September 8, 2023 ~ Friday morning-ish (eating breakfast – this has been bubbling inside me for hours)
A little short story for you today.
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It was a dark and stormy night …
If only.
Danielle always wrote better when it was cooler, during a rainstorm, or in the wee hours of the night. But she was on a deadline. Again. She stood in the back doorway, holding her empty coffee mug, and looked over at the heat waves shimmering off the black asphalt of the parking lot next door. That lot’s too close for comfort. Too hot for comfort! It’s too f’g hot. But then again – that had been her first thought every morning this summer. “Hottest on record” – climatologists said. “Hoax!” – said the non-believers.
“Jesus!”- she said aloud. At least no one had heard this outburst. She’d become very “religious” this summer. But purely (only) in a blasphemous way. It wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that she had murmured (or shouted) that name more often these past three months than a bunch of nuns. And not just a bunch, but a whole herd of nuns. Her aunt, Jaye, was a nun – what would she think of this language? Besides offending nuns, her language could probably make sailors blush – she’d been peppering it with swearing so much all summer. The cursing was worse when it was hot – and it was always hot. She thought she should probably control that … her cursing/not the heat … but, god damn it, it was September and STILL well over 90 degrees. When would it finally cool down? “Tomorrow,” the weatherman said. Yeah, right – always tomorrow.
Walking past the dog food bowl – she noticed that Frankie hadn’t eaten breakfast – again. Hmm … she hoped it was just the heat for him, too, and not his age or some health issue flaring up. She worried about this sweet oldster.
It had been a wasted day. Starting and stopping and deleting until her fingers were numb. She had nothing to show for her hours of sitting – except a derriere that was so asleep it was practically dreaming. Her laptop was great and so easy/efficient … but how she missed her old typewriter … her heavier than a steamship, maroon red, IBM Selectric II. She used to love the click-clack of the keys, the just-right pressure needed on them or she’d have a whole line of whatever letter she was last typing, the hum of the machine, the zip when pulling out the paper, and the crunch of crumpling up the not-so-good writing. She didn’t miss the reams of paper wasted – thrown basketball-style into the garbage can – but she missed the movement of it all. It had a certain dependable rhythm to it. A symphony of sound … a ballet of writing. Words seemed to flow more easily using it.
She sat down at her desk (aka the dining room table as using the desk in her office was akin to sitting in a sauna), sighing audibly. The dog would surely have looked her way if his hearing was acute. It wasn’t. Sighing again, she looked at the blank screen of her laptop and saw only her reflection – which reminded her of a quote from the movie, Chapter Two. It was written by the late, great Neil Simon – as a play and adapted into a movie starring Marsha Mason and James Caan (back in the late 1970s). The quote went something like … ‘Walter Mislansky looked in the mirror and saw what he feared most – Walter Mislansky.’ Dani liked the line/liked how it rolled off her tongue. Except she was not Neil Simon, nor Walter Mislansky … nor Marsha or James, for that matter. She was Danielle Ophelia Turner … acclaimed writer, best-selling novelist, and children’s lit award winner (if only in her own mind). As a child, she was called by her initials – DOT – which she hated. So, as soon as she could, she started asking to be called Dani. And here she was … a starving author with a looming deadline and an upset agent. Ugh – this is going nowhere! Focus!!!! Your name is going to be MUD, if you don’t get a move on! You have a book to write, woman! Stephen has given us an extension to the deadline (again) … get going! THINK!
Her inner critic/cheerleader was absent. Only nagging echoed in her head. The first deadline had come and gone. The second one also. Her agent said she needed to get the draft to him by the weekend or else. It was Thursday. She closed her eyes thinking that would clear the thoughts that were flying around her head like so many twisters of nonsensical snippets, book ideas, projects to do, letters to write … and that’s when IT popped up and was forefront and yelled out the loudest … do worms have ears? She shook her head and wondered if she was, indeed, having a stroke. What the hell is wrong with me??? Why am I thinking about worms and if they have ears? Dear God!
She picked up her coffee mug – thinking that perhaps by staring into it, it would magically fill up. But, it was still empty as she was too lazy to actually make coffee. It’s the heat, she thought. Maybe a trip to the local coffee shop would help spur me on and corral these thoughts. So, off she went. An hour later and $11 dollars poorer, she was back home with the dregs of a not-very-good iced coffee and a few telltale banana loaf crumbs on her shirt, and not a book idea in her head.
She looked at the dog, he blinked back. Sure, he was cute and tiny but there was something about him – she just wasn’t sure what it was. He was a recent “acquisition” … an orphaned 13-year-old in questionable shape. She’d only had him about a month. His owner had died – an old, eccentric man who had named the chihuahua Poe – after his favorite author – Edgar Allen. But, somewhere along the line of rescue homes and foster care, this little dog was renamed Frankie. Frankie or Poe – it didn’t really matter as the dog seemed deaf anyway. But, the family (who could not take him) said that their father always was carrying on about this special dog – about their great conversations, etc. Yeah, that owner was eccentric for sure! In any case, Dani had somehow wrangled this sweet, little nugget into her care, and yet as much as she talked to him – nary a word or comment back from the dog! Not one peep. Conversationalist my ass!
She stripped off her capris and took a deep sigh, stealing a glance back at the dog (laying across the chaise looking like one of those limp Dali watches) – acutely aware of the absurdity of what she was wearing. Was she looking at Frankie in concern or out of fear of being judged? I’m losing it! The dog doesn’t care what I’m wearing! She slowly sat down on the cool chair – only in a tank top and underwear – glad there was a cushion beneath her so her thighs wouldn’t stick to the wood. She realized that this had been her white-trash home uniform of choice this summer. But – hey, if you can’t be somewhat comfortable at home – where can you be? She looked at the thermostat … it read 88°. In the house. No wonder they were hot.
The house … was built to withstand the test of time … but not climate change. It holds the heat. Good back in the day but now? Nope. Sure, it slants – anyone would too if they were 112 years old. It was originally built in 1911, in what probably was a lovely little neighborhood, a block and a half from the downtown Main Street in this (now) historic town. The stumps of long-ago trees dot the neighborhood – massive cottonwoods once stood along with pines and spruce. Dani often wondered if a horse ever lived here. In the 1910s there were only 500,000 cars in the United States. It’s probable the original owners of this home didn’t have a car – but maybe they had a horse. There certainly would have been room in the backyard for one. But, maybe not. Who knows? There are only a few houses left in this area as more than not – they have been torn down and replaced by office buildings or duplexes, renovated into business spaces … or far too many parking lots. Dani knew that when she left this house it would also be one of those torn down and replaced. Sad to think about – this sweet little house – but the land is too valuable to keep it as a single/old/slanting/hotter-than-hell in the summer/colder-than-the-North Pole in the winter dwelling.
Dani stared at the white screen. Get a grip, girl! This is important. But nothing was forthcoming. Not even anything bad. Nothing.
She got up and paced – angling the fan “just so” towards her workstation and another one towards the dog (who wasn’t really moving about much) … checking the outflow of cool air from the window a/c unit (which was really not doing squat). She sat down on the chair in the corner and peeked through the closed blinds (better down than up when it was so hot) onto the still shimmering, too-close asphalt. NOTHING came to mind. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Garbage. The day turned into evening. She had done housework and scrubbed the not-a-speck-on-it range thinking that might ignite some brain cells. It did not. She stopped and started writing half a dozen times – deleting everything as soon as she typed. I’m toast – this is ridiculous. Why am I not coming up with anything?
Dani thought about making dinner. She decided on scrambled eggs for her and Frankie; that sounded good/easy and she knew he’d eat that. But not yet. She sat back in her chair – put her feet up on the one next to her and rolled her head towards where the dog lay, not sleeping anymore, just looking at her with those old, watery eyes. She called out to him, “My sweet pup, what should I do?” She had just turned her head back toward the screen when she heard the dog say, “Why don’t you start out with – “It was a dark and stormy night?”