Corner o’ Stories
Posted: Tue Feb 02, 2010 2:23 pm
I’ve chosen to post this, even though things are still happening. I suppose to keep myself and my thoughts occupied.
“Corner o’ Stories.” It was an interesting name to an interesting local diner I had recently begun patronizing for a number of reasons. I assured the owner, Stanley, that he didn’t have to pay me for the part-time hours I sang there, and he, in turn, assured me that he owed me anyway for all I’d done and that it was the Stories’ privilege to have me there, so he insisted on paying me for the time I spent each weekend singing. The free money didn’t hurt, his business could afford to pay me, I enjoyed doing the alternate atmosphere, and all the regular patrons knew I was “taken” and didn’t drink alcohol.
There was no reason to stay away. It was that and doing what I enjoyed, mingling with a crowd that accepted me for what I was, or staying home at nights with just Spriggan for company. And she enjoys roaming around after twilight, so half the time I’m alone.
That night the crowd was light and mottled, speckled with new and old people alike, and far louder than usual. Laughter and the clash of thick glass pounding on rough, wooden tables were interspersed liberally with rude comments and calls for more drink. It was one of my days off, so I ignored the noise and sat in ‘my’ corner: a little, out-of-the-way table Stanley left open for me to work on crafts, think, and other little things I could do just as well at home. Stanley didn’t mind the wood shavings I left behind with a few of my projects.
I was finishing a few last touches to a small bust of face I had been seeing recently in my dreams when the figure approached me and tapped me lightly on the knee.
“Hey, you’re that chick that sings here on weekends, aren’t ya?”
I tilted my face up but didn’t answer. I generally don’t respond to ‘chick.’
“Chaney Vargas,” he mentioned and paused, probably holding out his hand for me to shake. When I nodded mutely, he pressed on. “I’m surprised nobody’s claimed you yet. You don’t have to sit alone, you know.”
“It helps me think,” I finally replied, going through my shortened hair with my fingers a few more times than necessary, making it a point to show off the fabulously wrought silver ring more detailed in its craftsmanship than the One Ring. Or so I fancied. I won’t tell you guys where it came from, but it always stays on the ring finger of my left hand.
He never did get the drift, but eventually he got to his point.
“I’m a novelist in the process of writing a book for publication by the Centerpiece Truth. Ever heard of it?”
“No, I haven’t,” I replied warily, something about his tone didn’t play right to my ears.
“It’s a monthly column that deals in the documentation of events within a specified region that abounds in the accredited claims of the citizens of that locality involving extramundane activities that the public in general must be made aware of despite belief to the contrary.”
He said all this with the same speed of a commercial citing the side effects of Celibrex.
“In other words, you work for a tabloid.” I tried to take the bite out of my declaration.
“Well . . . technically that’s true,” he replied, trying to muster the steam my clarification had taken away. “But . . . but . . . you agree that making aware the public of the United States of America to the extramundane is extremely important, don’t you?”
“I think unmasking the supernatural is very important,” I kept my tone neutral.
“Good. I was wondering if you could help me on a little exposé I’m working on.”
“What exposé is that?” I asked.
“The truth about curing vampirism.”
My breath jarred in my throat. It was too late to play ignorant. The sound of my gasp was clearly heard. So I’d have to sidestep my way through this . . . if I could.
“What makes you think I know anything about vampires, Mr. Vargas?” I took such a deep breath my throat hurt. “And what angle did you want to write this article from?”
“I think we already know the answers to both those questions, Miss Solstice,” his cheerful tone had hardened into an arrowhead’s intensity, and I flinched involuntarily as he leaned close and breathed into my face, an unseen cloud of garlic billowing in. “Why don’t we just cut the bull and get to business? Meet me at midnight. I have a little guarantee here that I’m sure will bring you there.”
He then gave me an address and began walking away.
“Why don’t we meet at noon . . .?” My suggestion trailed off. It was too loud and too crowded for him to possibly hear me. Chagrinned, I set back to work, patting the table when I didn’t immediately find the wooden sculpture . . . just the left over shavings.
When I asked Stanley about it, he mentioned he had seen a man walking out with my sculpture, but he had assumed I had sold it, since I had conducted business in here before.
I’d invested hours into that thing . . . I could do it again, but it wouldn’t be easy. And . . . well, for those of you have gone through this sort of thing, you know how annoying it is. I wanted it back, and I wanted to ask him a few questions, too.
Besides, he seemed . . . familiar.
Stanley gave me a description of the man readily enough, and I went home and prepared for the . . . “date.”
“Corner o’ Stories.” It was an interesting name to an interesting local diner I had recently begun patronizing for a number of reasons. I assured the owner, Stanley, that he didn’t have to pay me for the part-time hours I sang there, and he, in turn, assured me that he owed me anyway for all I’d done and that it was the Stories’ privilege to have me there, so he insisted on paying me for the time I spent each weekend singing. The free money didn’t hurt, his business could afford to pay me, I enjoyed doing the alternate atmosphere, and all the regular patrons knew I was “taken” and didn’t drink alcohol.
There was no reason to stay away. It was that and doing what I enjoyed, mingling with a crowd that accepted me for what I was, or staying home at nights with just Spriggan for company. And she enjoys roaming around after twilight, so half the time I’m alone.
That night the crowd was light and mottled, speckled with new and old people alike, and far louder than usual. Laughter and the clash of thick glass pounding on rough, wooden tables were interspersed liberally with rude comments and calls for more drink. It was one of my days off, so I ignored the noise and sat in ‘my’ corner: a little, out-of-the-way table Stanley left open for me to work on crafts, think, and other little things I could do just as well at home. Stanley didn’t mind the wood shavings I left behind with a few of my projects.
I was finishing a few last touches to a small bust of face I had been seeing recently in my dreams when the figure approached me and tapped me lightly on the knee.
“Hey, you’re that chick that sings here on weekends, aren’t ya?”
I tilted my face up but didn’t answer. I generally don’t respond to ‘chick.’
“Chaney Vargas,” he mentioned and paused, probably holding out his hand for me to shake. When I nodded mutely, he pressed on. “I’m surprised nobody’s claimed you yet. You don’t have to sit alone, you know.”
“It helps me think,” I finally replied, going through my shortened hair with my fingers a few more times than necessary, making it a point to show off the fabulously wrought silver ring more detailed in its craftsmanship than the One Ring. Or so I fancied. I won’t tell you guys where it came from, but it always stays on the ring finger of my left hand.
He never did get the drift, but eventually he got to his point.
“I’m a novelist in the process of writing a book for publication by the Centerpiece Truth. Ever heard of it?”
“No, I haven’t,” I replied warily, something about his tone didn’t play right to my ears.
“It’s a monthly column that deals in the documentation of events within a specified region that abounds in the accredited claims of the citizens of that locality involving extramundane activities that the public in general must be made aware of despite belief to the contrary.”
He said all this with the same speed of a commercial citing the side effects of Celibrex.
“In other words, you work for a tabloid.” I tried to take the bite out of my declaration.
“Well . . . technically that’s true,” he replied, trying to muster the steam my clarification had taken away. “But . . . but . . . you agree that making aware the public of the United States of America to the extramundane is extremely important, don’t you?”
“I think unmasking the supernatural is very important,” I kept my tone neutral.
“Good. I was wondering if you could help me on a little exposé I’m working on.”
“What exposé is that?” I asked.
“The truth about curing vampirism.”
My breath jarred in my throat. It was too late to play ignorant. The sound of my gasp was clearly heard. So I’d have to sidestep my way through this . . . if I could.
“What makes you think I know anything about vampires, Mr. Vargas?” I took such a deep breath my throat hurt. “And what angle did you want to write this article from?”
“I think we already know the answers to both those questions, Miss Solstice,” his cheerful tone had hardened into an arrowhead’s intensity, and I flinched involuntarily as he leaned close and breathed into my face, an unseen cloud of garlic billowing in. “Why don’t we just cut the bull and get to business? Meet me at midnight. I have a little guarantee here that I’m sure will bring you there.”
He then gave me an address and began walking away.
“Why don’t we meet at noon . . .?” My suggestion trailed off. It was too loud and too crowded for him to possibly hear me. Chagrinned, I set back to work, patting the table when I didn’t immediately find the wooden sculpture . . . just the left over shavings.
When I asked Stanley about it, he mentioned he had seen a man walking out with my sculpture, but he had assumed I had sold it, since I had conducted business in here before.
I’d invested hours into that thing . . . I could do it again, but it wouldn’t be easy. And . . . well, for those of you have gone through this sort of thing, you know how annoying it is. I wanted it back, and I wanted to ask him a few questions, too.
Besides, he seemed . . . familiar.
Stanley gave me a description of the man readily enough, and I went home and prepared for the . . . “date.”
