Alley-way wisdom

Everyone I know always talks noir and cigarettes. It’s a beautiful thing how they let the words curl slow out o’ their cracked lips. Sometimes their tongues swell up with the ways of their hearts and its enough to leave me misty, but I’ll never be that brand of whiskey. 

I could try to drink like a fish, but it only makes me swim. It could be that cheap stuff that tastes like olives or the expensive shit that makes you want to marry Bacchus. I can’t double fist—my hand won’t close up. It beckons and pulls or just hangs loose. I drop things constantly in a way that makes the hardened types roll their eyes at me. In response, I sit back and pull on my hookah, doing impersonations of the blue caterpillar. 

I can be silent, but when the time comes for a line I’m stumped. The moment hangs in the air until someone coughs. When I get home, it’s clear to me what I should have said. I eat a bowl of cereal by the sink, convincing myself that it was no great loss. 

I own a trench coat, but most times it just refuses to rain. I bought the trench coat so I wouldn’t have to buy an umbrella—I like the rain to splash on my head and patter against my turned up collar. But most of the people I know don’t smile when it rains. 

It’s a beautiful thing, the tragedy that owns some people. The wisdom that comes from that tragedy—though if anyone said that to them, that person would get their teeth knocked out. That’s kind of beautiful too. The swift, confident, line drawn from the shoulder to the knuckle makes for an alright set of guidelines.

I have no talent for these things, for this kind of living. Which isn’t so bad, because there are plenty of people who are, and I can appreciate it from a booth at the back. 

I ate with conviction

An earnest aperture

widened to the world.

My tonsils glorious pillars

celebrating the wholeness of things.

I let myself turn pink-like—

pink lemonade and rose petals—

So that the sunlight blooming in the windows

would feel like it had done its job. 

You wrap your hands around my face

like it was a bud,

Firm—saying with your eyes 

all the happiness we both feel.

I won’t cry when it’s gone.

Marie told herself she would take the blame. She would tell them she alone started the fire. Well, it was her along with a pint of turpentine from the art supply closet and a zippo lighter she had gotten from the janitor. She twitched and tugged at her frizzy hair. It was cold out, the wind bit her through the wide tears in her stockings, and her small frame scurried along, aching for the blaze she’d left behind. 

She knew where the police station was. The school had lead a field trip there, and Marie had a good sense of direction. Marie kept to the streetlights, clutching a whistle in her right pocket and the lighter in her left. She had to be a good citizen, despite the dark and the men with darker eyes that waited around corners. She instinctively pulled her hair behind her ears, her wide, grey eyes locking onto the Roman revival architecture of the police station. Relieved for a moment, she let go of her whistle and blew on her hands. They were stained—probably from the paint in the art closet, she thought—and still smelled like turpentine. It was thrilling what a big burst of flame you could get in a small trash can. She looked at the glass police doors from across the street. 

Maybe she should say Ernie Meyer did it. Ernie had always given her a hard time in class, and he would be just the sort to do something this reckless. With that twisted smile and those black, sparkly eyes he spited her until she was on the brink of tears. He probably would do something this bad in time, maybe worse. So what if he got his punishment a little early? Marie bit her cracked lower lip and she tasted blood. She looked around, and, seeing no one, spat into the gutter. She closed her eyes and shook her head. It should have been Ernie, not her who broke into the school after dark, who opened the art closet. She had just…she didn’t know why. She just did. Now, she would turn herself in. Ernie would get his one day. 

As she walked up the stairs, she felt proud of herself. She was a good citizen, anyone could see that. Surely, the officers would see the whole thing that way. If anyone was to blame, it was the school. Why else could she have even conceived of doing such an awful thing? Mrs. Briggs, the principal, was an ugly woman. She had a crooked nose from a former life as a mid-weight boxer and her front teeth were fake. She had always made Marie nervous when she sat in on the class, and always called her into the office more than anyone else. It wasn’t fair that she was always the one being picked on. Marie did her best at school—she’d always been clever—and Mrs. Briggs scrutinized her constantly with uncomfortable personal questions. What business was it of hers what her home life was like? All that pressure was bound to get her a melted trash can eventually.

Marie tugged her hair again, as she gingerly stepped through the waiting room. She did her best not to squeal when a greasy looking man in a jean jacket shoved passed her with his parole officer. A tired looking officer with his shirt untucked droned at her from behind his desk. 

“Can I help you miss?” He said. The bags under his eyes begged her to say no. Marie fought down a wave of nausea as the smell of wet cigarettes, week-old coffee, and printer ink hit her as an even more exhausted looking detective came swearing like a sailor out of the copy room. 

“Goddamn machine! Wilson when are we gonna get this shit working? I’m up to my balls in paperwork.” The officer behind the desk shrugged in response and drank something luke-warm out of a styrofoam cup. The detective noticed Marie and sniffed. 

“I know you…you come in with that school group a couple months ago?”

“Y-yes. Dover Middle.” Marie said. She tugged harder at her hair, pulling it behind her ear again and again. 

“Right, right. We just got a call about a fire over there—looks like arson. A real shame. School’s brand new, just a couple years old, but you knew that,” He attempted a smile but didn’t bother to keep it. “You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”

“Why ask me?” Marie said, taking an unconscious step back. She didn’t like the aggressive, red stripes on his tie. She didn’t remember the police station being so dark. Perhaps she was in the wrong place after all. 

“Well, why are you here then?” said the detective. Marie took another step back. Her hand found the lighter in her pocket, but she never took her eyes off his. “Are you alright?” the detective frowned, “Do you need to sit down?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” she screamed. Officer Wilson put his hand on his gun, and the bustling hum of the room came to a halt. A woman with make up you could write your name in was hand-cuffed to a bench behind her, laughing.

“Sing it sister!” she said.

“Let’s continue this conversation in my office,” said the detective, gesturing her towards a door a little ways down from the copy room. The officer behind the desk relaxed as Marie wobbled towards the door. 

“Don’t tell’em nothin’ honey,” said the woman at the bench, “even if they got somethin’ it’ll just be three to five at most. Your ass looks like a three-to-fiver.” Marie shivered in disgust and quickly entered the small, beige room. She sat in a blue plastic chair, like the ones they had in the computer lab at school. She tried to relax a bit. The detective sat down opposite her and rested his elbows on the fold out table between them. 

“I’m Detective Reynolds,” he said.

“I’m Marie Hoffman,” she said. This wasn’t too bad, she thought. Marie sat up straighter, “I’m sorry for my outburst. I’ve had a difficult time.” The detective nodded.

“I just want to ask a few questions about what happened at the school tonight. No one’s accusing you of anything, but any information you have could be helpful. Arson is a serious crime.” He said, pulling out a notebook and pen. 

“Yes, yes I see.” She said, “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Take your time,” said the detective.

“Well, it all started with this boy in my class—Ernie Meyer,” Marie said. At that moment Officer Wilson’s head appeared through the door. 

“More news about Dover Middle. You’re gonna want a look at this, Pete.” He said. 

“Just a moment,” said Detective Reynolds, and stepped outside. Marie let out a slow breath. She could feel the beginnings of a migraine building behind her eyes; they had become chronic lately. She rubbed her forehead. It wasn’t as though she was lying or planning to lie. That’s really where it all started, her first day teaching. Was it her fault that her predecessor had left her class unmanageable and woefully behind? Detective Reynolds re-entered with a file, his hand covering the heading. He looked more serious, hidden. As though, something had caused a wall to go up behind his eyes.

“Tell me exactly what happened Marie. Tell me about Ed Daily,” said Reynolds. The room spun for a moment, and Marie pulled on her hair. She blinked.

“Who?” she said.

“Ed. Daily. He was the janitor, right?” Reynolds spoke so that he enunciated each word. Marie felt another chill, but there was no wind inside. 

“I…I don’t understand.” Said Marie.

“They found his body. The fire hadn’t gotten to east hallway yet, so we could ID him. They also found security camera footage.” Said Reynolds. Pain bloomed in Marie’s temples. It was all wrong. 

“The east hall camera was angled away, you can’t see anything,” said Marie, hardly more than a whisper, but the tremor in her voice was gone. Reynolds jaw tightened.

“So, you were in that hall? Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”

She didn’t know Ed. She’d seen him of course, but she could hardly be expected to know what he did. He had caught her in the hall with the turpentine. No one was supposed to be there that late. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault! He’d torn her stockings. The lights hurt her eyes, and she stayed silent. After a few minutes, Marie looked up and realized Reynolds was talking. 

“…blunt-force trauma. It’s a little too ironic don’t you think? Beating a janitor to death with a fire-extinguisher and then setting the place on fire?” 

“No…I. I don’t know what you’re talking about, how could I possibly?” Marie couldn’t think. It was Briggs, Ernie, and the school. How could one person possibly cope? She winced and looked down to find a clump of her own hair lying in her palm.

“That’s what I aim to find out.” 

    Derek the Fool was drunk, stripped to the waist, and belting out the melody to the “Raunchy, Old Maid’s Lament” during Lady Carlotta’s annual patron’s banquet. The white marble court seemed to echo the most debauched rhymes the loudest, and soon all conversation came to an abrupt halt as the guests looked on in mixed amounts of shock and embarrassment. The Fool spun and weaved in a slow zig-zag towards the patron’s table, losing a shoe, picking up a cat, trading the cat for a hat, then finding his shoe and throwing it at the cat, all the while continuing his song as it reached a banshee-like crescendo. Right before the closing lyric—“And to think they call me Queen”—Steve the Knight (who hated to be called Steve) tackled him into a buffet table. Being in full dress armor, and quite a tall and broad man besides, the right end of the table instantly gave way as the Knight made contact. An avalanche of ivory table cloth, pudding, cheese platters, and cakes kept the Knight slipping and skidding on the floor as the Fool wrenched himself free and hopped onto an adjacent table. He proceeded to do a jig in the large, crystal punchbowl wearing the head of a roasted boar like a crown.

            Throughout the spectacle, Amir the Healer had slowly begun inching himself away from the base of the patron’s table and Lady Carlotta’s line of sight. Persephone the Guide had been frozen in a half-standing position, mentally calculating the location and proximity of every exit. Her face was purple with exasperation. Though no one dared to look at Lady Carlotta, who had prime seating on an elevated platform at the patron’s table, her expression was nothing but cold outrage as her lips and knuckles turned white with indignation. With a twitch of an eyelid, two guards who weren’t covered in confection were summoned and managed to wrestle the Fool off the table.

            “Go fuck a mountain goat’s mother!” The Fool said in reply. This earned him a smart wallop at the back of his head.

            “Out!” said the Lady, pulling herself up to her full height of five feet. “Everyone leave this instant!” The guests and courtiers left the banquet hall murmuring and shuffling like an army of confused, belligerent sheep.

            Once Lady Carlotta had called her group of treasure-seekers into an inner council room, she had composed herself. However, her dark eyes still burned with cold fire and were sharpened into slits when she turned to face them. The Guide, taking the lead as she usually did, stepped forward. She racked her brain for an excuse, an explanation, or even a compliment and came up with nothing but an acquiescent stare and an awkward apology.

            “I would like to express my deep—“

            “You’ll speak when you’re spoken to, Guide,” the Lady interrupted. She stood in front of them, standing on yet another small platform that held an ornate, over-stuffed, red velvet chair that could never hold all the folds of the Lady’s skirts. In fact, the voluminous banquet gown she was wearing seemed to swallow the whole platform. The Guide bowed, wondering how such a small frame could support all that frilly, heavy fabric. “I never expected to see such vulgarity, such a flagrant lack of respect in my court,” Lady Carlotta said dragging her eyes from the food-splattered Knight, to the fidgeting Healer, to the stoic Guide, and finally daggering the Fool with a hard stare. The Fool was fully clothed once more and leaning on an unhappy, pet courtier named Cedric. His smile was lop-sided and he was still giggling to himself about goats. The Guide examined his red, snarky features and wondered if he realized the extent to which he had screwed them all over.

            “It has always been my belief that the actions of one member of a set affect the actions of the set itself. I will not have this repeated in my court, so I am holding you all responsible.” Lady Carlotta’s gaze tore away from the Fool with disgust and landed on the Guide, who willed herself not to bend under the weight of it. Lady Carlotta paused as if waiting for someone to speak but then continued uninterrupted. The group was tensed (except for the Fool, who looked as though he was going to fall asleep), both knowing and not knowing what their punishment would be. “I could have you disbanded, revoke your questing licenses, reduce you to less than you were before I became your patron, but I believe I have come up with a more edifying solution,” she said, producing a freshly penned royal order with a menacing, green, wax seal. Even the Guide couldn’t help but wince a bit at her words.

            It was an unspoken courtesy to never ask a treasure-seeker what they had been before a sweaty, underpaid, court official handed them their license and title. You didn’t become a treasure-seeker because you liked it. The only adventurers who admitted to truly enjoying their job were crazy or full of shit. They were all there because it was an era of stale bread, because there was a civil war going on hot and cold everywhere you turned, because treasure and (supposedly) magic artifacts meant more power and money for those who had power and money enough to search for them, because treasure-seekers were people who lived on the fringe of right and wrong. You got caught up in dangerous, often ludicrous, goose chases for people like Lady Carlotta because you weren’t fit for anything else.    

            “There’s been a rumor,” Lady Carlotta continued, “that the Pendulum of Desire has been located up north, around the Schuykill mountain border.”

            “Does the Lord Dahlmarva know?” said the Guide, forgetting that she hadn’t been called on to speak. The Lady forgave the question since it was relevant. The self-proclaimed Lord Dahlmarva had become a mysterious and terrifying figure ever since he appeared out of the ether fifteen years ago—when the civil wars started—and became the first leader to ever have absolute control over the Thieves Forest and the treacherous, craggy lands of Schuykill.

            “It’s possible, but I doubt it. My source is quite discreet and more than loyal. However, we can’t afford to waste time. I don’t need to tell you that the Lord has proved to be a formidable enemy to our state. If he obtains the Pendulum, he could deal massive amounts of damage, possibly even greater than what happened to the Hinterlands ten years ago.” The Guide wanted to mention that it was Lady Carlotta’s late husband that had foolishly unleashed the Starvling Ghouls on the once beautiful countryside. The Ghouls had eaten and slaughtered without discrimination in a wave of fire and teeth for days. Thousands of soldiers and civilians alike, on both sides of the battle, had died. The meadows of the Hinterlands were now piles of ash and bone. The Healer hesitated then raised his hand. Lady Carlotta motioned him to speak.

            “What exactly is the Pendulum of Desire? I have heard the name, but no one seems to know much about it.” He said.

            “It’s been said that the Pendulum bends the will of others to match your own, but others also say that it can crystallize your vision, give you a sight beyond the physical. I can’t say whether this is true, but in either situation, we can’t let potential untold power fall into the wrong hands.” Lady Carlotta said smiling, “In any case, the…display, at the banquet today has made it clear that you simply don’t have much better to do with your time than cause a disturbance. I think going after the Pendulum will keep you productive and out of trouble. You have two days to prepare.” With that the Lady handed the Guide her orders, border passes, and allotted budget. The courtier happily transferred the Fool’s ragdoll form to the Healer, and they were sent out into the hall. Without a word, they all convened in the Guide’s quarters to plan.

            The group pushed through the rusty-hinged east wing door to get to the stairs that would take them to their rooms. The east wing was where the glaring, white marble gave way to time-worn stone, creaky doors, and drafty hallways. It was not as comfortable as the rest of the castle as far as beds and carpets were concerned, but the Guide felt she could breathe easier there. No whispering courtiers, no nosey servants, and no patrons to dance for, just storage closets and dusty guest rooms. There was the lingering smell of mold, decaying fabric, and burned tallow, but the Guide found that if she kept her window propped open all day and lit candles instead of torches at night it wasn’t as bad.

            The Knight had to duck to get into the small sitting room that prefaced the Guide’s quarters. The Healer and the Fool struggled to get through the door at the same time, and when they did, the panting Healer let the Fool drop like a sack of flour to the floor. The Fool groaned and rolled over.

            “This is your fault, you lousy prick!” said the Healer. He brushed away the perspiration from the flight of stairs they had just come up with a shaky, thin hand. “I have a responsibility to the people outside these walls. I took this job to try and change things for them, get them food, better protection, be their advocate. I can’t just disappear for weeks on end.”

            “Sss-kezr…” said the Fool into the cold floor.

            “Speak for yourself,” said the Knight. He stared out the window to the sea coast, “I’m tired of sitting around here like a lump.”

            “You mean like your brain?” said the Healer, but the Knight wasn’t listening.

            “The time for whining is over and done. Thank you all for participating so whole-heartedly. We need to go over the route,” said the Guide. She had retrieved several water resistant maps and had unrolled them carefully over a small table. The Knight and the Healer reluctantly leaned over the faded, pictorial countryside with what looked like hundreds of different lines twisting all over the landscape. The Guide mostly brought out these worn scrolls to help her visualize problems. She knew the majority of the paths by heart now, and spent her time redrawing and rethinking strategies. The Guide placed an ink-stained finger on the savage, gray rectangle that was Schuykill and a thumb on the sickle-shaped coastline that was Carlotta.

            “It looks like a straight shot to me,” said the Healer, “We just cut through the Hinterlands and keep north. That shouldn’t take long.” The Guide shook her head, her eyes never leaving the map. She took his index finger and placed it on a black, oblong outcropping that sat like a fat cat on the border between the Hinterlands and the southernmost edge of Schuykill.

            “Do you know what that is?” She said. Her voice took on a calm, unreadable quality that the Healer had learned to fear during his short time as an adventurer.

            “It’s unmarked,” said the Knight. He paused. His high brow furrowed. “Black isn’t usually a good thing.” The Guide allowed herself a small smile. She liked how the Knight treated the obvious aspects of a question with respect. She pulled out a more detailed map of the Hinterlands so they could see the ominous obstruction more clearly.

            “It’s called the Swamp of Misdirection,” she said. The Healer stepped back.

            “How are we going to get through there? No one has!” said the Healer.

            “No, one man did. Well, he wasn’t completely sane when he got out, but he did record a little of the path through,” said the Guide. She kept her tone even. She didn’t want to deal with all this tonight. They would be asking her questions, and she needed time to think up answers, or at least lies that sounded like answers. In those brief moments of uncomfortable silence, when she tried to turn her mind to the familiar rhythms of paths and connections, all she could see was Lady Carlotta’s small hand clutching the royal order with its green seal, holding it in the air like a flag of truce when all along it was a weapon. The Guide hadn’t seen it, and she should have—those eyes like cold fire.

            “For the record,” said the Healer, “I don’t think it exists—the Pendulum I mean.” The Guide and the Knight shrugged. That wasn’t their call to make until they got past the Swamp, and in all likelihood they wouldn’t on their own.

            “We need a Nymph. If we a had a Nymph we could have a chance,” said the Guide. She turned back to a larger map that showed population records. The Healer snorted and folded his arms.

            “Nymphs? Really? I don’t hold with people who claim to communicate with nature any more than I believe that there is a magic object that can control a person’s will,” he said.

            “Be a skeptic or a treasure-seeker Amir, but to be both isn’t possible,” said the Guide.

            “Forgive me, I didn’t realize that traveling through hostile territory was where reason went to die,” said the Healer.

            “Did you see the Ghouls, Amir?” said the Knight, “The Starvling Ghouls were bound up in this obsidian box. The Lord Carlotta thought that he could defeat the Lord Dahlmarva, become king of everything from the sea to the mountains if he could control them. I was there, Amir. Hostile territory is exactly where reason goes to die.” This was quite a speech for the Knight, and the Healer and the Guide were silent for a while. The Knight turned back to the window, and the Healer paced slowly in front of the door. A stray western breeze flowed through the window carrying the scent of lavender and rain that made the Guide think of the meadows of her childhood, forever lost. The Fool snored and hiccupped on the floor.

            “So what do we do then?” the Healer said at last.

            “We go through Counterpane. It will tack on an extra week, but quiet farm country is the only place to find a Nymph these days. Once Derek rejoins the land of the living, he can help us figure out how to sneak our future group member across the border,” said the Guide rubbing her eyes.

            “What?” said the Fool. With what looked to be a Herculean effort, he lifted his head from the floor.

            “You’re going to smuggle a Nymph next week,” said the Knight.

            “In my pants!” said the Fool who laughed and fell asleep again.

            Later that night, the Guide was lying awake, haunted by the image of green seals and eyes. She didn’t want to mention her suspicions to the others about Lady Carlotta’s motives for sending them north. It wouldn’t do anything to help them get through the journey ahead to tell her group that she thought their patron was planning on them never coming back. The Guide wished she could think like the Healer at times like these. What evidence did she have? How could she possibly know what Lady Carlotta was thinking? No matter how she tried to talk herself out of it, she did know. She knew the way she had known that she would be given the Guide title when she completed her licensing examination. Lady Carlotta’s intention was laid out in front of her like a brightly lit path, but it was up to her now to decide if she was going to follow it.

To hear the lament and the anger so close to my door,

I can smell the crucible burning.

To see my neighbors and kin 

Take up arms against themselves—

Why can’t you be better?

I thought you were better.

For your own sake, be better!

Goddamn us all.

Rainer Maria Rilke

And I didn’t write. And I didn’t write. And I made snack runs, made mistakes, made time for everyone else, made excuses. So I felt happy, and I felt sad. So I sat on the edge of my bed and listened to a girl tell me how frustrated it made her when white people touched her hair. So I made do with messages instead of conversations. I found out about grades. I found out how my dad really felt. I found out about depression, weakness, and bravery.

And I didn’t write. And I didn’t write. And I looked into the eye of a camera and did nothing. I looked into the eyes of a photo, into a mirror, into myself. And I recognized the words, but also the fear, so I didn’t say them. So the one thing I wanted to write I couldn’t write, wouldn’t write, won’t write here. Because it’s not a song, and it’s not a reason, and it’s not prose. It is. And maybe it always was. I suspect it always will be. And you. It’s just you. I can’t explain how. 

I watch Shane Koyczan over and over,

I think baby, come and cry on my shoulder

And I’ll cry on yours,

Because your words kick open doors.

Your rhythm is dynamic and catching

You got my body moving and matching

the music of your thoughts,

The rise and fall of your emotions—

What you’re selling is almost too beautiful to be bought.

Your synapses start firing,

And it messes with my inner wiring,

You make me laugh.

And yeah, this is me,

This is Ms. Who’s-the-next-poet-of-the-week-gonna-be?

Who’s gonna be my patron saint of kick-ass,

The inspirational spirit of my unholy mass,

During the blink of an eye that is my day?

Because it’s true, I don’t always have follow-through.

Because not everything in everyday matters to me like words do,

And your words move.

Yes, we’ve never met,

But what you haven’t realized yet

is that love is not a pie,

That love is words and when it comes to words I can’t lie.

That I have synapses too, and they tell me over and over

I know you.

I know you.

We have imagined each other complexly for years now

No, I don’t know how,

But it’s real. 

I can feel what you feel, even if it hasn’t happened to me,

All this empathy

Pouring out of me like rain 

So that I can’t refrain from hitting that replay button one more time.

You can say it’s obsessive,

You can say whatever you want,

But I’m not possessive or repressive

I don’t need to own anything

Because everything I need is free

So be free. Love yourself and in that way

you’ll love me,

We are both made of the universe.

And please write more verse

Because your rhyme makes killing time look like an act of mercy,

Because eternity is a misery

And all that weight keeps me way too busy.

I watch Shane Koyczan over and over

The greatest overweight lover

Who reminds me that the dents in my cover

Are both all of me and none of me. 

And I’m thinking baby,

why don’t you come and sit next to me?

Cigarettes

Goddamn key

Fifty for the

Powder-room

Fred and I

The Mean Reds

He’s quel rat

Traveling

Tiffany’s.