiguities of cats: presence and distance, engagement and disengagement, the sense of being outside of time and in the moment, and most vexing of all, the equanimity of the carnivore.

I have never inquired about Mittens’ sexual habits, but because of his soft, petulant manner I assumed without reflection that he was attracted to hard, young toms, and was a bottom. I was therefore surprised to see his eyes light up like supernovas as he greeted Euphemia with a little bow.

Following Mittens’ suggestion, we decided to relocate to a café in Outrement. We scampered instead of taking a cab. Mittens went ahead with Euphemia. I dawdled behind reading copies of La Derrière and The Gazebo, Montreal’s largest circulation dailies. The Gazebo ran an old story about the Nicaraguan kitten with a hare-lip Tulip had just sponsored. La Derrière appeared to be on our trail: according to a story on the back page of the front section, Tulip had missed a performance last night. The writer speculated as to whether she was the victim in yesterday’s murder. The story cited a source within the Police department who would “reveal all” today.

I put away the papers. When I looked up I saw that Euphemia was now beside me. She leaned so close to me that I could smell every molecule on her pearl white mane.

“You’re wearing jaguar musk?”, I commented.

She paused for just a moment before replying, “Leopard. But all pantherines smell the same.”

I prodded, “Did Tulip use that perfume?” .

Euphemia hesitated before she replied, “Yes. The scent is called Serengeti.”

Mittens had slowed his pace so that he could join us. He asked, “Who wore this perfume first, you or your sister?”

The question flustered Euphemia, as if she sensed that her answer could incriminate her, but was uncertain how. She replied, “Tulip discovered it. But we’ve both been wearing it for years.” With these words she raced ahead, her head low to the ground.

Moments later we arrived at our destination, the Café Gauche. The joint had retro-primate stylings: posters of human females with veils, gloves, a Jackie-O triptych, and that sort of thing. Euphemia fit right in with the hip, bohemian crowd. Mittens and I certainly did not, but no one was fussed. This was a crowd wide-open to diversity.

We settled onto a divan near a window. I let Mittens take the conversational lead: after all, both he and Euphemia were felines. I expected the Cat Detective to begin with questions relating to Tulip. Instead he said, in a gracious but insinuating way, “Tell us about Tulip’s tom-friend, Trouble.”

Euphemia groomed her paws before replying. The less cats hurry, the more they care, I thought. Tulip’s sister finally spoke, “Trouble was feral from birth. I don’t say that he was born wild because he wasn’t – he was born indoors, at dawn, to a domesticated mother. However, his mother died two weeks later, and he became feral, along with his five litter-mates. He did not sleep indoors again until he was an adult.

“Which was?”

“December, last.”

“I see.” Mittens groomed his whiskers. Euphemia’s tailed flopped erratically. Despite myself, I let out a low growl, which was noticed but not commented on.

I jumped into the conversation with a question for Euphemia, “Your family is pure-bred. Did anyone object to your sister dating a mutt like Trouble?”

Euphemia replied, “If they did, they didn’t say anything about it. My family is very liberal: we shun breedism. At least we make a point of pretending to.” She shrugged and purred softly.

“What about your Sire and Dam?”, I pressed.

“My Dam hates everyone Tulip dates … dated. But she likes Trouble more than Bull.”

“… and your Sire?”, I prodded.

“Dad abandoned us before we were born.”

“I’m sorry to hear that”, I said. Her words made me think of the last time I’d seen my own father. He was eating a used tissue on the train tracks near the Junction, in Toronto.¹

Euphemia shrugged again.

Mittens jumped into the conversation, “What about Bull?”

“Tulip and Bull were only ever about their nightclub. The dog-cat mating stuff, that was just hype.”

“Perhaps Bull and Tulip were fighting over the nightclub?” Mittens asked.

“Maybe. But Bull is an alpha. Alpha dogs don’t kill over night clubs. With them its always about bitches and hierarchy.”

Although I found Euphemia’s ennui affected, I found it difficult to to dispute her words.

“What did Tulip think about Trouble?” Mittens asked.

“She loved him. Even …” Euphemia was so choked up she had to stop speaking.

“Tulip loved Trouble even though he was feral?” Mittens prompted, gently.

Euphemia burst out. “Tulip thought she could domesticate him!” Before my amazed eyes, Euphemia began to weep because of her sister’s feral boy-friend. It made no sense. Cats don’t weep. Certainly not about the problems of others.

We waited for Euphemia to calm down, which she did in a feline way: her tears quickly gave way to languorous fidgeting. First she circled her cushion. She sat down and groomed her right paw, and then shifted her hips in order to better groom her left paw. One dozen preens later, she dissociation ended.
Mittens immediately resumed his questioning, “Euphemia, what do you think of Trouble? Do you want to domesticate him?”

I – and most of my canine colleagues – find Mittens intolerably rude, but it is a fact that time and again his manners will be sincerely praised by felines. However, this time cat and dog opinion were in accord: Euphemia plowed through the pillows that decorated the space between them and landed on Mittens. Fur flew as they did a half roll, which ended with Mittens on his back with Euphemia on top of him; her claws were sunk deep into his fur, and her fangs were at his throat. Euphemia held this pose for one breath, and then compulsively licked Mittens’ head a half dozen times before retreating. I had not yet processed what I had just seen before they were both seated again, grooming themselves as if nothing had happened.

It was clear that our meeting was over. After a few minutes of casual grooming Mittens rose and slunk over to Euphemia. They rubbed muzzles in farewell – a long, languorous rub, even by cat standards. The air was charged with the smells of attraction and anger. As we paid and left, no more words were spoken. Not even a purr.

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Although Tulip’s career as an entertainer may have fallen on tough times her bank account – judging from the opulence of her Mont-Royal nest – had not. She lived in a three-story brick scamper-up that had it all, including stalking grounds, an aviary, and rat warren.

Tulip’s nest did not look like a crime scene at all. There was no bright yellow tape, no crowds of reporters. Since the forensics team left, there was barely a police presence at all – just one fierce looking Rottweiler, whose primary job was to keep news hounds and curious cats away.

The murder had occurred in the indoor stalking grounds, where Tulip – and her many guests – would hunt small mammals and birds for snacks and sport. A chalk mark outlined the position of Tulip’s body. She had died in a fetal position. In the midst of her oversize furniture the chalk outline looked small, like that of a kitten. This made me think of my own litter of pups back home in Willowdale.¹

Without a word, Mittens and I both began to sniff.

I was investigating an area of floor unexpectedly rich in smells when I had the good fortune to discover a cleverly disguised trapdoor, which opened to reveal a sunken nest – the kind you found in every fashionable cat’s house during the 1970s. The floor of the nest was covered by a velvet pillow, on which there was an imprint of the ear of a dog.

In the middle of the pillow was a card with an inscription written in gold. It read, “Tulip, here is a symbol of how my entire pack will protect you.”

I sniffed. “Look here” I said, pointing my muzzle toward a tiny hair on the card. “A hair from a mouse’s tail.”

Mittens was beside me in an instant. He ignored the hair, but sniffed the card thoroughly, and then said, “Barks, I smell a rat.”

Which was a point for Mittens. A bit of mouse at a crime scene was the antithesis of evidence. Mice always get to a crime scene first, and are almost never perps. Ratus ratus was another matter, entirely.

“Do you recognize this rat?” I asked.

Mittens never answered my question. At that moment a gust of wind triggered our next discovery – a card floated out of an open book onto the floor. Mittens carefully picked up the card by the edges. On it several sentences had been written by a bold cat’s paw. It was a copy of a letter Tulip had sent to her litter-mate and twin, Euphemia.

Mittens’ read in a slightly high-pitched, theatrical voice,

Dearest sister Euphemia,

Today I lost my patience for Trouble’s damned feral inscrutability. I asked him what he was really thinking. He told me, in a flat voice – no affect at all, not even a purr – that he hates La Belle Dam but he can’t help himself. “Do you mean me?”, I implored him. Am I the Belle Dam?“You know what I mean” he said as he leaped out of the fire escape. I haven’t seen him since. I don’t know what I’d do without him. But I am loosing him. I can tell from his scent and unfocused ears. I am loosing him.

What can I do?

xx oo Tulip

Mittens’ concluded his oratory with a little bow.

“Are there other notes?” I asked.

“There are lots of notes down at the station. Tulip was quite a writer. But do you mean, was there anything incriminating? Non. Only this. Mais cela, c’est très intéressante, n’est-ce pas?”²

“It is interesting indeed”, I replied. “Let us inspect the book the note fell out of.” I bounded over to the small leather bound volume. It opened to a poem called La Belle Chat Sans Merci.³

I scanned the first few stanzas, and stopped at the fourth. In the left margin the words “Tulip” and “La Belle Chat” were written using/by a kittenish paw.

I flipped to the first page of the book where I found the following dedication, “To my cat-bitch twin sister on my birthday.”

We have stereotypes about the love litter-mates and twins have for each other. Like many stereotype, it is both true and false simultaneously. I knew that Tulip had a deep, abiding bond with her twin. They had shared most of their experiences with each other, since child-birth. But it took scant effort to imagine that love erupting into a most vicious cat-fight whenever one or the other felt slighted.

I showed Mittens the book. He read the dedication and said, “We have another suspect.”

“Indeed”, I replied.

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Our investigation began at the morgue, which was a nondescript block of glass and steel on rue Parthenais, four blocks west of the St. Lawrence River. We entered via a trap door on the east side of the building.

Mittens refused to inspect Tulip’s body in the presence of the coroner – who was a fastidious, copper-haired Spaniel named Sniffy – so we entered the small, grey operating theatre unescorted. We found the infamous feline beauty’s body laid out on a gurney. Although Tulip rested on metal, not marble, if you let imagination rule you, you could see her as a statue of Juliet in a final, tragic repose.

The first thing I noticed was her ears: they had been clipped to look like those of a lioness. Although I am a dog, or perhaps because I am one, my unthinking response to this was, “here lies a predator.” The effect created by Tulip’s wild ears was enhanced by the leopard spots tattooed onto her pearl white fu

Mittens spoke to me with a plaintive voice, “Elle est très belle. Non, elle est trop belle”¹ He groomed his whiskers with his bright, white polydactyl paws, and then continued. “If she were not so beautiful none of this would happened hien? There would be no story for the press, you wouldn’t be here, she would still be alive. We are driven to crazy, violent acts because of beauty. We are driven …”

I agreed with one aspect of what Mittens had just said. Although the case appeared complicated, it was likely that the murderer had a prosaic motive, like jealous rage. Nevertheless, I took issue with Mittens’ implication that motives only came from the instinctual side of the psyche. For me, Domestication is more than just a lid on the id. It has its own set of motivations, some of which can overpower our elemental drives. Perhaps Tulip’s murderer was compelled by lust or rage. Perhaps the murderer had a more subtle motive.

We began our investigation by sniffing the corpse. The dominant smell was a mixture of formaldehyde and disinfectant, but beneath that I found a more diverse layer of odours: feline, canine, and much to my surprise, pantherine. This latter mystery was solved by Mittens, who said, “She was wearing leopard-musk perfume when she died.” The Cat Detective shrugged, “It is all too much. C’est trop. Trop.”2

“Let us examine her wounds” I said, wanting to move our analysis along. Although I am not squeamish I don’t like autopsies because they are so raw: everything is stripped away by death – our hopes, our pretensions, our very spirit.

Tulip lay on her right side in a fetal position. Mittens lightly hopped onto the gurney and rolled her onto her back so that we could inspect the wounds on her stomach and neck. “Tabernacle” the cat said sub voce. Tulip’s fur was tufted by clotted blood; her stomach was lacerated in two places, and the interior of her throat had been exposed by one savage bite.

“Do you see these paw marks?” Mittens said, pointing first at the large cuts on her belly, and then at the mess around her throat.

“Dog” I replied without hesitation.

“Indeed. Can you recognize the breed?”

“Judging from the size, depth and angle I’d guess a large, muscular breed, perhaps a Shepherd or Rottweiler. I cannot tell from the scent, which is odd. You’d think there would be a molecule of smell in such a wound. There isn’t. All I smell is formaldehyde.”

“Do you notice anything odd about these paw marks, I mean aside from the fact they have no scent?”

I looked at the marks again. “Yes, I do notice something very odd. The wounds on the belly are from a left rear paw. I can’t tell about the throat.”

“A rear paw. Indeed! How do you know that?”

“From the shape of the wound. Dogs never move exactly forward, they always lead slightly from one side, which results in characteristic differences between paws. This mark is one that would be made by the back left paw of a right leading dog. I am one such dog myself.”

[I sat down and raised my paw for him to inspect; he saw how the my paws and claws had been slightly deformed by my orientation.]

“Could the paw that created these cuts have been not attached to an actual dog’s leg?” Mittens wondered.

I looked at Tulip’s wounds one more time. “Mittens, I think you’re right. These gashes move from bottom right to upper left – against the paw’s orientation. It would be impossibly awkward for a righting-leading dog to do this.”

“What can we learn from the wound on her neck?” Mittens hopped onto a small space beside Tulip’s right ear. From there he inspected her severed carotid artery. He sniffed then said, “This was an indelicate death.” His voice was more fastidious than sympathetic.

“Regardez!” Mittens lowered himself so that his nose almost touched the corpse. “There are fang marks on her neck. Tulip was bitten before her throat was slashed.” After a moment, he pulled his whiskers back, raised his head and said, “Cat”.
I took a corroborating sniff. “Mittens, can you identify the animal who did this?”, I asked.

He replied, “I will be able to, when I meet him. But that is of little account. I am certain these fang marks were made by Trouble, Tulip’s tom-friend. It looks like a love bite but …”, Mittens shrugged.

Our examination left us where we were when we started, in the sense that the prime suspects were unchanged: Tulip was probably killed by either Bull, her ex-mate or Trouble, her current mate. Bull had the miscegenation and criminal history angles; Trouble was feral.

The evidence suggested that Tulip was murdered by clawed blunt instrument which made me suspect Bull more than Trouble. That’s because of the way cats approach violence. An old folk tale, which dams tell to their kittens illustrates my point. The tale is about a mythical kingdom called The Land of Cats, which tradition locates in western China, just north of Shangra-la. The ancient Chinese kingdom of Dian was the The Land of Cats’s neighbour to the west. At the time of the story Dian was ruled by a particularly ambitious monkey king. The tale begins with the monkey king asking his Chief Minister, “Why is The Land of Cats not part of my kingdom? Tell me about this country’s army. Do they have archers? Do they have trebuchets? Do they have cavalry? When he was told that The Land of Cats had none of these things, the foolish primate king ordered an army to be dispatched at once to conquer it. When this great, well-equipped army arrived at a narrow pass on the road outside the cats’ capital city, the entire adult population of The Land of Cats attacked with claws unsheathed and teeth bared. The Dian army was destroyed in one morning. The moral cats draw from this tale is that they do not need weapons because they are borne armed.

It was highly unlikely that a feral feline like Trouble would use a weapon other than his own claws or teeth.

As we exited, I glanced one last time at the corpse of Tulip, the erstwhile lioness. I was reminded of a game I used to play as a pup. It was based on a rhyme:

Who does the mouse fear?
The mouse fears the cat!
Who does the cat fear?
The cat fears the dog!
Who does the dog fear?
The dog fears the lion!
Who does the lion fear?

This last phrase was a cue for whoever was it to leap out of hiding and try to tag another pup while shouting, “The lion fears me!”.

Mittens must have heard me muttering the rhyme under my breath, for his next words were, “Indeed Barks, who does the lioness fear? Her lover? Her ex-lover? Another lioness? Herself?”

We were met at the exit to the morgue by an administrative assistant, who presented Mittens with the coroner’s report. Mittens accepted it with a merci and a little bow. He tucked the report into the satchel he wore slung across his chest. Before I could pose even one question, I found myself nudged towards the exit by the Cat Detective’s muzzle.

Mittens said, “Barks, now we must go to Tulip’s apartment. Let us make haste my friend.”

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“Eleanor, I’m sad that we have to meet again on such a sad occasion.” Marta looked briefly upward – towards heaven, no doubt – and then gestured languidly. “How are you?”

“Fine. Fine.”

“And your husband? Oh, what is his name…”

“Brent”

“How is…?”

“He’s fine as well. He sends his regrets. He still can’t move very well after the skiing accident.”

Marta moved closer, too close. Somehow she managed to completely envelop the space around her even though she was small and slight. “You look a little rounder than the last time I saw you. Are you…?”

“Marta!” Despite herself, she blushed.

“You’re getting old, you know. To think that your father passed away without seeing a child from his youngest daughter.”

“I – I really must go.” She abruptly pulled her simple black skirt towards her and then joined the crowd of people moving towards the church. For the past two days she had managed to contain much of her emotion. Papa’s death had come as no surprise to anyone and thankfully had been quick and dignified. Despite this, she felt considerable grief and beneath that an amorphous feeling, perhaps fear, that took little provocation to bring to the surface. Marta, of course, provoked her with dispatch.

With a brief glance over the crowd she spotted her brothers and began to move towards them. They huddled together smoking at the base of the stone stairs that led into the tidy Episcopal Church. Maybe she was wrong to avoid her grief. But she did not deny death’s inevitability: she defined her life with death in mind. Of all the members of the family she was certainly the one most focused on enjoying her life. Peter and Arianna saw no more of life than their offices and the inside of their commuter cars. Cameron, though he indulged his emotions was not at peace with them.

“Eleanor …”

“El…”

Her two brothers separated slightly and drew her into their circle.

“How are you doing Ellie?” Cameron hugged her affectionately and then slide his trademark silver flask into the palm of her right hand. She looked for signs that he had been on a bender and saw none. Though he had probably slept in his clothes and his eyes were slightly red, he was quite composed, his hands were steady and his enunciation was good. She felt relieved. Cameron was such a loose cannon. You never knew what would set him off and how dramatically he would act. Everyone was worried that he would be a spectacle during the eulogy. With a quick, practised gesture she took a large gulp of scotch, put her arm around his waist and returned the flask to his right pocket.

“Come here, hold me.” Peter grasped her unsteadily and then fell towards her in an extremely sloppy hug. Despite herself, she pulled slightly away. The three of them swayed unsteadily for a moment and then Eleanor gently extracted herself from her brothers. So Peter was the one to watch out for. He had always been such a source of stability. In fact his sobriety and pragmatism frequently annoyed her. She put her arm through Peter’s and rather firmly escorted him up the stairs into the church.

The dark wood and stone interior of the church was formal, cold and not very comforting. This did not bother her. Death was not a time for soft comforts. She did not want any form of ministration to distract from her grief. She and her brothers walked towards their seat in the front pew of the church and sat down between their vigorously weeping maiden aunts and their uncharacteristically quiet young niece Leah. The histrionics of the aunts at first annoyed and then unsettled Eleanor. The aunts had the deepest faith of her relatives. They attended mass daily and prayed for their family’s wide array of sins. This faith seemed no support to them now. But then again how could any faith alter the undeniable fact of their loss? As the service began the aunts gradually settled down, comforted by ritual.

After a brief, though tedious, introduction by the minister Cameron rose to deliver his eulogy. He ascended the pulpit with sombre dignity. It was almost surprising to see such a militant atheist as he act so reverentially in a church. He was like some form of anti-priest about to give an atheist’s sermon. Eleanor remembered how he had liked to play priest when he was much younger and much more impressionable. She smiled at the memory. Perhaps it was true that we hold our greatest hatred for what we despise in ourselves. This thought caused her to worry again. She knew that Cameron’s grief was quite great. This eulogy was very important to her and she feared that he would blow it. A flash of anger coursed through her at the thought of her brother engaging in a drunken rave. She fought it down. She knew that Cameron was fine. In fact she suspected, or at least hoped, that he was in good form. He cleared his throat and began.

I read recently in a newspaper about two towns in Nova Scotia which neighbour each other. The first town was, I believe, called Altruism. The good citizens of Altruism were concerned about unfortunate members of their community, the sick and afflicted. So they established a generous social welfare system. The citizens of the neighbouring town, Parsimony I think it was called, also cared about the disadvantaged, but they had other concerns as well. Because they fretted about freeloaders and high taxes, Parsimony’s welfare system was not quite as good as that in Altruism. The result was that all the sick and unemployed people in Parsimony moved to Altruism.

For the first time this week Eleanor felt at peace. Cameron was up to some mischief. She was relieved that his delivery was sly and not sarcastic. Certainly listening to Cameron’s parable thus far was better than listening to some doddering stranger talk platitudes. He continued.

Suddenly, the two towns became polarised. Altruism, which started off being only slightly more generous than Parsimony was forced to become very generous. This annoyed many of the citizens of Altruism, who like their cousins in Parsimony were also concerned about high taxes. They experienced resentment because they were being forced to be good, and they couldn’t do anything about it because no one would step forward and openly advocate being less generous to the poor. In contrast, the citizens of Parsimony ended up being less good than they intended. Rather than helping the poor less, they ended up not helping the poor at all. This disturbed many of the citizens of Parsimony because they didn’t intend to be bad, they merely wanted to economise. But again, no one could do anything about it because no one would step forward to support raising taxes.

Eleanor looked around the church at various generations of friends and relatives. Attention levels seemed to correspond with age. The children were very restless and bored. At the beginning of the service they were certainly on good behaviour because they sensed that their parents were upset. However, the intensity of their parents’ emotions could not muzzle the children’s immediate needs for very long. Beside her nieces and nephews sat her older cousins who were attentive but not much less restless than their children. The most attentive people, she noticed, were those closest to death themselves. She wondered how much of their weeping was for their lost friend and how much was for themselves. Perhaps Papa was one of their dwindling circle of companions and they mourned their increasing loneliness; or perhaps they cried out of fear of their own impending death. These thoughts were not cynical. It struck her as sensible that people should mourn this way. Indeed, she was disturbed by those who did otherwise.

A child started screaming out of boredom and an embarrassed mother hustled her out of the church. “Better get to the point Cameron”, she thought.

Just as the people of Altruism and Parsimony were forced to be better and worse than they intended, so too are most people directed on the paths of good and evil by circumstances which distort and exaggerate their moral inclinations. Sometimes being good is easy, because it corresponds with our self-interest, and sometimes it is difficult, because the entire weight of the world opposes it.

Most of us play the moral odds, dramatising our virtues and disguising our vices. My father was unique among the people that I have met because he didn’t play these odds. He never deliberated and chose to be good. He just was good. For this we were very lucky children. Though as a family we suffered losses and experienced some deprivation, we always had his guidance, support and love. To his memory we can look for an example, and for his life we can give thanks.

Cameron voice’s wavered as he finished the last words of his eulogy. He paused briefly to collect himself and then walked, head bowed, off the altar and sat down. The priest, in a great show of dignity then rose and continued with the service.

As the priest began to talk a quiet voice whispered into her ear. “Aunt Eleanor. Aunt Eleanor.” Her youngest cousin Leah lightly but firmly tugged at the sleeve of her dress, excited, or rather distraught by some thought. “Aunt Eleanor”, she whispered, “they’re going to put grandpa in the ground aren’t they?”

“Yes they are.” Leah moved slightly closer to Eleanor, seeking comfort. Eleanor put her arm around Leah, seeking comfort herself.

“I’m never going to see grandpa again.” she stated simply.

With those words Eleanor’s calm was shattered. A feeling of sadness and rage welled up within her. She wanted her father back now. Her feelings were naive and pointless. Nevertheless they completely possessed her. The feelings resonated within her and then were replaced by one enormous feeling of emptiness. Her grief didn’t matter. Papa was not coming back. Shaken by these intense emotions she sat quietly weeping through the rest of the service until people rose and began to leave.

As they walked out of the church to the car Eleanor watched little Leah’s tentative efforts to understand the actions of the adults around her. For this moment roles were reversed. So often Leah would be the one raging about loss and powerlessness, usually in the context of an early bedtime or restricted access to TV. Now she watched the adults around her adapt to their own feelings of loss, denial and powerlessness. Leah timidly held onto the skirt of Eleanor’s dress and then grabbed her hand. Eleanor looked down at her. What was Leah learning from the actions of her aunts and uncles? Was this just a lesson in social graces? Was she learning to live her life in the shadow of death, or merely to be careful with people who swayed and stank of alcohol?

“Aunt El, I miss Grandpa and want him back”.

“So do I. So do I.” As the car pulled out of the church parking lot Eleanor had the feeling that it was wrong merely to let life go on. Leah’s loss and her loss were both real. A good man who brought joy to the world was gone. Certainly his time had come, yet to deny her feelings of remorse felt wrong, was wrong.

They shortly arrived at the family house for the wake. The house, as always, looked small and drab compared with the vivid memories of childhood. Thankfully the feelings of shame that characterised the visits of early adulthood had long since subsided. Though the house was in ill repair and was definitely in a poorer section of town it represented a life from which Eleanor had successfully escaped. Now she could view it calmly as one of many important influences on her. In fact, as she moved among the hallways and rooms a feeling of reflective nostalgia infused her.

Her own room was nearly untouched from the time she left home for the last time to go to college. The significance of this hit her for the first time. Clearly Papa had missed her more than she had realised. They had always had an awkward relationship. Peter and Arianna had led lives that Papa approved of, and they had remained in constant contact. Cameron he rarely saw or talked to. She was somewhere in between. Papa had never fully understood her, nor she him. For him, life was a series of inevitable sacrifices. She often accused him of sacrificing even when not necessary. Of course, her life had required so few sacrifices. Because of her stable character and her supportive family and friends, she had avoided being seriously hindered by the pratfalls that mar all lives.

She walked absently into her room. Try as she might she could not think of it as anything but a museum. She methodically began examining the artefacts of her life. The room was filled with Austrian symphonies, books on German philosophy, French poetry, the trappings of aristocratic European culture that had fascinated her during her early adolescence. Here and there pieces of African and Asian culture hinted at the direction that her interests would take during her first decade away from home.

From habit she opened the drawer of her dresser and withdrew the little safe that contained her personal tokens, diaries, letters and photographs. “How Papa raged at that little safe”, she thought. It seemed so trivial, but because it defined in material terms a part of her that was no longer dependent upon him it had marked an important passage in her life. She sat down on her trundle bed and idly began to sift through her most treasured effects.

She slipped easily into the past. Death is a time of completion, a time for recollection and summation. Methodically she went through stacks of pictures and notes. At one time many of these things would have embarrassed her. She was prone to fads which she embraced with enthusiasm one day and abandoned with derision the next. Today she felt no shame at all. These artefacts had been, and still were a part of her.

She picked up a folder of photographs and glanced idly through it, beginning with the last page and moving backwards towards the first. One page in particular caught her eye. It contained pictures from a wilderness retreat she had taken with a group of friends from university. They had camped in a meadow on the wide flood plain of a river. She had a vivid memory of hiking after midnight through fields of flowers, giggling, half drunk, half clothed, going to the river to swim. A mist had formed where the warm air of the river valley met pockets of cold air from beyond. The light from the full moon shone strongly but unsteadily through this damp air. The fragrant mist and the slight sting of flowers brushing against her skin had made her feel very primal, like a participant in a rite of spring or a bacchanal.

Eleanor removed the photograph and noted the names and the date written on the back. She turned the picture over and looked at it again. She felt disturbed. Something about it caused dissonance. There were no sad memories attached to the trip. She recalled her friends’ names and smiled at the positive feelings they evoked. “What is wrong with this picture?” she thought again. Then she realised that this was the last time she had ever spent with any of the people in the photograph. During the last year of college she had seen them less and less and then this last time and no more. For the second time that day a feeling of loss surged through her.

Eventually all the threads of life end. We mark many of these endings but miss far more: life is full of little endings that individually or cumulatively can far outstrip the impact of a sudden, though foreseen death. A childhood friend who one day moved away never to be seen again. A phone-call never returned. A letter never opened. An impact never felt. Non-events that mark the stages of life so quietly and so conclusively.

“Auntie El…” Leah’s timid, demanding voice disturbed her reverie. “Ariana says you have to come down now.” Eleanor carefully put the picture back, then put the folder away. She then took Leah’s hand and returned with her to the wake.

 

 

My Last Adventure is the final book in the Shively series. In this story Shively is manipulated by a Russian spy into using COVID money to build a private prison.

The story is set during the the first months of COVID (March – June 2020) but frequently references Daniel Defoe’s account of an 18th Century plague in London.

The Return of History

“What is that?” Elena – a spokes-model for Consolidated Gulags – snatches my phone and starts to read. She is covered in shadows except for her ruby red lips, which reflects the dim bedroom light as she speaks.

We continued in these Hopes for a few Days, but it was but for a few; for the Peoples were no more to be deceived thus; they searcht the Houses, and found that the Plague was really spread every way, and that many died of it every Day: So that now all our Extenuations abated, and it was no more to be concealed, nay it quickly appeared that the Infection had spread it self beyond all Hopes of Abatement.

She sits down on the edge of my bed, leans over me and says, “Washington Post, right?”

“Its about another plague, in London”, I reply hesitantly. Elena plays rough so I’m careful not to make myself a target.

“Yah ,” she replies, “They’ve got COVID bad in England. Maybe I’m thinking of Italy but whatever: its just time if I’m wrong. But why did you grunt like this story means something? This is the same news we’ve been reading since March.”

“That’s my point. There’s nothing new. This article was written by Daniel Defoe 300 years ago about a plague in London. Doesn’t London then sound like New York now?”

“So?”

“America is back in history again. We had forgotten that war, famine, pestilence and plague are real. “

“You say such stupid things, James Shively!” Elena presses her hands onto my shoulders while she straddles me. Her blue eyes are cold and focused. “You’ve read War and Peace?”

“Uh sure”, I reply carefully. My words are a bit thin because the pressure on my shoulders is intense. Though she has a build somewhere between waif and wood nymph, Elena is surprisingly strong. “I’ve read the war bits and the party chapters. I skimmed the rest.”

“Good.” Elena is now so close to me I can smell tobacco on her breath. She continues, “My point is about the Battle of Borodino. Did Russia leave history when that massacre was turned into a book? Of course not.” She shoves hard on my shoulders. I think of resisting her, but I’m pinned. She continues, “So you think America left history when its politics moved to television? Was America out of history when Nixon carpet-bombed Cambodia or George Bush carpet-bombed Iraq?”

“Uh”, I reply tentatively. I can’t say more because I can barely breathe. But I get her point.

She continues, “America was certainly in everyone else’s history when Reagan and Bush and Clinton were presidents.”

She releases my shoulders and takes a drag on her Juul and says as sje exhales, “Can you even talk about when in your weird theory, James Shively?”

She takes another drag, exhales and then presses her face close to mine as she intones with her breathy alto voice, “Borodino, Cambodia, Iraq, Afghanistan, Georgia, Ukraine. Same people. Same violence. Same. Fucking. Thing.”

I recount this experience dispassionately, but dispassion is the furthest thing from my mind as Elena kisses me with aggressive, passionless lips.

To my surprise, her mood suddenly lightens. She releases her pressure on me and whispers, “James, your fingers are so beautiful. I have a special fantasy about them.” Another inhale on her Juul. “Do you want to know my fantasy?” She delicately kisses each digit of my right hand. “My special fantasy is to see your sexy fingers sign a contract for a large, new prison. Isn’t that hot?” She places her right hand on my crotch and begins to rub my manhood slowly, “It will be our prison. Tell me you share my dream, James Schuyler Hamilton Shively the Third.” She retracts her hand.

As someone who has gotten into serious trouble for thinking with my penis, my situation is problematic. You may scoff and say, “I don’t see any problem here. Lie and have sex with her. What’s the big deal? Men do it all the time. The exception would be to do otherwise.” If I had come from a less faux-feudalistic family, I might well have taken this proposed tack and said, “Elena, I’ll build us the biggest prison” and later renege on my promise. Our President does and its worked swell for him. But, alas, I am a Shively and though nothing else binds Shivelys to truth, our word is our bond.

Two very long seconds later I say, “Elena, I’ll get you that prison built”.

“Not you, us“, she replies. The pressure on my wrists relents. She glides over my awaiting, craving body.

And thus I receive my one and only reward for this god-forsaken project.

§

The dawn is more ass-crack than rosy-fingered. Perhaps Elena drugged me, last night. If she did so, it was just a bit. That’s definitely her style. Ruthless, but in a minimalist way. I stumble out of bed. Movement makes my hangover worse.

My phone buzzes. I remember last night’s promise and sigh, “Oh fuck” as I pick up my phone and flip to notifications.

My eyes are dry. It takes a moment to read the text, “Meet me at the K-Lounge for breakfast! I have your security badge and wallet.” Elena punctuates her text with a viking emoticon.

A typical Elena communication. Concise, clear and yet perfectly fucked up. She has stolen my wallet, compromised national security by stealing my id badge, used my money for cab fare and now wants to meet for breakfast in a lounge? This is all wrong. She is the lobbyist and I am the lobbied. This part of the process isn’t supposed to cost me time or money. Or indigestion.

My phone buzzes again. I look at it and grimace. Someone has included me in a Republican intern email group and I keep getting pictures of lobbyists in compromising situations. I mark the email as spam and sit down on my bed to gather my wits. That doesn’t work so I open the Defoe Diary for guidance, like I used to do with the I Ching in college. The first paragraph I read is inauspicious:

The usual Number of Burials in a Week, in the Parishes of St. Giles’s in the Fields, and St. Andrew’s Holborn, were from 12 to 17 or 19 each few more or less; but from the Time that the Plague first began in St. Gile’s Parish, it was observ’d, that the ordinary Burials encreased in Number considerably. … The last Bill was really frightful, being a higher Number than had ever been known to have been buried in one Week.

Thoughts of burial motivate me to shower and leave.

The walk to the K Street Lounge is pleasant. The April air is crisp and the sky is vivid cyan. Georgetown is clean, prosperous and bustling. American politics and culture may be polarized but I think that Republicans, Democrats and independents alike will concede that America makes the most sense if you’re rich. This morning the only off-putting element is the unexpected number of people wearing masks. The masks for the most part are cheery – or sports-themed – but strike me as sinister. Although there are few COVID cases in DC, the news out of New York is alarming.

Like me, everyone is looking at their phones. There are only 2 facial expressions, quizzical and smiling. The whole world is looking for either direction or support.

The entrance to K-Lounge is guarded by a bouncer. He asks for my name. l present him with my driver’s license, which he checks against a list on his clipboard. The list-checking strikes me as not so much out of context as out of time. It is 8:15 a.m. not 1 a.m. He grunts and unchains the velvet rope.

The decor of the lounge is strip-club modern, which is unsettling from the perspectives of both aesthetics and dining. My Oxfords, in normal times quiet shoes, clack sharply against the earth-toned tiled floor. The sound echoes off of the walls, which are covered in brown mottled mirrors and faux-wood paneling. I cannot name the faux-tree, probably mahogany.

The stains on the velvet couches are bio-luminescent.

Elena has already arrived. She is seated at the table beside a large, dangerous looking man who has a bald head and a broadly striped shirt. The stripes turn his impressive musculature into a topographical map. It is a good environment for Elena: her skin is positively radiant in ultra-violet light, her eyes have deepened two shades of blue and her lips glow an alluring purple-red. Tufts of her shortly cropped copper-colored hair have become blonde, like so many white shadows. She ignores my approach by taking a long draw on her Juul. When I reach the table she looks up, tilts her head slightly to the left and smiles coquettishly.

As usual, her smile makes me fleetingly feel like I’ve stepped through a looking-glass into Instagram.

Elena makes introductions as I take my seat beside her. “Bruno meet James Shively”. Elena nods at the broad shouldered man beside her. I proffer my hand. He refuses to shake it, nodding his head and muttering “COVID”. Despite his expensive clothes he has a slightly tone-deaf sense of cool: his suit and shirt have a Studio 54 sheen, and the air around him is infused with the smell of cologne. I wonder if he, like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas, overcompensates for his style deficiencies with a sadistic devotion to his work?

Bruno speaks first, smiling. He says, “So I’ve finally met the infamous James Schuyler Hamilton Shively Quattro. Imagine that”. There’s a hint of Jacobin terror in his eyes.

“I’m the third, not the fourth.”

Elena adds, “Yep. Only two other Shivelys before him.”

Bruno’s smile broadens. This relaxes me a bit. At least he has something resembling a sense of humor, even if he is laughing at me. Elena responds to his amusement with a terse, sweet smile of her own.

Sweet is her weakest look.

Bruno asks, “Do the Shivelys have a coat of arms?”

His question is music to my ears. The Shively Coat of Arms is one of the few things I can discuss with unrivaled authority. “Indeed we do”, I reply heartily. “Its divided into 4 quadrants. The upper right contains a Beaver Rampant against a field of ….”

“I don’t give a shit about rampant beavers”. Bruno is not smiling.

“He’s a Communist”, Elena interjects nodding at her companion, as if this somehow bridges the conversational gap that has opened between us. And it kind of does, if your concept of Communist includes beefy industrial workers who brawl with Nazis.

Bruno nods in agreement. “Da. Old-school Communist.”

I still don’t quite understand his ambivalence toward coats of arms. If he’s interested in them, why isn’t he interested in them? I say, “Why did you ask about my family’s coat of arms?”

Elena answers for him, “Bruno collects the coats of arms of his targets … I mean clients … I mean …”

Bruno interrupts, “I collect coats of arms like trophies. Here, look.” He hands me his phone, which displays a picture of the Schlemielpennick Coat of Arms and then begins to scroll. Its like a coats of arms guest list of a wedding I attended in Bali at the end of my senior year in college.

Although I desperately want to know the story behind each “trophy” – we’re talking about my friends, after all – I feel that my conversational time would be better spent mollifying him. I ask, “So what is a Communist doing working for Elena?”

The question makes me feel like Joe McCarthy playing “Whats My Line?”

Elena replies for him, “Bruno is my production assistant”. He nods grimly, in agreement and says, “Da. Production assistant. Elena says you promised to build a prison for Consolidated Gulags. I’m here to make sure that happens.”

I can think of nothing to say in reply. I mean nothing worth saying. We Shivelys are pretty good at spouting nonsense, but now doesn’t seem like a good time for that.

Bruno leans toward me and speaks. He looms so large he casts me in shadow. “Mr. Shively, I want you to know this prison means a lot to Elena.”

“Uh, yeah”, I reply.

Elena says spritely, “I’ll let you two get to know each other better. I’ll get breakfast”. She rises and dusts herself. The lounge is not particularly dusty, but the dust is visible in the ultra-violet light as it falls off her body. She looks like a punk Tinker Bell.

It takes Bruno and me a moment to find our conversational sea-legs. I speak once I realize he will never initiate conversation.

“Where are you from Bruno?”

“Gdansk. But I live in Moscow. My family moved there when Lech Walesa won. My family are real Communists.” He scoffs theatrically as he speaks the Polish laborer organizer’s name. He sounds like a Republican talking about unions.

It turns out that Bruno comes from a venerable line of Bavarian, Polish and Russian Communists. The same ones who had gun fights with Nazis in the streets of Munich and Berlin, and later killed Trotsky with an ice-pick in Mexico.

“What brings you to America, Bruno?”

“I did a contract for Defrauded Guaranteed.”

“I see”. My reply is hesitant. I am uncertain whether he is talking about a felony charge or an organization.

He notices my uncertainty. “Its a firm based in Palm Beach. Near the President’s … “

He smiles. His mouth glints when he does. His incisors are made of silver, with tasteful gold caps.

I take a deep breath and say what’s on my mind, “What do you want from me, Bruno?”

“From you, James Shively, I want nothing. This is about what she wants” he nods at Elena who is returning from the kitchen with our breakfast, “I’m here to break … how you say …”

… bodies … ? I complete his thought.

“Log-jams”, he continues. “I like that phrase. Log jams. It reminds me of forestry. My grandfather was a forester during his time in Krasnoyarsk. He was later rehabilitated.”

Although I am curious to find out how a Communist views the Gulag, I ask, “Do you have many other clients?”

“Not right now. Just Elena. She’s a big account. Keeps me very busy.”

I wonder what he means by busy, but do not ask because I more or less know and don’t want to. Which of course makes me wonder how he will kill me should I fail to deliver on this prison. I am certain that my death won’t be abstract. Despite Putin’s James Bond Super Villain fetishes, it won’t be from some rare isotope or designer poison. It will be physical. Very physical. Perhaps he will rip my larynx out with his bare hands. Perhaps take a bite or two before throwing me into the dumpster.

Bruno notices my consternation. “I don’t have anything against you, Shively. Its nothing personal.”

He taps his right forefinger on the table top and says, “Bon appétit!”. Elena has arrived with our food. She places a tray of breakfast sandwiches on the table, and takes her seat.

If you’re like me you may have wondered why strip clubs never make the Michelin Guide. I know the answer to this question: its the quality of the food they serve. I help myself to a bread-roll stuffed with scrambled eggs, and a slab of meat that looks like an extra in an Alien movie The toast makes me think of a hobo Sponge Bob torched on Skid Row.

Bruno devours his breakfast sandwich in three bites.

I listlessly pick at mine wondering where to begin. Or whether to. I don’t.

Elena doesn’t even pretend to eat her fruit bowl. Its covered in a thick sugar sauce which she uses as mortar for a tiny citrus castle she constructs with her grapefruit spoon.

Silence.

“A toast! ” Elena leaps to her feet, knocking a water glass over as she does so. “To our prison!” Bruno stands up, as if stretching. I slowly rise, feeling much older than my 35 years.

We clink coffee cups. Elena and Bruno drain theirs and toss them onto the floor with the kind of vigor I’d discuss with my therapist. I have a small sip and then place my cup gently down. It tastes like it was brewed with Flint water.

Note: The rest of this story is receiving its final edit and will be published shortly. If you are a friend with the password, click here.

 

 

Summary

This is the story of two couples living in NY at the turn of the century who go through foibles and hi-jinks before realizing that they are meant for each other. Celine is a business woman who has just transferred from a mid-sized firm to a large firm modelled on AIG; her first task is to destroy her previous company. Alex, Celine’s boyfriend, is a slightly slow, utterly charming, man (what job?) whose infidelity incenses Celine. At the beginning of the story Celine breaks up with him “until xmas” – she loves him but wants him to grow up so that they can settle down and start a family. He spends most of the story trying to philander (often passively – the philandering happens to him) but fails spectacularly and ultimately realizes his love for Celine.

The sub plot involves Bartek and Kate. Kate has invented vegetarian yoga. Her idea has been stolen by the evil business woman Eleonor. Kate spends the story trying to get control over her idea (does she?). Bartek works at the Museum of the Little American Girl, which has been taken over by separatist feminists. The two women are opposites – one is a lipstick lesbian who likes to dress like Betty Boop, the other is an aggressive woman who wears Docs, has a blunt asymmetric hair cut and hates Bartek and undermines his project to send the doll collection on tour, despite widespread interest. The Museum is embedded in the Marble Hill Children’s Hospital and is paid for by an endowment plus a grant from the Federal government. The heads of the hospital, Serfan and Whey decide to close the Museum out of fear of losing federal funding.

In the end everyone winds up in a relationship and lives happily ever after.

Cast

Celine

A fine art insurance underwriter who has just completed an MBA and is about to begin a management position at Gigantic American Insurance (GAI). She is in love with Alex but fears that he won’t meet her high standards.

Alex

A rich layabout who is taking a doctorate at Columbia in Women’s Studies. He is constantly unfaithful to Celine, not because he’s a cad, but rather because he is weak and so good looking that women are always hitting on him. He loves Celine in an innocent but not simpering way and has a heart of gold.

Cate

An erstwhile yoga entrepreneur. She is “meant” for her best friend Justin. Her failure to realize this is a source of dramatic tension.

Bartek

A grant writer and assistant curator for the Museum of the Little American Girl. He is “meant” for Cate and knows it, but has decided that he’s been friend-zoned. To all intents and purposes he has been.

Eleanor

A management consultant who represents a venture capital fund which is looking to take over the New York yoga market. Her relationship status develops during the course of the series and indirectly is the means by which Cate and Justin’s own relationship develops.

Emma Wulf

Emma has just taken over as Director of the Museum of the Little American Girl. She, and her right hand woman Ahlee, are both lesbian feminists who intend to “liberate” the Museum. They are not a couple, but Bartek acts as a catalyst to make them a couple.

Ahlee

Emma’s right-hand woman, Ahlee, is the new Director of Development for the Museum of the Little American Girl. She can’t decide whether she’s butch or femme. Bartek is her confidant about her sexuality, which is necessary because Emma likes Ahlee’s lipstick lesbianism, but it is tied to her suppressed feelings of bisexuality.

Whey and Serfan

Hospital administrators who have decided to close the Museum of the Little American Girl because they fear the feminist nature of the clinic will draw attention to the feds. At the start of the story we learn that the endowment has been spent.

Chapter One: Clean by Christmas

Scene One: The Office of Podanck and Shively, Fine Art Underwriters, Celine’s farewell party.

Celine says goodbye to everyone at her company, Podunck and Dribble, an art insurance company.

Shively

Take care, Celine. We’ll miss you.

Celine

Thank you Mr. Shively. I hope that my next boss is half as good as you.

Shively

It won’t happen. They’re all assholes on Wall Street.

Celine

I see

Shively

If only Podunck was still with us. He would have been so proud. You were like a daughter to him.”

Celine

“Mr. Podunck died before I was born.”

Shively

“I mean you were like the daughter he never had.”

Celine

“And you were like a father to me.”

Shively

“Exactly. Wall Street is full of sharks. I wish I could take care of you.”

Celine

“You’ve been paterna… I mean fatherly enough to me. I can take care of myself, now.”

Shively

“I’m here for you. Remember that. ” Shively hustles them both away from the office crowd.

“I’ve always wanted to say this but of course couldn’t because you’re my employee but you’ve got nicest ass of any woman I’ve ever met. And I’m not hitting on you – I’d overdose on viagra before I could have an erection. In fact I have. I’m just making an aesthetic statement, like saying the Mona Lisa’s smile is inscrutable.”

Celine

“You were very wise to wait until my last day to say this to me, Mr. Shively.”

Shively (touching her arm lightly)

“I knew you’d understand.”

Celine

“Listen, Mr. Shively, as of today I’m no long your employee. I want you to know that you were a fantastic boss. But now I’m your competitor. I won’t pull my punches when competing with you, so don’t pull your punches with me.”

Shively

“I .. uh .. don’t know what to say. I think I’m touched. This is what I taught you.”

Celine

“Don’t say anything except adieu. Let’s keep in touch.” She kisses him on the cheek. Then they chastely hug.

Celine looks at her watch, “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a big date with my boyfriend.”

“The one I met at the office party? Anton?

Celine

Alex

Shively

A bit simple, but very good looking. You’ll make a perfect match. Big date? I assume he’s proposing.

Celine

I .. uh .. am not certain how its going to go. But I mustn’t be late.

Everyone in the room hears this and turns to Celine and says goodbye. She wipes away a tear as she leaves, through a scrum of well wishers.

Scene Two: Justin and Cate are in line for an audition

Cate

Thanks for coming Justin.

Justin

No problem.

Cate

What’s up? Has your new boss started?

Justin

Bosses. They’re starting tomorrow. I’m a little worried though.

Cate

But you said that they’re feminists. That should be an improvement …

Justin

Yeah. I guess so. The Museum sure could be a whole lot more politically correct.

Casting Admin

Cate!

Justin (awkwardly moving to hug Cate)

Good luck!

Cate (rushing away without looking back)

Thanks!

Scene Three: Alex and Celine, Both Late, Nearly Meet Each Other on the L Train

Alex

Do you have the time?

Subway passenger

Are you late?

Alex

Yes.

Subway passenger

So why do you want to know the time? You already know you’re late. Maybe you know how to go back in time?

Alex

Never mind.

Slow pan to left where Celine is sitting, immediately beside Alex, but on the other side of the subway seat so they don’t see each other.

Celine

Excuse me sir, do you have the time?

Subway Passenger Two

Six fifteen

Celine

Thanks.

Subway Passenger Two (to Celine)

How late are you?

Celine

Forty Five Minutes

Subway Passenger Two

You’re never late are you?

Celine

Sometimes. But this is a big date.

Subway Passenger Two

Is he going to pop the question?

Celine

Well, actually I was going to propose to him …

Subway Passenger Two

Congratulations

Celine

… or dump him.

Subway Passenger Two

Really? If you have such strong feelings maybe you’d should … consider things.

Celine (slight pause)

We’ll see. Well this is my stop. Good night. Thanks for the time!

Chapter Two: Vegetarian Yoga

Scene Four – Cate’s audition

Casting Admin

Cate, this is Eleanor Tinsel. She represents the investors.

Cate (breathless)ly

I’m so thankful for this opportunity, Ms. Tinsel!

Eleanor (dryly)

Call me Eleanor.

Eleanor looks at clipboard and then straight at Cate.

Eleanor

Tell me about your brand of yoga.

Cate

Well, Vegetarian Yoga isn’t really a brand. Its more like a philosophy. You see, I’m a vegetarian, and its really hard for me because I like bacon.

Eleanor

Indeed.

Cate

When I’m practicing yoga I don’t want to think about animals. Not camels, not cows, not cats. When I think of animals, I think of animal slavery and factory farming and that’s not yogic. No way. I want to dedicate my practice to positive things like carrots and chickpeas. That’s where I got the idea for Vegetarian Yoga.

Eleanor (bemused)

Could you demonstrate?

What follows is a voice over of Cate talking. The camera is on Eleanor. In the background are impossibly distorted shadows, which are presumably the reflections of the poses that Cate is striking while she narrates. Eleanor is amazed and at brief moments ecstatic at what she sees.

Cate (voice over speaking with a yoga-teacher’s voice)

Although Vegetarian Yoga is a vinyasa based practice, today I am only going to teach you one pose: carrot.

Carrot is a very grounded pose, so let’s begin with the feet. They are firmly planted on the ground. Your back is long and straight. Your arms should rise high into the sky. Don’t forget about your carrot top. If your hair is long let it down. If it is short, imagine that it is long, draping over your neck, down your back to the floor.

Eleanor

Very good. I understand that you teach a class near Union Square every Sunday night. How many students do you get on average?

Cate

Seventy five. But that’s all the studio can handle. If you want to check it out, come early. I turn people away every single class. Here’s my card. Text me. I’ll reserve you a space!

Eleanor accepts the card unenthusiastically.

Eleanor

Thank you for your time Cate. If we are interested in doing business with you, my assistant will contact you.

Scene Five (dinner. Celine is seated. Alex approaches)

Celine

Alex! Did you just get here?

Alex

The subway was delayed.

Celine.

I know.

Waiter One (to Alex, ignoring Celine)

Good evening Mister. I see that you are here with a brunette tonight. Things didn’t work out with the red head?

Celine (to Alex)

What red head?

Alex

She was my niece … uh … she was jjust visiting from Pittsburgh.

Busboy

Here is your water, Ma’me, Sir.

Waiter (to bus Boy)

We were just talking about the the red head that Mister was here with last Friday.

Busboy

Ah yes, she was very hot.

Celine (to Alex)

If she’s your niece then she’s your mother’s sister’s daughter?

Alex (flustered)

Yeah. That sounds about right.

Celine

You told me your mother’s sister didn’t have any children! And besides, she lives in Rochester!

Alex (trying to lie but failing)

Uh yeah, right, uh maybe my father’s …

Celine (grabbing his hands with hers)

Don’t lie to me. You had a date with some tart last Friday didn’t you?

Alex

She wasn’t a tart. Her name’s Mindy. She’s in my marketing class. And it wasn’t a date.

Celine

What do you mean it wasn’t a date?

Alex

I was practicing.

Celine dumbfounded pauses to consider how to respond. The waiters fill the dead air.

Busboy (to Waiter)

Who is she to talk to him that way?

Waiter (to Busboy)

She’s his fiancé.

Alex (to Busboy)

She’s not my fiancé … yet.

Celine (to Alex)

What do you mean you were practicing?

Alex (to Celine)

Honey, you can be .. uh … well .. difficult to date. I feel like I’m always struggling to find the right thing to say, and am always making things worse by …

Celine

That’s a hell of a pickup line, that you needed to practice dating me. How long have you known me?

Alex

Six years. It was her idea, not mine.

Celine

So was it a good practice? Did you practice holding hands? (She let’s go of his hands as she says this). Did you practice flirting? How far did it go?

Alex (with a sigh)

Celine, you know I can’t answer that question. I don’t kiss and tell.

Celine

So you kissed her!

Alex (flustered)

I don’t not kiss and tell either. I just don’t talk about what I do on dates. (pleading) You know that. I’ve never ever gossiped about us. Or anyone. (stronger) I just don’t do it.

Celine (after an intake of breath).

Alex. I’m really serious about our relationship. But I’m not going to marry a player. The next few weeks are going to be busy for me. I’m starting a new job. I’ve got a lot of things on my mind. I was thinking of not seeing you very much. Let’s not see each other at all. It’ll give you some time to think about how serious you are about me. Or whether you’re serious about me at all.

Alex

But Celine, I am serious about you. I …

Celine

Think about it.

Celine exits, Alex holds head in hands in despair. Voice over of waiter and busboy speaking, barely overheard as the camera follows Celine.

Busboy

I liked the red head much better. This one’s a real bitch.

Waiter

Oh no, my friend. This one has a spark. And where there’s a spark … (trails off)

Chapter: Change at the Museum of the Little American Girl.

[Intake: Can you add a little more rainbow to this, perhaps a Tibetan or a Tuareg girl]

Emma and Ahlee dominate the center stage, and are talking business. Justin is taking down an Exhibit entitled “Adorableness Through Time”. Emma is dressed like in formal business attire, looking somewhat like a drag king. Ahlee is dressed in a flouncy pink skirt and has a sky-blue bow in her hair. Justin is dressed as a regular guy, in jeans and a t-shirt.

Emma (to Ahlee)

Did you talk to the Board about the name change?

Ahlee

Yes. They were all in favor of dropping the “Little”. There was more resistance to replacing “Girl” with “Young Woman”. Fenders and Richardson both thought that “girl” was a technical …

Emma

Of course. Dinosaurs. What did they think of the Deconstructing Barbie exhibition?

Ahlee

They’ve all received their packages but most haven’t had time to look at them. But …

Emma

Yes?

Ahlee

Well Fenders did. He took particular exception to the symposium “Dolls: The Transgender Perspective”. He feels that it is not in keeping with the Museum’s mission.

Emma (sigh)

I’ll have to give him a call.

Ahlee

No need. He resigned.

As Ahlee speaks Justin’s head snaps up from his work and he stares directly at Ahlee and Emma.

Emma (hooting and giving Ahlee a high five)

One down! Let me know if I can help with Richardson.

Emma exits. Ahlee turns around and notices Justin for the first time.

Ahlee (to Justin)

Who are you?

Justin

My name is Justin.

Ahlee

I mean, what are you doing here?

Justin

I work here. I’m a grant writer. And I help with the exhibitions. And in any way I can. You’re Ahlee, right? My new boss?

Justin tries to shake her hand. She ignores his gesture.

Ahlee

I thought that this was the Museum of the …

Justin (nervously finishes her sentence as she continues to talk)

… Little American Girl.

Ahlee

… Young American Woman.

Justin

Right. Young American Woman.

Ahlee

You have expertise in this area? How exactly?

Justin

Well I have two sisters and I’m American and I’ve been writing grants …

Ahlee

Never mind. We’ll deal with you later.

Ahlee exits. Fade.

Scene 7: The living room of Cate’s and Justin’s apartment.

Cate (to Justin)

How was your day?

Justin

Not so good. I’m kind of freaked out by my new bosses.

Cate

But they sound cool. Didn’t your new Director throw boar’s blood into the lobby of Mattel’s headquarters to protest the link between toys and genocide. That sounds progressive.

Justin

Well its sounds progressive. But Mattel pays for half my salary. I heard from one of our Board members – former Board members – that they are seriously thinking of pulling their funding now that Emma is our Director . But I don’t want to talk about that. (grabs her by the hands and speaks with excitement / interest in his voice.) How was your audition?

Cate

OK.

Justin

Just OK?

Cate

Well it went well enough. You know I’ve taught Carrot a thousand times if I’ve taught it once. But I had an uneasy feeling about Eleanor

Justin

Eleanor?

Cate

The woman who represents the investors. I just don’t trust her.

Justin (indefatigable)

Tell me something good! How was your class? Another sell-out performance?

Cate (despondent)

No. In fact the studio was only half full.

Justin

What! That’s never happened!

Cate

Yeah. I know. I need to get fifty students just to break even. (picks up a flyer from the coffee table) Hey, what’s this?

Justin

Just a flyer I picked up on the way home. Its for another yoga studio in Union Square. I think its on the same block as your studio. Can you believe it?

Cate (serious)

Justin. Did you look at this? [She hands Justin the brochure] Someone has set up a vegan yoga studio across the street from me.

End Episode One

Scene 8

Celine meets new boss, who mention the derivatives deal that killed her old company. Then she is given the job of destroying Podanck.

Scene 9 Two Yoga students are talking in Union Square.

First Yoga Student

Did you hear about the new Vegan yoga studio?

Second Yoga Student

About time. I’m tired of hearing about lactation and eggs when I do yoga. Cheese is not a vegetable.

First Student

Let’s skip Cate’s class and go Vegan.

Second Yoga Student

Yeah.

[Outtake All those Cate’s and none spells her name the same way: Caitlyn Cait Kate Cate Kait Kathryn Kathrine Katy Katie Cat]

Scene 9: Ahlee brushes her flaming red hair, in bed, while Alex brushes his teeth

Ahlee

Alex. Put my riding crop on my knapsack. I have a Board meeting today. I may need it.

Alex

OK.

Silence.

I’m just kidding. I won’t be using the crop at a Board Meeting. But I do hope to get one of them to resign.

Alex

Uh. Ahlee. I’m not exactly sure how to say this but

Ahlee (half in song)

Yes.

Alex

Well, I’m not really into this dominant – submissive thing

Ahlee

What do you mean?

Alex

I think you’re really hot. But I’m not into being humiliated.

Ahlee

You didn’t mean it when you said “take me like a stallion?”

Alex

Something like that.

Ahlee

I know that’s going to really piss me off in a few minutes. But right now I don’t care. I really get in to humiliating you. Its weird. It brings me inner peace. So right now I’m feeling great.

Alex

Humiliating me?

Ahlee

It isn’t about you. Not really. Its the power thing. You’re kind of incidental. You could be a rock, as long as I could dominate you.

Alex

So did you feel anything when I said that your eyes were like limpid pools?

Ahlee

Not really. No. Definitely not. Definitely not. [Pause] I was a little chilled because my socks are thin. So I felt something. But nothing related to your words.

Alex

What about when I said your breath was like sunshine?

Ahlee

Nothing. But I did like it when you said “take me like a stallion”. That worked.

Alex

I see. (Sigh)

Ahlee

You miss Celine.

Alex

I do.

Ahlee

So you were faking when you said “slather me like a Thanksgiving turkey”

Alex

Yes

Ahlee

And when you said “squeeze me like a ripe okra”.

Yes.

Ahlee

But … ?

Alex

But I did mean the bit about the stallion.

Ahlee

Good. I’ll hate you tomorrow, but today I feel fine. Buenos dias amigo.

Ahlee exits singing.

Alex holds his head in his hands in despair.

Scene X: Museum of the Young American Woman

Ahlee, half singing

Good morning Justin.

Justin

Good morning.

Ahlee is totally friendly justin. She is dressed in bondage gear and looks really tough. She has Doc Marten shoes.

[If its not funny you have two choices: you can humour my special friend Harvey – ie pretend that its funny, or you can scowl.]

Alex is with Ahlee, who is the red head.

[Last episode. Celine stands behind the waiter and busboy stands behind Alex.

Waiter (to busboy)

I haven’t seen Mister around here recently. Have you?

Busboy

I’ve seen him three times.

Waiter: Was he with the red head?

Busboy: Just once. I don’t think that date went well. She left crying.

Waiter: Who was he with the other times? The brunette?

Busboy: Of course not. She said she wouldn’t see him until Christmas. He was here alone.

Waiter: How sad.

Busboy: He didn’t seem sad at all. He seemed focused, determined.

]

Alex has first affair. Woman is a Christian fundamentalist who thinks that you can only get pregnant during your period.

Cate and Bartek

Yoga brand is stolen. Guy in a funk because the Dykes are trying to get him fired. They don’t communicate.

I have to break up with you. You don’t care about my dream.

But we aren’t even going out.

What do you mean. You didn’t know? That’s another reason for breaking up.

Heroine in a funk.

Alex screws folksinger while her biker boyfriend is crashed on the couch. We have an open relationship. Biker wakes up, throws him out. Discovers that he is missing his wallet but has her card. The ransom for the wallet is a date.

Bartek save’s his job by setting the hero’s hippy chick up with his bosses. They keep him on as a source of information. They both want to sleep with her.

Scene: Dank and Dank Art Insurers.

Kind Boss

Celine;

says goodbye to everyone at small company, Podunck and Dribble, via teleconference.

“Take care.”

“Thank you Mr. Dribble.”

“If only Podunck was still with us. He would have been so proud.”

“Mr. Podunck died before I was born.”

They are jealous of her move to a Wall Street multinational. There is a moment where someone is revealed for being a hick – too bad you never made it to the Hick’s County tractor race. She looked at him, stunned. “He actually thought that one day I might go to a tractor race.” Despite herself she started to cry. This was unexpected behavior because she was known as a cool person so that pretty much ended the conference call. [She starts crying because of conflicted emotions – she’s really happy to be going but does like the people.

This prolonged farewell makes her late. The hero is also late. They each have a train foible and then realize they’re sitting beside each other (back to back). They go to a restaurant where the waiter talks about the hero’s recent dates. Heroine pseudo breaks up … come clean by xmas.

Chapter Two: Change at the American Museum of the Little Girl

Subplot hero gets Dyke bosses at the Museum of the Little Girl.

Hero has first affair. Woman is a Christian fundamentalist who thinks that you can only get pregnant during your period.

Vegetarian Yoga

Subplot heroine explains vegetarian yoga to dastardly woman who steals the idea.

Yoga Theft

I have to break up with you. You don’t care about my dream.

“But we aren’t even going out.”

“You mean that you didn’t know that we were going out?! That’s another reason for breaking up.”

That’s not fair. I share many of your dreams. Some poetry here might work.

They discover her yoga brand has been stolen.

Heroine is in a funk.

Alex Infidelities: Euthenia Snartle

[The joke is that Alex never gets laid in all the time that he is given to be unfaithful to Celine.]

“So you’ve finally dumped that French bitch, have you?”

“She dumped me. And don’t call her a bitch. She’s still my true love and I intend to marry her.”

“Well best of luck. Our family has been short on brains for a few centuries now.”

…

“Snartle?”

“You haven’t heard of them? I’m not surprised. Haven’t done much since Schuyler Snartle saved the free world at Inchon. But that’s a good thing, in a way. Just because Euthenia is a bit thick …”

“Aunt Sarah!”

“Please Alex, we are in public.”

Alex sighs. “Lady Sauerkreuzen, you expect me to go all the way to Philadelphia to date a homely dolt?”

“She’s a lot prettier than she is bright. Besides, the Snartle’s haven’t lived in Philadelphia since Monroe was President. She’s at her family’s apartment on Fifth Avenue.”

The mention of Fifth Avenue conjured up, in Alex’s mind, a vivid image of Old New York. The New York of Edith Wharton and the Astor’s and sundry old rich dutch families.

They entered the Snartle’s off of a private alleyway. It was once the servant’s entrance but everyone used it as the main entrance because it was private and avoided the nuisance of being seen entering the townhome.

Alex’s Age of Innocence premonitions were realized immediately. Underneath a century of must lay a perfectly preserved, or at least rarely tampered with, slice of an Edith Wharton novel. An invitation to an Astor ball was framed in a tarnished silver

To Alex the glory was so unreal because the world of the robber barons was missing so much – they had no ipods, no internet, it took weeks to travel to England and indoor plumbing was a new idea. Still, the opulence was unavoidable, and not such a bad thing if you were into ceramic dolls, divan couches and drinking in the afternoon.

Servants were of course a key part of that equation. The inexorable increase in the price of labor had made the maintenance of the Snartle lifestyle increasing difficult to afford, so the townhouse was covered in generations of must, that the weekly housekeeper found impossible to keep in check.

E. was settled in the corner of a divan, which was large enough for her to sit entirely on, if she half curled her knees towards her chest. She wore a simple white tennis dress which ended above her thighs; as a result a moon of bum was plainly visible, which was made into a crescent by black bikini underwear; her sport’s bra enforced perfect curves on her upper body; her strawberry choker looked bright beside her long, pale, white neck; she had a serene face, vacant blue eyes and her yellow brown hair was tied together in two braids.

Attraction isn’t straightforward, ever. Though people will claim again and again that it was her eyes or hair or full lips that attracted them, its never that simple. [Its always the package that causes the obsession that allows a man’s loins to mug his judgment.] In Alex’s case, the fact that E. was dumb as a board was nicely offset by the fact that she had it all from the buttony cuteness perspective – her smile was perky, her hair was perky, her breasts, her butt was perky. Perhaps perkiness is a necessary condition for being cute as a button he wondered, but couldn’t keep the thought going as his attention turned magnetically towards the line where her bikini underwear met her porcelain skinned bum.

There is a certain sexy charge in the way stupidity can infuse a situation. Who knows what she’ll do next. Its like there’s a blizzard in her head, or she’s been turned around. Maybe she’ll stagger out of the house or maybe …

The penis, though witless – or more accurately, possessed of a narrow, focused wit – often wins in these situations because it allies with the heart. Like a creature possessed Alex became attentive and concerned; and though he and E. talked about little other than brand names and nightclubs the afternoon passed quickly.

Euthenia’s brother complicates things. He hates Alex and tries to harm him physically. The consensus is that he’s jealous and the relationship is incestuous, because “no one could look at her fully exposed *ss as long as a double partner would have to and not get aroused.” Of course who knows about her. And he might be gay …

Alex and the guys also talk about whether her brother Evelyn really wanted to harm him or did make an honest mistake.

Alex infidelities 2

Alex tries to screw a hippy chick who thinks her period is when she gets pregnant.

Alex tries to screw folksinger while her biker boyfriend is crashed on the couch. “We have an open relationship” she says. Biker wakes up, throws him out. Discovers that he is missing his wallet but has her card. The ransom for the wallet is a date.

The sub-hero save’s his job by setting the hero’s hippy chick up with his bosses. They keep him on as a source of information. They both want to sleep with her.

How do the heroine and sub-heroine save their jobs? Heroine gets boss fired, but how?

Podunck Must Die

Celine is given the job of destroying Podanck Insurance and then stealing all of its business.

Bartek at the Museum

They want to fire him but can’t. They decide to make his life miserable. He doesn’t talk.

Strike Back

Amanda tries to strike back. She steals Bartek’s gala list and does a fun raising event for her legal case, disguised as something else and hopefully ridiculous.

One of Bartek’s bosses meets the

Alex Infidelity

Would you stake me if I were a vampire?

Celine: Showdown with Shively

She meets with Dribble. He is not impressive. She has Fountainhead style thoughts. But! – Her entire team has flown to NY. They are watching what is happening. Dribble was a bumbling ass / fatuous oaf. But sometimes management was given too much credit. His company was far better than him.

She looked at her team. At first everyone tried to have a poker face. Then x smiled. Y waved tentatively. Ed said, “I like your dress.” His voice was a whisper, but they had practiced reading each other’s lips.

She could do nothing and Dribble would lose and she would win and her friends would loose. There was no such thing as loyalty in capitalism.

The solution is a takeover. But that isn’t revealed.

Celine Ending

Celine refuses to do the takedown. Her boss promptly fires her. His boss overrules and calls in Dribble.

Half of our assets are in financial instruments that you would have great difficulty unwinding in the event of a bankruptcy, or unraveling in the event of a hostile takeover. Our development projects are spread out over 200 different operations, incorporated in 20 different jurisdictions, with different labor laws and netting rules. For our derivatives holdings …

Celine: I believe that Mr. Grace and Mr. Hatchet are most interested in your proposal.

Dribble: Of course. [Dribble hands out business plan]

Why would you give us such a good deal, Dribble?

Believe it or not, Hatchet, its a fair deal. There’s a lot that’s good about this company, but there are some skeletons. Nothing major. You find out all about them when you do your due diligence. But my income is going to depend on how we get along. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time on politics instead of business. Which leads to my next point. I won’t sign unless Celine is made the new President.”

Together:

Hatchet: No.

Grace: Yes.

Grace turns to Hatchet, looks at him, looks at the portrait of his father hanging on the wall beside him and then back at Hatchet.

Hatchet: Agreed.

Alex Ending

Alex has been blackmailed into a date with a woman who displays all of the problems of his earlier dates.

Maybe Rita – the woman who thinks that you can only get pregnant during periods not during regular times. I won’t have my period for another two weeks.

Tell me about yourself.

Are you sure that you don’t want to …

I’d like to get to know you better.

Patient Flowers – moved to City of Rats. Keep it here.

[Intake – The awareness of possibilities (versus the awareness of endings in Three Tokens)]

[Intake – Patient flowers: Bartek: Please let me know if I am getting too close. Chaitanya: I will also let you know if you’re not getting close enough.]

[Intake – cat naws on males foot – the old case of the pet loving the owner and hating everyone else]

[Intake – “genius” means “wanker”. – could go to Y2K] If she called you a genius, it means she thinks you’re a wanker. Hey that depends on the context. What were you talking about? I was comparing Dick Cheney to the Assyrian king Assurbanipal. I bet that got you laid. Wanker. Yeah, Wanker. I got a second date.

Voice over. Shot of about to flower plants. Ska to right. Male to left. Ska speaks. “No thank you. I prefer to support you through my fines Goodbye. Uh. Goodbye..” “Who was that.” “The library. I just returned a book. It was overdue.” “How long?” “Six years.” “Wow. How much was the fine?” “Not much. Six dollars. There’s a means test. I passed. Or failed. I dunno which it is when you have no means. But at least the fine was low.”

… builds to something like …

Ska’s long dyed dread locks are knotted together like so many bundles of rust and purple tumble-weeds. Her crazy hair reflects her vibrancy. She’s singing “Work” by Bob Marley and grazing in the bulk food area at Healthy Pleasures.

“Hey I know you. From my class.” She leans over and kisses me – patchouli scented air wafts from her onto me.

“Jim, right?”

“David.”

“Hola.” She doesn’t care that she got my name wrong.

As she says this she smiles and slowly takes her hand out of a bin of walnuts. Then she just strikes a pose, not an attitude pose, but straight and loose, slightly swaying. She looks like something thrown together by the wind.

“What are you up to?”

“Just getting some lunch. Then going home to the east village. ”

“I’m going that way too.”

“Wanna hang out at the park and eat?”

“Sure.” We go to Tompkins Square Park. Some IKON dancers are singing Hare Krishna – very melodically – and assorted freaks and drunks lie around us. The days when this park was owned by junkies and crack ho’s are long gone.

Ska comfortably sits down on the bench in a position that would snap my spine should I attempt it.

“You’re not from here. Can’t quite place your accent.”

“Canada. Toronto.”

“Yeah. I’ve been there. I’m from Arizona.”

One of the groovy parts of Arizona, no doubt. “Sedona?”

“Close. Jerome.”

“It’s way up on that mountain.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s beautiful. Family still there?”

“My mom has a Bed & Breakfast there, right beside the old mine, but everyone else has moved…. So what do you do?”

“I work for an investment bank. Computers.”

“What do you think of working on Wall St.? Does capitalism look better from the inside?” Her chill manner belies the weight of her question. I realize that she’s interviewing me.

“[On bonus day. Just kidding.] I never thought I’d wind up here. It’s really interesting work. Before I came here I didn’t understand how the world works politically, economically and now I have a much better idea.”

“Its all about money, isn’t it? Don’t you think it’s really creepy when a bunch of traders get together and trash an entire country’s currency. I remember traveling in Thailand in September 1998, and over the course of a week I could buy twice as much stuff with one dollar. Twice as much. Suddenly there were so many people out of work. Crazy.”

“Yes, it makes me feel weird.” Shrug. I remember how crazy it was at work when that happened. “I just manage legal documents.”

“You mean you just follow orders.”

Ouch.

“You do your bit to make the whole system work.”

“I do.”

“So what are you going to do when your boss throws you away like a broken doll? Or when you get so sick of your job that you have to leave?”

“Depends on whether that happens when I’m 40 or when I’m 60.”

“Say it happens tomorrow. Say your boss realizes that your job is on the wrong side of the bottom line and fires you.”

“I dunno. Probably grow my hair down to my ass and bum around Asia.”

“Any plans to grow up?”

“Maybe.”

“Have kids?”

“Maybe. With the right person.”

She catches me with her eyes as I look at her. We just look at each other. I smile at her and it works – she smiles back.

“Where do you live?

“Downtown. Beside the World Trade Center.”

“Really. It’s a bit dead down there at nights.”

“Yeah, but I don’t mind it. I walk to work. Where do you live?”

“I live right there.” She points to an apartment at the intersection of Avenue B and 6^th St. “Why don’t you come up for tea?”

I’ve been here before so I know where these next steps can lead. After the terrible ending of my last relationship I’d been thinking what it would be like to come around to this place again; I wondered whether I’d hesitate; or even if I’d ever cross the line again. But decisions are tricky things because they don’t happen in theory, they become real only when they change our actions. In the event my decision requires no more effort than to go to where I want to go. I nod assent to Ska’s invitation and smile.

“Let me escort you then.” She slips her left arm through my right and guides us across Avenue B to her home.

It’s late afternoon by the time we arrive. She begins to light candles [, flames from which illuminate the evening gloom]. I look around and don’t see any electric lights. Her apartment is painted in bright earth tones; even though it is early spring, it is warm and sunny; the air is moist and flowers are blooming everywhere.

“Nice flowers. Its amazing to see so many blooms at one time.”

“They are beautiful aren’t they?” She lays out a bowl of fruits and nuts which she hands to me as I sit down on her futon bed, which is in a couch position. This afternoon’s interrogation has exhausted me. She continues to stand, watering and doting over her plants. “Just before I left for California they were ready to bloom and I asked them to wait just one more week for me because I really had to go visit my family.” As she says this she leans over and kisses the blue petals of an iris. “Even though I think that my plants really like me, and I take good care of them, I was certain that they would have bloomed by the time I returned.” I watch her closely as she speaks charmed by the complete absence of guile in her manner. “But they didn’t! They still hadn’t bloomed when I returned! I was so tired from my trip that – even though I arrived home at noon from Cali – I immediately had a nap. When I awoke there were flowers everywhere!”

It’s impossible not to smile at the image. “Your plants are both considerate and patient.”

“They are. I love them.” She plops down beside me on her futon and puts her right arm around me as if that were the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it is. “What would you like to do? Let’s watch a movie.”

We watch a DVD of Casablanca on her laptop computer and slowly get drunk on wine. Then we sleep with each other. In fact we make love and it is athletic, supple and beautiful. In the morning I awaken before her and watch her breath animate the curves of her body, her face a picture of serenity in the muted tones of the early morning light. How could her flowers not have waited to bloom?

Celine and Alex Ending

In the dark.

That feels good.

“What about your test.”

“Do I need to give you a test if I was never laid.”

“You don’t mean “never laid” in the way that Newt Gingrich and Bill Clinton mean it?”

“No blowjobs. Not even a hand job.”

“What a lie. I’m sure that your right hand was kept busy. And no one else’s?”

“Only mine. You didn’t answer my question.”

“The requirement for an stp test has been waived.”

Both together: What about

Alex: You go first.

Celine: You go first.

Alex: I want a daughter who is beautiful like you. Persistent, but with a gentle manner; who is full of love, with good intentions for all.”

[something brighter than the sun because of all of her beauty and all of my love.]

Celine: [starting at the last clause, above] I want a son

“Although he will have his flaws he will be steadfast and true.”

Alex: “Her name will be Eleanor.”

Celine: “His name will be Drew.”

Together:

Alex: “Who was Drew.”

Celine: “Who was Eleanor?”

pause

Together Celine slightly later than Alex but Alex ending after Celine. Alex’s and Celine’s lines never overlap when spoken even though they speak at the same time:

Alex: “She’ll be great at poker. I’ll teach her as soon as she can count to fifty two. She’ll be the Mozart of poker.”

Celine: “He will embrace his yin and his yang side. He will box and dance ballet.”

Alex: What? Ouch.

Fin

 

 

Intakes

Intake to Chapter II – Absolution makes me sin. If I’d been born a Protestant I’d have been a much different person. Would never have wound up here in All Dudes, in the middle of some decades old feud between the decendants of the James gang and Brigham Young.

 

 

Some mysteries are meant to be revealed, others not. And some are temporarily hidden, waiting for their moment.