December 3rdA Chapter by Charles Anthony AlmanzaIf the eighteen different alarms, set by the three different women in this house, and snoozed at five minute intervals, had not awoken me, it certainly would’ve been the angry, howling December wind that lashed out against the four walls holding up our roof. The days of the sun being up bright and early like the rest of the people in this house have been long gone, so it is still dark outside when I finally sit up against the green-brown satin couch in the living room. I can hear the tap running upstairs and some murmuring; Mother and my oldest sister, Percy (Persephone but she hates the link between herself and the Queen of the Underworld, my fickle, stubborn sister, insists) are talking to each other, though the words are inaudible and drowned out by the screeching wind. Still groggy, I turn on the television,
rubbing my eyes to wake up. The seven-o-clock morning news tells me nothing
that I don’t already know; meteorologists say that heavy winds are coming in from
an arctic storm that originated in Newfoundland, Canada, but had quickly swept
through the States and ended up, at last, on the border of the Pacific in
Southern California. Expect rain and possibly thunder. ‘They said the same thing yesterday,’
Percy says, walking down the stairs and plopping down next to me to watch the
news. ‘Something about the storm of the decade.’ Her glossy, straight brown
hair is tied up in a loose bun, her eyes still red and puffy with sleep. She
sighs. ‘What are you doing today?’ ‘Work,’ I reply, stretching. ‘But later
on, around six.’ ‘Lucky,’ she says, sighing as she stands
up. ‘Be glad you don’t have to go in now.’ Though she’s younger than I am by a year,
she’s always held a steady eight-to-four job at a legal firm with Mother; Percy
started when she was sixteen, just helping Mother with paperwork and filing and
the like whenever she’d bring home work documents, but after about a year or
so, the firm decided to hire Percy part-to-full time while she kept going to
school and she stayed there ever since. I can hardly blame her; working at a
law firm for nearly a decade has to look good on any resume, regardless if
you’re applying to flip burgers at McDonalds or make coffee at Portfolio’s
Coffee Shop. That’s just a gold mine of experience. I make coffee for her and Mother to pour
into their tumblers and offer to whip up a few fried eggs for them but they
decline; the office usually has a box of some kind of breakfast pastries
already waiting to be eaten upon arrival. ‘Thank you, though,’ says Mother as she
descends, at last, in a pencil skirt, her hair conditioned and smelling like
cucumber and honeydew, and a grey blouse. ‘Do you need a ride to work? I’ll be
home around five-thirty or so.’ ‘I think I’ll manage,’ I say, and Mother
kisses me on the cheek. ‘Make sure Diana eats,’ says Percy before
turning to look at me. ‘Thank you for the coffee. We’ll see you later.’ Awake and somewhat bored, I sit back down,
watching Mother and Percy through the window as they fight against the wind
while heading to Percy’s car, a small, four door Kia, and taking off moments
later. I sigh, looking around. Being back was a strange thing for me. Often,
like now, I’d stare at the ceiling while laying on this couch wondering if my
years abroad travelling with the wind were just a dream, as though I had just
woken up from a six year long dream and nothing had changed. But everything had changed. My step father
is no longer in the picture, and gone with him are the dark thoughts, the
strange madness that plagued the house. Mother had faced down La Cegua herself, the horse-headed demon
that, according to Abuelita, chases after all those who can see her. A creature
of shadow, of myth, of fire and darkness. A monster of our folklore. Sure, it’s
all a game, at least for the past twenty years that’s what I’ve been told. But
even with that, I’m not so convinced that La
Cegua wasn’t real; she comes in many shapes, many faces, many names, many
forms. Mother banished her from her house, and as a result, Roberto relocated
to his brother’s a few cities away. No longer was the gut churning fear that I
would feel when coming home knowing he was there present, neither was the
threat of violence and alcohol, of judgment and a set of fresh scars along my
arms and the arms of Percy and Dee. Though our house is dark because of a lack
of windows, it feels brighter, more open now. Tranquility replaced oppressive
fear. Posters of beer and car convention calendars were replaced with prints of
Paris, of Rome, of The Starry Night and
Le Port de Trouville. Assembled model
toy cars were done away with and in their place were totems of Eostre and
Itzamna and the horns of Dionysus. A Mayan calendar hangs on the wall by the
fridge, and a fragment of an Egyptian Book
of the Dead scroll hangs behind glass by the entrance. An ivory carved
wheel from Shanghai depicting a merchant sitting in a carriage being pulled
through a beautiful garden sits prominently along the giant chest in the middle
of the living room that served as a coffee table. Mother has taken her house and made it her
own after twenty years. This finally feels like home for us. And for that, I am
grateful. ‘No, thanks,’ she murmurs, mouthful of eggs. ‘Do you have work today?’ I ask, taking a sip. I like my
coffee black, rich, and thick, with enough acrid bitterness to really jolt you
awake. She nods. She works at a pet store down the street, but I
suspect that if it were up to her, she wouldn’t do anything but stay at home.
Mother told me that she gave Dee an ultimatum early this year; it was either
enroll into school, or get a job. But Dee had to choose one. So, she went with
working at a pet store, which I think fits her nicely. She’s always had an
affinity for animals. I
watch as she eats without bothering to wipe her long, dark, matted morning hair
out of her face. I feel the urge against my palms to push her hair back, but I don’t;
she hates being touched, from what I remember. Instead, I look to the creature
licking my bare foot, my dog, a beautiful, slightly reddish, chocolate brown
dachshund named Galadriel (Mother is a huge fan of The Lord of the Rings, if
you can’t tell by now) that was rescued from a trash can. She was apparently
thirty pounds when Mother first found her, bloated, full of worms, her ears
nearly half-eaten, and blind in one eye. After a few months of shots, therapy,
and lots of love and comfort and nourishment, Galadriel returned to a happy, ‘normal’
state, at least that’s what the vets said. From what I can tell in the last six days, she still has
a bit of trauma. She runs to hide in the bathroom during storms, hates any doors
slamming, and barks madly in fear of fireworks or things that go boom. In fact, with all the racket the
storm is making, I’m surprised she is walking around the house so carefree. She
should be cowering in a corner and whimpering by now. ‘I think she likes you,’ says Dee, taking her empty plate
to the small kitchen sink and setting it down. ‘She doesn’t warm up so fast to
people. She doesn’t even do that for Percy, and Gale has been here for two
years.’ I take ‘Gale’ to mean the dog, nodding as I continue
scratching Galadriel behind her ears. ‘Well,’ I say, sighing. ‘I don’t have work until six
tonight, so I’ll be home all day.’ ‘Why don’t you go explore?’ I turn my head to study her. ‘Where?’ Dee, her large, brown eyes studying her phone intently,
clears her throat. ‘You work in Belmont Heights, right?’ I nod and she
continues. ‘There are a lot of cool places around there, like the candle shop
and the book shop…you still write, don’t you?’ I’d like to think I still try. Of course, writing in this
journal doesn’t really count much for me, but I’d like to still think that I am
a writer and I do want to get published one day. ‘I do,’ I say, and she nods. ‘There’s a place called the Library Café a block away
from where you work. They have lots of books on bookshelves and couches and
furniture. I’ve been there once with my coworker, Laurie. I think you would
like it.’ I study her as she talks. Together, we have Abuelita’s
dark skin, though our eyes are more like Mothers. I’m the only one who has
inherited the maternal curly hair gene, however, a fact that neither of my
sisters will ever let go of. Her eyes, though, are full of sadness, regardless
of how hard she tries. I know she’s been getting better. If only there was
something I could do to help her out… ‘Anyway, you should explore,’ she says, on a final note. ‘I
know moving back has been hard for you, but if you stay home all day, you’re
going to be miserable. This isn’t New York, Lucas, but there are still things
you can do to keep yourself busy. I mean, look at me,’ she trails off for a
moment " I can catch her thoughts quickly nosediving into darker waters "
before she comes right back up to the surface and offers a small smile. ‘I’m
doing the same thing. I’m trying.’ Sometimes, my sisters surprise me with how much they’ve
grown. I sometimes forget that we’re all adults, and as a result, we hardly
think like kids anymore. *** I take her advice and head out two hours before my shift
starts, with my black, Moleskine notebook, a few pens, a copy of A Moveable Feast, and my headphones, all
in my backpack. Ten minutes in an Uber ride later brings me right to the
entrance, and as I thank the driver and step onto the curb, I study the place.
The doors are wooden and glass, the interior wallpaper painted a dark, forest
green. Cautious and quiet chatter fills the air, floating just above the sounds
of clinking dishes and milk steaming. The café is rather large, but still
quaint, a strong feeling of intimacy. Beneath the scent of mocha and coffee
beans and buttery pastries, I can almost detect another, familiar, woodsy
smell. Lavender, maybe? Or mimosa. The smell of coffee is too strong for me to
narrow it down. But it smells warm and inviting. Colorful couches, of scarlet red and burnt
orange and lime green, line the walls of shelves and library books, small,
wooden coffee tables are peppered throughout. Handwritten signs are scattered around
the pastry case (all fresh pastries, but from a quick glance behind the
register, they have to be bought from somewhere; their back of the house looks
way too small to function as a bakery), seven coffee urns with different types
of coffee are displayed on the counter, and a kind looking, shorter, older Asian
woman stands at the register, pooling the tips from a yellow, plastic cup. ‘Hello, dear,’ she says, her smile flashing
brightly at me. I order a cup of coffee, black, and she
nods when I tell her I don’t need room for cream. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she smiles again. ‘The
wifi password is password, no
capitals.’ Funny, I think, as I thank her and stroll
over into the main room. Conversations don’t immediately halt when I enter, but
I can catch a few looks, half-hearted attempts at hiding their curiosity over laptop
screens, hushed glances from notebooks and phones. They’re probably the local
regulars, sizing up every foreigner to enter their little secluded community. I take a seat over in the corner next to a
dusty piano that looks as though it hasn’t been used in the last decade,
adjusting the small wooden chair so that I can comfortably sit down. The table
is a bit small but since I’m the only one using it for writing I don’t mind. I
spread out my notebook and pens, open it to a blank page, and stare for a
moment. And then, I write: Carson Fletcher had always been a man
with an affinity for appearances. Dissatisfied, I strike the line through
with my pen. Good writing takes time and cannot be forced, I remind myself. Good
writing can rely only so much on discipline. ‘Is this seat taken?’ Startled, I look up to the owner of the
voice. He’s tall, about six feet tall, my height, with a mustard yellow beanie
over his shaved head. His warm brown eyes are unexpectedly piercing but I can’t
help but fix my gaze on them. ‘No,’ I manage, extending a hand to the empty
seat across from me. ‘Please.’ ‘Thanks,’ he says, plopping down on the chair,
and glancing around before smiling at me. ‘All the other seats are taken, I
wouldn’t normally do this.’ ‘No worries,’ I say, kindly. ‘You get to
meet someone new. Why apologize for that?’ ‘I didn’t apologize,’ he says, slyly, his
mouth curling into a small, half-smile. I’m not normally taken off guard. Usually
I’m the guy with a response to everything and anything, whether joking or in
arguments. But here I am, without defenses, without weapons, without armor. ‘Nicely
done,’ I cede, grinning. ‘Noah,’ he says, extending a hand. ‘I live
down the street, but I love coming here.’ ‘Lucas,’ I say, shaking his hand. ‘Nice to
meet you.’ ‘What are you up to today?’ he asks,
eyeing my notebook and pens. I study him, as his chocolate brown eyes
study me. His eyes, bright and radiant, full of fire, are those of a wandering
soul, searching for something, anything, interesting. His skin is like dark
vanilla and his freckles like cinnamon, covered with a hoodie and skinny jeans,
their colors intentionally dark, as though he wears them for the sole purpose
of fading into the background, of being unnoticed. But I can see him clearly. ‘Writing,’ I said, shrugging. ‘Or at
least, trying and pretending to write. You know the process. Part of writing is
actually staring at the screen and waiting for that staccato burst of
inspiration.’ He laughs, the kind of laugh a four-year-old
kid has when he finds out that he got a puppy for Christmas. The glare of his
ultrabright smile is so intense, it makes me want to wither like a neglected
tomato vine. But I sit up, strong and tall. I won’t be taken down so easily. ‘I know the process,’ he admits. ‘It’s why
I don’t write. Instead, I come here and watch others write and hope that one
day their passion will bleed into me, you know?’ I nod, still studying him. I try reaching
for his thoughts, reaching to read anything, anything at all, but I can only
sense a strange, addicted sort of madness, intertwined with laughter and kindness. His eyes flicker between me and my copy of
A Moveable Feast. ‘You’re a fan of
Hemingway?’ I nod, picking up the book and flipping
through it. ‘The first time I read this was in Paris, about four years ago. I
used to be a Fitzgerald guy, but…something about the way he writes just feels
magical.’ ‘You’ve been to Paris before?’ I nod again. ‘Yeah, I love Paris.’ ‘That’s so awesome,’ he says, smiling. His
eyes fire up; he’s intrigued, he wants to know more. ‘Have you been anywhere
else?’ I smile. I tell him the story of my
travels with the wind. I tell him about layovers in Greenland and Reykjavic and
the Sphynx of Giza and the Acropolis in Athens. I tell him of the olive fields
in southern Italy that I worked in for a month and of catching the final rays
of the aurora borealis in Kiruna, Sweden, living in New York and Rome, my mad
dash, my own personal journey, following after the changing wind. ‘You’re so brave,’ he says, biting his
lip. I can feel a cloud of warm thoughts bleed off him and into the air, with
flecks of red and purple. ‘So that’s where you’ve been all my life.’ ‘Well, I’m here now,’ I laugh. A rumble of thunder rolls through the sky,
and the gentle tap of rain against the roof and the doors somehow freshens the
air in the café. ‘Do you like Hemingway?’ I ask,
absentmindedly. He doesn’t even miss a beat: ‘Almost as
much as I worship him.’
I can’t help but smile. © 2017 Charles Anthony Almanza |
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Added on June 23, 2017 Last Updated on June 23, 2017 Tags: magical realism, young adult, fantasy, slice of life, wind, romance, magic, family, drama AuthorCharles Anthony AlmanzaSignal Hill, CAAboutFilm buff. Writer. Gun for hire. Wellington, NZ bound. more..Writing
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