Chapter Seven, Part One
Lunch on the Roof
“So what is this place?”
“The Russell House.”
“Chanson,” says Shari, as Frenchly as possible. “Zees most clearly eez nut a house.”
“More of a building. Private offices.”
Shari scans the general area. “Where?”
I point a thumb at the ground. “Down thar. We’re on the roof. It’s a family foundation eco-thing. Those wooden arches there? With the black iron fittings?”
“Yuh-huh?”
“Nothing but windfall, not a single tree chopped down. The garden out front uses drought-resistant plants. These cement blocks beneath our tootsies have gaps between them – no sand, no mortar – so the rainfall can seep directly into the soil, and not into the drainage system.”
Shari flicks away a strand of hair – more golden than ever in the light of day.
“So how come we get to sit here and eat sammiches on their roof like we own the place?”
“’Cause they want us to. And they want to give back to the community.”
Shari narrows her eyes. “That is suspiciously nice.”
“Hardass.”
“Honey, in case you ain’t looked back there lately, I am anything but…”
“Baby Got Back!” I shout. It’s a peril of KJ’ing: you find yourself talking in song titles. But Shari seems to enjoy it.
I take a big crunchy bite of my sandwich and let the overripe flavor of the meat smoosh onto my taste buds. I forget where I picked up this thing for braunschweiger, but it seems to soothe a rough patch deep in my being. So much that I have missed Shari’s question.
“Honey? Did you hear me?”
“Oh.” Smack-smack. “No. What was that?”
“Where were you born?”
I scour the question for dangers; it comes out clean.
“Anchorage, Alaska. Well, a town just south of there. Tiny, tiny place. When we got a Fred Meyer’s, it was like the high school science club had landed a rocket on the moon. Boh-ring. Boring! Did I mention boring? The only recreation in town was recreational drugs. Heroin, acid. Suicide. Suicide was the favorite. I went to thirty funerals before I graduated. Had three different outfits, just for funerals.”
Shari looks captivated; more tragedy.
“Is that why you left?”
Another fork in the road: fabrication or vagueness. I’m going for vagueness.
“I couldn’t see becoming anything up there. It was leave or stay exactly the same, forever. How ‘bout you?”
“How ‘bout me what?”
“Where ya from?”
She smiles. “Iowa. I was a big ol’ corn-fed jockette – pitcher on the softball squad. Then I went to college to learn how to crunch numbers. Married the college sweetheart, turned out to be a cheatin’ son-of-a-B. We divorced after four years. I figured a financial analyst could work any damn place she wanted, and we didn’t have any kids, so I headed west.”
“Why Washington?”
She waves her cherry red fingernails at the harbor. “Water! Big, fat, oceanic stretches of water. Why do you think I live on Soundview?”
“I’m gonna take a flyer here, but, so you can view the sound?”
“You’re a smart chick, girlfriend.”
Girlfriend. I like the sound of that. Shari runs her gaze along a high stone wall bisecting us from a private garden. The wall is constructed from thousands of thinly hewn stones, like sugar wafers.
“I know I should be happy with this lovely public area, but why do I have such a desire to see what’s on the other side of that wall?”
“I’m gonna take another flyer here, but, because you’re human?”
Next: Karao-Courtesies
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Image by MJV
Lunch on the Roof
“So what is this place?”
“The Russell House.”
“Chanson,” says Shari, as Frenchly as possible. “Zees most clearly eez nut a house.”
“More of a building. Private offices.”
Shari scans the general area. “Where?”
I point a thumb at the ground. “Down thar. We’re on the roof. It’s a family foundation eco-thing. Those wooden arches there? With the black iron fittings?”
“Yuh-huh?”
“Nothing but windfall, not a single tree chopped down. The garden out front uses drought-resistant plants. These cement blocks beneath our tootsies have gaps between them – no sand, no mortar – so the rainfall can seep directly into the soil, and not into the drainage system.”
Shari flicks away a strand of hair – more golden than ever in the light of day.
“So how come we get to sit here and eat sammiches on their roof like we own the place?”
“’Cause they want us to. And they want to give back to the community.”
Shari narrows her eyes. “That is suspiciously nice.”
“Hardass.”
“Honey, in case you ain’t looked back there lately, I am anything but…”
“Baby Got Back!” I shout. It’s a peril of KJ’ing: you find yourself talking in song titles. But Shari seems to enjoy it.
I take a big crunchy bite of my sandwich and let the overripe flavor of the meat smoosh onto my taste buds. I forget where I picked up this thing for braunschweiger, but it seems to soothe a rough patch deep in my being. So much that I have missed Shari’s question.
“Honey? Did you hear me?”
“Oh.” Smack-smack. “No. What was that?”
“Where were you born?”
I scour the question for dangers; it comes out clean.
“Anchorage, Alaska. Well, a town just south of there. Tiny, tiny place. When we got a Fred Meyer’s, it was like the high school science club had landed a rocket on the moon. Boh-ring. Boring! Did I mention boring? The only recreation in town was recreational drugs. Heroin, acid. Suicide. Suicide was the favorite. I went to thirty funerals before I graduated. Had three different outfits, just for funerals.”
Shari looks captivated; more tragedy.
“Is that why you left?”
Another fork in the road: fabrication or vagueness. I’m going for vagueness.
“I couldn’t see becoming anything up there. It was leave or stay exactly the same, forever. How ‘bout you?”
“How ‘bout me what?”
“Where ya from?”
She smiles. “Iowa. I was a big ol’ corn-fed jockette – pitcher on the softball squad. Then I went to college to learn how to crunch numbers. Married the college sweetheart, turned out to be a cheatin’ son-of-a-B. We divorced after four years. I figured a financial analyst could work any damn place she wanted, and we didn’t have any kids, so I headed west.”
“Why Washington?”
She waves her cherry red fingernails at the harbor. “Water! Big, fat, oceanic stretches of water. Why do you think I live on Soundview?”
“I’m gonna take a flyer here, but, so you can view the sound?”
“You’re a smart chick, girlfriend.”
Girlfriend. I like the sound of that. Shari runs her gaze along a high stone wall bisecting us from a private garden. The wall is constructed from thousands of thinly hewn stones, like sugar wafers.
“I know I should be happy with this lovely public area, but why do I have such a desire to see what’s on the other side of that wall?”
“I’m gonna take another flyer here, but, because you’re human?”
Next: Karao-Courtesies
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Image by MJV
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