Fiction – Jaunty-Rabbit

The Writer

He sat at the small table, laptop in front of him, pack of Camel Blues to his right, focused intently on the screen of the small Thinkpad. Ryan Adams played softly in the background as his fingers stroked the keypad. He leaned forward as if to see the type better. His black hair hung over his brow as it furrowed. His right hand went to the top of the keyboard, his index finger stretched out as if pointing to some casualty by the roadside. It landed firmly and squarely on the Delete key. He pressed it, keeping his finger poised on the key. The cursor moved backwards across the screen, first a few letters, then a word, then more words, backing through his thoughts, his emotions until the entire paragraph was gone.

“hrmmph.” The only sound he made. He looked up from the keyboard at the screen, then his gaze extended beyond the screen, focusing somewhere between his mind and the eternal sky. He sat like this for a while. His brow raising occasionally, deep in his world, immersed in the lives and goings on of the characters on the page, as if he was watching them in front of him, just beyond his reach. He watched. Waiting for what was to happen next. He laughed to himself as if he just played witness to a good joke. He woke from his trance, fingers poised on the keys, he types, slowly at first, picking up speed as the story he just witnessed races through his mind. His fingers trying to catch it before it disappears again. He leans into the laptop as his fingers now hit their stride. First a few letters, then a word, then more words, then a paragraph. Then another.

His gaze is at the screen but not reading the words that are appearing on the white background, his mind is still in the land when he witnessed the story unfold. Soon his fingers slow, he stares at the screen, his right hand reaching for the pack of Camels, like a scene rehearsed a thousand times before, he pulls out one. His hands so familiar with this routine that he doesn’t take his eyes from the screen. He places the cigarette between his lips, then reaches for the lighter, automatically lighting it as it approaches the tip of the small white cylinder held tightly between his lips. His hands stops at the appropriate distance, he breathes in the flame through the tobacco, inhaling the first wisps of smoke. His hand places the lighter back next to the pack of Camels on the table. His eyes never leave the screen.

He leans back in his chair, keeping his gaze focused on the words before him, leaning back in the chair, he pulls the cigarette from his mouth. As he does his lips close except for at the sides of his mouth, he breathes in through the small openings in his lips. A small sound of rushing air emanates, like a gentle whisper to a friend. His hand finds the ashtray, he taps the ash from the burning cigarette.

Paris

10:30, I still have time, his train doesn’t get in until 11:50. I sat at my table in front of La Lamarck, a small café that I frequented on the days when I felt stifled by the Parisian gloom of winter. He’d been gone for some two months now, back home to take care of left over business from his family. The Parisian pedestrians wandered by, no doubt wondering why I was sitting outside on yet another cold day in Montmarte. The weather had turned unseasonably cold this year, beginning to chill in early September, when he left.

Maybe it wasn’t the weather, maybe it was my mood. Nonetheless, I sat at my usual table, smoking my Camel Blues and sipping at my Café Latte. Waiting for the hour. This happened to be the café that we found on our first trip to Paris some twenty years ago, I was just a boy then, or so it felt. I was twenty-five, and it was my first trip to Europe. A gift from him. He had always spoiled me, in one way or another, never asking for anything in return, except for me to write.

He had hoped that Paris, indeed Europe would inspire me to write my first novel. To finish it. It did. Our first trip was short, but it was a lifetime in memories. It had inspired me for my first, second and third novels. Such that I decided I wanted to live here. After returning to the states after that trip, I wrote, like a dam had burst, spilling its restrained contents far and wide. Wiping out everything that had previously stood in its way. The writing came, and never stopped. Twenty years of being successful at what I loved, at what I am. All during and before, he stood beside me, catching me when I fell, lifting me, holding me, encouraging me.

That first novel was about us, and our time together, but I had envisioned it as being limited. I had predicted that I would go my own way and that we would accidentally meet up at a bar in Calgary, watching the aurora borealis. That he would have gone on with his life, and I with mine. That wasn’t the case, we moved to Paris a year after our first trip here. He had come home from work one night and said that we were leaving, and never looking back. A light snow was starting to fall, Geri, the waitress, came running out asking if I wanted to move inside. I smiled and shook my head slightly. She murmured something under her breath as she turned back inside. This was our spot, and he was coming home. I missed him. It had only been two months, the second longest time we had been apart. The last time he was gone for a long time was six months when his mother had passed away. We went to the funeral together, but I had to leave for New York a few days later and start a new book tour. I missed him then. But now, I missed him more.

That was ten years ago. Where had the time gone? Now at 46, I longed for him to be here, I needed his encouragement, his strength. I was stuck on my latest novel, I didn’t know where to go with it. When we had met, we had refused to define our relationship. We carried on this charade for years. Each knowing that we belonged to each other, always. We refused to define what we were, what we would be. Me always knowing that I would leave him someday. I think that he knew he would never leave me. And he hasn’t, .despite my wanting the world, my impatience, he would find a way to give it to me. I have always known that he needed me, and even more, that I needed him. We still have not defined our relationship. It is a lifetime, it is the love that I always wanted and always had.

I worry about him, I wanted to go with him but he told me he needed to make this trip on his own. It was his closure. He knew he would never return again. This was it. His goodbye to his family, his friends, his former life, and possibly to his life. At 72 now, he was becoming feeble, aged. He knew all those years of smoking would catch up to him. I looked at my watch, 10:45, it would be time soon to leave for the station. I wanted him here beside me now. Watching Paris.

I picked up my pack of Camels from the table, blew off the light dusting of snow and headed down the street to the Metro station. Before too long I was at the Gare du Nord waiting for his train. It rolled in right on time. Throngs of people rushed past me, I did not see him. I waited, after a short while, a elderly man made his way off the train, he walked with a cane. This sight took me off guard. I ran up to him, “Jack, what happened?”

“Aw, I tripped and screwed up my damned leg.”

“Ohh, baby…” I took the small bag from his shoulder and we walked arm in arm down the train platform. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too…” We made our way out of the station and found a cab for the short ride back to the flat. I didn’t want to make him walk with a bad leg. We talked during the cab ride home, catching up on the past months.

“You know what?” He said.

“What?”

“Let’s go to Le Lemarck, I feel like sitting and watching Paris for a while…”

I smiled, kissed him, then instructed the driver to head to Le Lemarck. Geri greeted us at the door, holding it open for us, Jack shrugged and said he wanted to sit outside. Geri gave an exasperated sigh, then went to fetch our drinks.

“That trip wore me out…” Jack said as he took a seat at our favorite table, refusing any help from me. Geri returned with a Caffe Latte for me and a diet Coke for Jack, he lifted his glass, “…here’s to another twenty years baby! I’m glad to be home.”

We toasted and then settled in for an afternoon of watching Paris in the winter.

Manning Place

It was a nice little cottage style house, located in West LA, more fitting for Santa Monica Beach but nonetheless, land locked by the Mormon Temple to the west, apartments on the east and high rises to the north. It sat quietly unobtrusive behind a swath of evergreens and azaleas on the top of the hill. Surrounded by California pepper trees, it seemed out of place for the neighborhood. Just off Santa Monica Boulevard, it was conveniently close for the crowd that it beckoned, writers, artists, musicians. Bohemian souls all. Much like the soul of the house.

The garden played host to many days and nights of soft music, good friends, and good times. The barbeque more oft grilling delectable dishes than stationary, the old sofa nestled snuggly against the white washed wall covered in candle sconces. An over-stuffed papisan calling comfort amongst the jasmine and gardenias, ready for a fragrant nap on a mid summers day. On quiet nights the house rested, silent in its warming welcome to all those who lay within. When asked, the various visitors would surely comment the same, it is home.

The occupants enjoyed the solitude the home provided from the city, the only intrusion; the occasional truck rumbling by on Manning. The evergreens belied the truths laying just beyond their reach, keeping the spirit of the home contained for its chosen guests. The occupants, an unlikely pair, from different generations, different cultures and different views of life, but brought together by one common bond, their love for each other. A love they shared with their guests and their visitors. Jonah had the experience of a lifetime, at 45 years, he was well versed in the ways of the world. Living life at various times, in various countries of the world, and in different classes and means. From being down trodden to living affluence in the arms of royalty. Teo a mere twenty three, just out of college, an English major who had led a somewhat sheltered life until the beginning of his college career.

Jonah and Teo met by course, such that Jonah had barely noticed, and had it not been for Teo’s persistence, Manning Place would not have been. Jonah spent much of his time in the garden or puttering: placing a new string of lights on the patio, or installing the solar tea lights for ambience. Teo would observe Jonah as he putzed, watching silently – smiling to himself. He loved to watch Jonah work. For a man of forty-five, Jonah had kept himself in shape, except for the smoking. Jonah would hum or sing along to the music that was a constant at Manning as he worked. Teo had introduced Jonah to the Bohemian Lifestyle quite accidently, not even realizing his own Bohemian-ness, until Jonah identified it as they laid quietly in each other’s arms after one of the informal music gatherings. The guests all nestled throughout the house, leaving Jonah and Teo time to enjoy the quiet pre-dawn hours.

A writer and a photographer in a life lived many years prior, Jonah counseled Teo on the elements of Bohemia. The fundamentals of the principals and the beliefs held by those true to the faith, Teo listened intently, knowingly, acceptingly. The conversation continued as the first rays of the new day slowly crept through the slats in the bamboo fence surrounding the patio. The golden hue slowly rose across Teo’s face, giving his Vietnamese skin a soft golden pallor. Jonah watched as the rising sun transformed the intimacy of the night into another day of lazing. He would let his kids slumber for now, the kids of his Bohemian enclave. He had grown to love each in their own manner, as a father loves his own children, admiring their qualities, accepting their faults. He would protect each as his own, and counsel each in their separate ways. This time they would carry with them for the rest of their lives, this time that would shape their existence, and their very being. None realized the subtle formations being shaped by the guru of Manning Place, but each would feel it in their own time, much as Teo had felt it in the years he had grown to know Jonah. Teo knew this as well, as Jonah would counsel or reprimand one of the guests, he would watch as the guest listened intently, smiling to himself with the recognition that one only gains from personal experience.

Days or weeks would pass, sometimes months, the guest would return with the elements of the lecture firmly in place, understanding the meaning and placing in practice the purpose. They would come, some acknowledging, some not understanding, but they would return. Teo would watch these interactions, taking the lessons to heart and practicing the forms and principals. Jonah acted and spoke not with superiority or malice, only as observations. He understood that the guests would take what they needed and leave the rest for others. He spoke from love and care, this the guests knew, and accepted his platitudes. Having lived his life, successfully at times, but more oft, unsuccessfully and with great struggle, Jonah did not judge, instead he nudged and showed paths.

As Teo and Jonah sat on the old sofa, gazing at the sky as it transformed from black to navy then to a pale blue, George made his way through the open glass doors. Teo’s eyes were closed in a soft slumber, George smiled as Jonah acknowledged him with a nod. He looked down at Teo laying in Jonah’s lap, “ I love it here, I never want to leave.”

“Thanks.” Was the only response Jonah would offer. Both knew that George would leave in a few hours for another long absence as he studied dentistry in San Francisco. “I’ll fix you breakfast in a bit.”

George gleamed, this was an unspoken tradition of Manning Place; the old sage would always send his charges into the world with a full fete, whether it be breakfast or supper. George’s preference was breakfast. Jonah loved to provide this service to his guests, especially to George. Of all the guests, George had a special place, mostly due to his closeness to Teo, and thus, Jonah treated him with a regard shared by no others.