Working Title

hi, all. it's been quite awhile for me. so, hello to those i've missed. this is some work on the short novel that I am working on with the help of Ellen. I am trying to work on one scene at a time, hopefully allowing for some clarity and increased productivity. Anyway, I truly hope all is well.

...warmly.

There’s one big room with a red iron bed beneath two identical windows, fashioned brightly with slabs of stained glass suctioned in the center. In the bomb of golden dawn, colored armies of light move in tango across the floor approaching the far end of the room near the tall and strong wooden door. Before that, is a kitchen table—big enough to seat four—and a mild-mannered kitchen with a gas stove that hasn’t been updated in many years and one of those white or pale blue icebox refrigerators that has a steel clamp instead of a handle. A simple wood, craftsman’s chair is pushed in beneath the desk. The desktop is messy, yet manageable, and has noticeable use. There’s an old Smith & Corona safely inside it’s clumsy black carrying case, a rusty soup can full of black pens and sharpened pencils, a matchbook, two perfect pink erasers, abandoned paper clips, bent push pins, all his lucky pennies, and a scrap of newspaper with a familiar number drawn into the upper right corner. The three all moved around the space called a kitchen. Mr. Clemons, a man of his late sixties and many, many years of abuse sat at the table in his chair that faced the windows dealing a game of solitaire. His wife, the sweet Gloria, had come from the bedroom, wrapped in a white linen towel. She came up behind Thomas and, who sat across from Mr. Clemons—tired and buried in his own warm and pulsing flesh—kissed him lightly on his forehead. Mr. Clemons, who had been involved in his game, looked up and smiled with an empty mouth. Gloria went over to the sink and snatched the cup, cleaning his dentures, and placed them on the table in front of him. It always took him some time to get the damn things in his mouth. But, when he did, most would probably wish that he hadn’t.

He looked over at Thomas, still lost and sad. The game of solitaire had been beat. His record time was fifty-three seconds and he’s spent every morning for fifteen years trying to top it. When he opened his mouth for the first time after popping his teeth in, it took a second for them to adjust. His morning words were slurred and slow, but no one ever had any trouble hearing the words even if they had a little difficulty understanding.

Pushing back his chair, he spoke, “Better keep two eyes on those toes,” waving a wise finger at the raw and beaten feet that dragged in delicate sweeps along the rough and grainy floor, piling invisible dust into small piles like some child sentenced to the chore of raking yard leaves. Thomas was tall and too skinny and always wore a white cotton shirt that blossoms, as it fills with air, around a waist no more in width than a young tree.

“Huh?” Thomas said, confused and disinterested, still sweeping the floor. From time to time he picked splinters from the balls of his feet. His finger nails worked like the end of a hammer.

“Your toes, kid—they’re curling. I’m telling ya,”

“What about my toes?” He said.

“They’re curling,” he said.

“So?” He said.

“Rub some lotion on ‘em,” he said.

“What?” He said.

“All I am sayin’ is you should rub some lotion on your toes. It could mean—mean something is ending,” he said.

“Hell. What would my toes have to do with that anyway?” He said.

“I’m just sayin’, kid. You gotta know these things, “ he said.

“Oh, honey. Leave the poor boy alone. You’re making him worried. Besides, it’s all funny talk anyway, “ She said.

“It’s not just funny talk, honey. There are plenty of fellas that would tell ya the same thing, “he said.

“Here, make him happy, “ she said, handing Thomas a small bottle of lotion.

“Make sure you get it all up between the toes. Really work it in. How 'bout some breakfast? I am so hungry my stomach is ‘bout to fall off,” he said.

“Alright. But please, please stop all this talk so early in the morning--or I’ll end the both of you,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah. Whip up some eggs and coffee, “ he said.

“Excuse me?” She said.

“Darling, could you please make us two men eggs and coffee?” He said.

“It will be ready soon,” she said.

The stove was getting hot. She had worked at a diner downtown after the war. There was always a bunch of bullish men who came in to see her. But she would say, "Only one Mr. Clemons." For a brief time, he had work with a construction company. It was hard labor. Nothing like war, though. Everyday at noon, he strolled into the diner with his yellow hard hat and sat at the long bar table. She would come from the kitchen. Her hands were full with plates and the place noisy with talk. But, as she saw him sitting at the far-end of the diner, her face would explode with happiness.