Borderline

Francisco poured milk into his coffee to match the North Fork of the Gunnison. Café con leche, he thought as he watched the river roiling thirty yards outside his window. He’d come as he did each year to fish the spring run-off and feel the river's pull as it made its journey South. He fished the morning, catching and releasing early season cut-throat and rainbow trout until the cold drove him into Nadine’s for coffee and a seat by the wood stove.

Nobody named Nadine had ever worked a shift during the forty three years that Nadine’s had stood sandwiched between Colorado 92 and this bend of the Gunnison River. Sarah however, had poured thousands of cups of coffee and slid countless cheeseburgers, BLTs, and Today’s Specials across the Formica counter-top to a proportionate number of shivering fishermen. Today, like any other, as she warmed Francisco’s coffee she asked one of the two things she would always ask of patrons, “Cold enough for you?”

"Mas frio que la teta de una bruja!" Francisco blurted. Then quickly, "Oh perdona, I, I mean...I’m so sorry.” Sarah laughed, “Don’t worry about it amigo. Some of the boys that come in here have said a lot worse without ever asking me to pardon their French. I suppose I can forgive you your Spanish this once. Tell me, just exactly how would you know if it’s colder than a witch’s tit out there anyway?”  It was Francisco’s turn to laugh, a shade redder. Amused by Francisco’s embarrassment and touched by the sincerity of his apology, Sarah smiled and asked the other question she would always ask, “Catchin’ any?”

Knowing better than to continue pleading his case once the charges have been dismissed, Francisco launched into his account of the morning's fishing. He recounted each fish, the kind of fly he had tied, and which rock or eddy it had struck near. Sarah listened attentively (though she’d heard it all before) and when Francisco finished said only, “We’ve got peach pie today.” Then she winked with what Francisco noticed to be one of a pair of lovely brown eyes. She turned, walked half the length of the counter to the old circular glass pie safe, withdrew a wedge of pie and returning, set the plate on the counter in front of Francisco.

Before Francisco could speak, the door burst open with a blast of cold air and a new pair of anglers entered, batting arms against coats and scrubbing the boots of their waders on the doormat. Sarah gave them a wave, patted Francisco’s hand and pulling her order pad from her apron, moved towards her new customers, asking, “Cold enough for you?”

Francisco studied the waitress with newfound interest as she walked away and decided he liked her both coming and going. He forked some of the pie into his mouth and once again looked out at the river that would soon mingle with the Colorado and flow southward through the Grand Canyon. Farther along it would separate Arizona from California, on the way to the Mexican border. Most of the river would be siphoned off to irrigate a thirsty Southern California. Some though, would dampen the border along Baja before emptying into the Sea of Cortez. Only a trickle perhaps, but standing in the river’s icy flow, Francisco could feel the connection.

He finished his pie and was warm enough. He tucked four dollar bills under his coffee cup and on his way out, tipped his hat to the pretty waitress with the name tag that read Sarah.

Outside the sun had risen well above the ridge of Snow-capped peaks. The air was still brisk, but the sun was now warm on his shoulders as he hiked the short path to his pickup, retrieved his fly rod and then continued on to the river’s edge.

Anglers he passed along the way invariably inquired, “Catchin’ any?” At first, it had puzzled Francisco that so many would pose such a question without so much as slowing their pace for a response. Gradually, Francisco had come to understand this to be more pleasantry than inquiry, so he now replied a concise “some” or “a few” without slowing his own. Heard one, heard them all, he thought. This made him wonder if his story had bored the waitress, Sarah. She had no doubt heard her share of fish stories. Note to self: Be more interesting.

Wading into the river, being careful not to slip on the ice that still skirted its banks, he began casting. He whipped the line overhead before laying it flat on the surface and then twitching it ever so slightly to animate the nymph he’d tied to the leader. Standing in the current, sunlight bright on snow he knew would not melt away completely for weeks, Francisco thought of how far removed this was from the fishing he’d done as a boy in Mexico.

He remembered his father, Octavio, taking him fishing in the big, brightly colored panga boats. Francisco could almost smell the thick oily paint they would slather from bow to stern in preparation each summer. Octavio, would use whatever color paint he could procure, but he preferred a brilliant red, blue or green. His thinking was the fish would be first attracted to the boat and then to the bait. Nobody could question Octavio’s logic as he was widely regarded as the best fisherman in the village.

They fished the Pacific Ocean out of Bahia de San Quintin catching every manner of fish. In the summer they'd out muscle albacore tuna, dorado, marlin, or swordfish. In the winter they wound up rock cod and grouper from depths so great the fishes’ eyeballs bulged from the rapid change in pressure and sank their chicken wire traps outside of the kelp line for lobster. It was a fisherman’s paradise two hundred miles south of the border. The fish he caught today were smaller than the mackerel he used to catch for bait, he thought as he tossed his fly expertly into a small eddy created by the fresh erosion.

The fly only touched the surface, and the water exploded. The rod bent with such ferocity that Francisco stumbled forward several steps before regaining his footing. Line tore from the reel’s spool, blistering the pad of Francisco’s thumb. He needed to loosen his grip; he needed to give this fish line. He knew these things as surely as he knew he was standing hip-deep in the North Fork of the Gunnison fishing for trout. That, was the reason for his lapse. Had he been on his father’s panga, his reaction would have been automatic. Set the hook. Set it again. Loosen the drag. Use the rod to tire the fish. He’d done it a hundred times before when an albacore tuna inhaled a sardine and broke for the ocean floor. But this was too disorienting. His mind told him it was impossible; albacore tuna do not swim in the Gunnison River. His thumb, however, hotly disagreed. So, regaining his wits, he released it, adjusted his drag, and began advancing on the fish.

Line paid out at a rate Francisco could ill afford. At least the fish cannot dive, he thought, as he shambled over the cobbles to lessen the deficit. He angled towards the bank, every muscle straining, balancing and counter-balancing to remain upright. If he could reach the bank and scramble out of the river without losing the fish, he might stand a chance. He would need the advantage as his tackle was far too light for a fish like this. If he could just move in front of it...

...but his thought trailed off as forty yards upstream a silver missile with long, black, pectoral wings pierced the muddy surface and launched six feet into the air. The image would have been no more incomprehensible had the fish flapped those wings and flown into the sun. It was a Pacific albacore tuna, thirty pounds or better, twelve hundred miles up river.

Francisco was still trying to wrap his mind around this new development when one of the large, round, river stones he’d sought purchase upon rolled sending him to one knee. He struggled to right himself, but the icy water filled his waders. He was now part of the current. He remained focused as he was swept down-stream, despite the excruciating cold. His reel, which by all rights should be bankrupt, was no longer surrendering line. The fish had turned.

Maintaining his grip on the fly rod with his right hand, Francisco urged the dumb, frigid, digits of his left to unbuckle the shoulder straps of his waders. He poked and clawed in the vicinity of the clasps, his dexterity for the task oddly reminding him of clumsy backseat grappling and groping with his high school sweetheart’s bra hooks. Carmen Candamio, what a beauty she was. He hadn’t thought of her in years, and, given his current current circumstances, it seemed a poor time for reminiscing. Still,it made him smile to remember, and, with determination nearly as urgent, he was able to coax the clasp’s submission more easily than he ever had Carmen’s.

This at last accomplished, he held the bib of the waders agape, allowing the river to steal them. Free now, he rolled on his back and kicked towards the bank, reeling in the slack line as he went.

The water no longer felt cold to him, which should’ve been alarming. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew the signs of hypothermia. Gazing up at the cloudless blue sky though, he felt serene and even warm. He thought of the waitress, Sarah. She would be warm, he thought. She would be sweet like her peach pie too. Mmmm pie, he thought. He was drifting, almost dreaming. Maybe he'd close his eyes. Just for a few seconds. He dreamed he was floating, which wasn't really a dream. He dreamed he was floating in the warm sunshine holding Sarah’s hand. He dreamed of a pelican against the stark blue sky. He watched the elegant bird gliding on the thermal without beating a wing. When the pelican crossed in front of the sun its shadow fell upon them blocking out the warm sunshine. This chilled Francisco to the bone. He jerked his eyes wide open and resumed his kicking, aided this time by the twin engines of panic and adrenalin.

Teeth chattering, Francisco reached the river’s edge. He grabbed an exposed root with his free hand and dragged himself to his feet. He was out of breath. The fish, improbably, was still on his line. He reeled furiously, the line spooling on with almost no resistance.

Francisco regained all but perhaps twenty feet of his line. He could see the fish now, swimming only to maintain its place in the current. He wondered briefly why the fish still fought the current. Then with a rush of panic, it occurred to him that he had no gaff. The small net he used for scooping trout from the river was not only sorely inadequate, but had been jettisoned along with his waders.

For a stark moment, neither fish nor fisherman struggled. In that moment Francisco saw the deep lines of his father’s face. He saw the bright pangas, the blue water and the brown earth of Mexico. Then the water around the fish exploded once more and Francisco watched helplessly as the fish swam, at first with no urgency, and then as a streak, downstream.

Francisco staggered across the ice and collapsed on the bank. His head throbbed, and his heart felt the sorrow of a lover’s departure. His mind worked desperately to place order to this surreal turn of events. Had he hit his head in the river? Could it all have been a dream? Surely he was losing his mind because albacore tuna do not swim in the North Fork of the Gunnison River.

The sun was setting as Francisco laid the sections of the fly rod in the bed of his pickup. He walked down the path and up the steps to Nadine’s. Opening the door, he saw Sarah sitting on a stool by the cash register counting her tips. She looked up from behind a wall of ketchup bottles upended one upon another, smiled and asked, “Catchin any?” It was perhaps the prettiest smile Francisco had ever seen. “Pour us some coffee and let me tell you about the one that got away,” he said. Pulling the door closed behind him, Francisco felt the sharp sting of a fresh blister on his thumb.




Now knit something with that yarn!
:)

Peachy

Harry B. Sanderford

If I mentioned the preacher’s wife’s cobbler you would not automatically think of shoes. This theory is untested but I have a good feeling about my hypothesis. If I meet you on an elevator and say, “Hi-ya,” while offering a light wave of my hand you’ll say, “Good morning.” If I shout, “Hi-YAH!” with a swift thrust of the same hand, your windpipe will collapse and you’ll make indecipherable gurgling noises as you slump to the elevator floor. I say hello but you say goodbye, so to speak. Purely conjecture at this point of course but please, “Hold that elevator!”

Don't Look

Don't Look 

                                                       By Zelda Martin & Harry B. Sanderford


There are reasons why a basement is a scary place. It's underground. It's dark. It's damp. It smells funny. Things are stored down there for years on end; boxes that have been there for so long that you don't even know what's in them anymore, or who put them there, or why. But the contents must have some value, you tell yourself, or you (or someone else, whoever it was) wouldn't have gone to the trouble to box them up and place them on the floor, or shelves, or rafters. They're all stuck back in the darkest corners, where you never go, because it's kind of creepy back there and what would you do with the stuff if you did haul it out into the light, anyway? And the spiders! My god, it's like the NYC of spiders and spider webs and lots and lots of dead things caught in those webs. Just let sleeping bugs lie, you've told yourself over the years. Always a reliable philosophy in retrospect, but somehow, this time, you just had to know.

Curiosity is notorious for offing its share of cats. Looking back, maybe finding Fluffy’s mummified remains sandwiched there between the stack of moldy leftover sheet-rock and those long forgotten boogie boards should have served warning enough for you to curtail your own intrigue. Maybe you should have left the basement right then. Just climbed the stairs, switched off the light, and locked the damn door on the NYC of spiders, never to return.

But it was Fluffy!

So, with a lump forming in your throat, you couldn’t help but reach out and stroke the little lost tabby, her orange hair exploding in a puff that scattered like dandelion seeds. Dozens of which you inhaled with a horrified gasp before scrabbling backwards into a pyramid of paint cans, coughing and spitting and blinking back your tears.

Yes, maybe you should have left right then. Terror and disgust gave way, however, to a pitiful sort of relief. As sad as finding the kitty made you, at least now you finally knew what happened to the lovable little fuzzball everyone had panicked over and searched for. The one that little Elinor had cried little rivers for.

Elinor is almost twenty now! So Fluffy has been down here for over fifteen years. It's time to clean out this creepy basement, right now, you told yourself. So what if today is October 31? It's still daylight, after all, and it'll feel good to be sure there are no other unpleasant surprises down here. So in you went, you foolish woman. Pulling down old boxes and hauling them up the steps to the back yard, while dust flew and spiders scattered. You recognized some of the boxes; they were labeled and taped, and hadn't been opened since you'd moved to this old house, a long time ago. You decided that you would just haul them to the dump the next day, without even looking inside. If you hadn't needed whatever was in them in the past 15 years, you sure didn't need it now. Finally, you reached the back wall, and felt a sense of elation. Look at all the space you'll have to store important stuff now! But then, you saw the small, locked door in the corner.

  If you’d been hoping to avoid unpleasant surprises, not looking inside the boxes was a good choice. Had you been in less of a hurry to clear out the crumbly cardboard containers, less eager to sweep the dust from all that glorious empty space, space you could now fill properly with tons of those cool, color coordinated, Rubbermaid containers you saw at Target, you might never have opened that damned door. Maybe if you had stripped the tape off of the box marked “Bone China,” for instance, and looked under the lid of Aunt Saucy’s Wedgwood soup tureen to find Mrs. Parker’s long missing Pekingese, Pugsy; his bleached skeleton simmering in a puddle of its own congealed sauce. Maybe then you would have run screaming and just abandoned the whole idea.

I can’t say I told you so. Heheh, no I cannot. But the signs were all there for you. Right there in each crusty carton, each corrugated crypt. Cats and kitties by the score and cute bunny rabbits galore. Guppies and puppies, turtles and frogs, oh so many gerbils and hamsters, but just the lone prairie dog. The big box marked LIONEL, the one you thought was Johnny’s train? Jeffrey Archer’s German shepherd, of same name fame. Lionel was supposed to be romping on a farm upstate. At least that’s what they told Jeffrey. Not that Jeffrey will ever be the wiser, but Elinor knows. She knows about Fluffy and she knows a lot more.

You avoided the unpleasant surprises, but you missed all the signs. The ones urging you to TURN BACK! “Unpleasant” does not begin to describe what horrors lie beyond that door. You just have no idea. But Elinor knows. She knows about Fluffy and she knows a lot more.

She was so meticulous in her concealing of canine and kitty corpses, hiding them so carefully in all those cartons. How could she have been so careless as to leave that cursed key in the lock? Of course you couldn't resist turning that key, opening the lock, and slowly...oh so slowly...opening the small, low door. In the dim, murky light, you see another container. This one is made of wood, about five feet long. You think it's your imagination, but it does smell kind of like formaldehyde in here. Turn back, honey. No good can come of this. Don't open the crate. Oops! Too late. Screaming won't help, my dear. Johnny is dead. Johnny, your little boy, Elinor's little brother, the little brother you and your husband loved so much that you neglected Elinor. You doted on that silly boy, showered him with praise, attention and gifts, while poor little Elinor sat on the sidelines, seething with jealousy. Of course, she grew to hate Johnny; what did you expect? She worked so hard in school, got all A's, while Johnny goofed off and came home with C's. But that was just fine with you and Daddy, wasn't it? You never praised me for my good grades, but you acted like Johnny was a goddamned genius for getting C's! Yes! I killed him and I'm glad I did it! You should be glad that I studied chemistry and preserved his stupid body in formaldehyde, instead of letting him rot, like all those other stupid animals!  

Now stop screaming Mommy. I have one more coffin to fill, right here next to Daddy's.




Happy Halloween Everyone!
Madam Z Rocks all by herself here:
http://z-to-u.blogspot.com/

Sugar Shack

By Sugar Wendy and Harry B.

 

Sunshine slid a cup of coffee across the bar and poured milk from a can until Harry signaled whoa. He watched Harry a moment waiting for that first sip of java to gear up a conversation and when it didn’t offered, “Gol-ding it all, Harry, you look like da pure shit dis mornin'; when da las’ time you slep’?"

Harry had a pretty good idea how he looked without Sugar’s bulky beer-slinger pointing it out so he answered Sunshine’s question with one of his own, “When’s the last time you changed the coffee grounds?”

Sugar slipped in through the door behind the bar carrying bags of fruit and bottles of rum from the float up market, and griped, “Can a girl get a little help or are you two gonna be staring each other down like a pair of gorillas all day?”

Sugar, proprietor and namesake of the little island watering hole known as the Sugar Shack, did not intend to referee rounds between Harry and Sunshine and warned them, “If you two can’t put your differences aside and figure out how to get along, then by God, I’m outta here!”

Looking remorseful Sunshine gathered the bags in his big hands and lifted them onto the bar declaring, "Trus’ me, Miz Sugar, I don’ wanna pray to da devil an’ quarrel wif Harry all day long so if you go, I go. Ain’t no Sunshine when you gone.”

 

Sugar is the sweet combination of Tinkerbell and all things pink who occasionally channels Mae West. Why don't you come up and see me sometime? She is proprietor of the 6S Sugar Shack where she goes heavy on the spirits and easy on the eyes.

 

 

A Rock And A Hard Place

Pain shot through her and she shot right back with all 7 dirty words you cannot, or at least could not say on television. The wrinkled metal has her pinned to the rusty metal and a jagged shard of the latter is furrowing a row down her right thigh.

Rounding a curve below Berthoud Pass she hit a patch of sand and went into a skid. She steered into it and almost recovered but the rear wheels broke free and in passing her, turned her skid into a spin. The Porsche performed a series of near perfect pirouettes over a long downhill stretch. A thing of beauty if viewed as a spectacle, though points would surely be deducted for trajectory. Kissing the sheer rock face of the canyon wall ground the headlights and front bumper into a silver smear until a small boulder grabbed a fender and wadded the car up like a gum wrapper.

There was just enough momentum left to pinball the modified custom once more across the two lane where it came finally to rest with the front passenger side wheel dangling in space over what would be regarded as a breath-taking panarama under any circumstances.

The cliff’s edge erodes beneath her and the crumpled Carerra teeters a degree closer to oblivion. She tries to compensate by straining to shift her weight into the cavity called a backseat on a 911. With each new lunge the finely crafted German plowshare tills another meaty inch and she cries out with another howling barrage of expletives.

She’s been between a rock and hard place before. Wile E. Coyote has survived worse. The view is spectacular.

Kingpin

Tuesday morning Kingpin Roulade looked in his
bathroom mirror and decided it was time for a new look. An impulsive man, he
began by shaving off his eyebrows. The resulting change in his appearance was
significant but not at all what he’d hoped for. No, he missed his eyebrows straight
away and he wanted them back. He was not inexperienced in the art of do it
yourself barbering. Having on the spur of the moment lowered his own ears on
more than one occasion, he knew that the secret to success was just to keep
evening it up until it looks deliberate. Before breakfast Tuesday morning,
Kingpin shaved off most of his beard, leaving only two crescent shaped patches on
his right cheek and jaw; one arched quizzically as if to ask, “Now just how the
heck did that happen?”

For The Birds

Harry B. Sanderford

Ray jerks his head around quickly and sees nothing but the same sad drinkers. He’s attended too many of these wakes over the last couple of years. Each time he reminds himself to begin living each day as if it were his last. Life’s so unpredictable. Just look at Miles, or Frosty before him. Nobody ever sees it coming.  Well, maybe you could see it coming for Frosty. The point is, life is short, man. Nobody on his death bed, regrets not working more. You only go around once, so stop and smell the roses. Clichés all, sure, but he means it each time. And each time, as time goes by, best intentions fade and life falls back into dull routine. It’s not so bad really, it’s comfortable. Living each day like it’s your last is exhausting. If you spent every day climbing mountains or jumping out of airplanes, you might truly wish to spend your last day in your bathrobe eating freezer pizza and watching Netflix. He whips his head back around only to see Miles’ Uncle Paul hoist his hi-ball. Ray nods and returns the salute.


Lately he’s been catching flashes in his peripheral vision, fleeting glimpses he can never catch in full, spectral shadows scuttling just out of sight. They began right after Frosty twisted his motorcycle into a mesquite stump down in old Mexico. Ray could not explain their nature; not visions exactly, but if not visionary, surely cautionary. It would be loco to speak of them, so he keeps them to himself. A sparrow (or was it a bat?) darts from the corner of his eye too fast to draw a bead on but trails in its slipstream a foreboding of gathered vultures roosting beyond the periphery.  He tosses the last inch of whisky back and slams his glass down on the bar with a resounding bang. Now, all the other heads in attendance swing around.


He has everyone’s undivided attention, so it’s as good a time as any. He wants to say something about his friend. Something uplifting he hopes, but it is not what’s in his heart.  He considers and rejects standard platitudes. He especially hates that consolation prize: At least he died doing what he loved. 


Ray had been first to find Frosty. Well not the first exactly. He couldn’t have been more than a few minutes behind when he rode up to find Frosty crumpled in a lifeless heap. The carrion birds were already on the ground, waiting for him to cool. He pulled his cell from his back pack and called Miles, told him to bring the truck. Then he pulled his pistol from the pack and shot every buzzard already on the ground and each new one drawn to the carcasses as they landed. He had to reload.


Miles drowned on a head high day at Calafia, a break he knew well and a swell that was big enough to be fun but not particularly dangerous for a surfer of Miles’ experience. Ray had been out with Miles but couldn’t save him. Even as he trieed, seagulls inched closer.

At least he died doing what he loved. There's another classic cliche for you.



Memo for Last Will & Testament:  The thing I loved most about that thing I loved...is it never killed me! After that, it’s over between me and that thing I loved. You have to draw the line somewhere.



Ray decides to wing it.


“Friends...,” he begins and then dodges abruptly to his left, swatting wildly. He does not connect with the pelican poltergeist and in missing, spins himself all the way around. The other mourners follow his antics unblinking and to their credit, with a minimum of chittering. Embarrassed but determined, he composes himself. “Our friend Miles lived life hard…” he resists the urge to drop to the ground, gripping the bar and closing his eyes until he is sure a great blue heron has found a perch behind him. “…Miles feared nothing and no one...” he soldiers on but something is not right.


The other mourners, mostly family and friends that have known him since he, Miles and Frosty were kids, are looking at him differently somehow. He feels the odd one out, they are different but the same. It is he who is alien. Their eyes, no longer damp, are red but not from crying. They are sharp now, penetrating and focused on him. Awaiting his words they cock their heads from side to side in unison and stare unblinking with those eyes, blood red now and shiny as beetles. Ray’s apprehension, once limited to avian apparitions twitching at the edges, has turned to full centered dread. Uncle Paul regards his diminished hi-ball, no longer raised in encouragement, narrows his gaze and pecks at the last cube of ice in the glass.

* image above by Terrie Boruff Yeatts
borrowed from Artmenow's Blog
http://artmenow.wordpress.com/