Tim

Tim, one of the band members, passed away yesterday. He was in his mid fifties, I think. One kid still in High School, a couple of girls in college. Band member, Boy Scout Leader, real active in the church here and the Knights of Columbus. Good guy. Went with us 3 years ago on a Yosemite trip, wanted to go on my Grand Canyon trip but had to bow out for work demands. His daughter went with us two years in a row. Wayne and I just played with him at his block party on the fourth. He'll be missed.

Not really worth reading

One of those books that would have been better if I was 18 when I was reading it. To a 59 year old old it just seems self indulging and childish. Lets all get stoned and act crazy and cry into our beer.

From "Dark Brown" by Michael McClure

OH EASE OH BODY STRAIN OH LOVE OH EASE ME NOT!
WOUND-BORE
be real, show organs, show blood, OH let me
be as a flower. Let ugliness arise without care
grow side by side with beauty. Oh twist
be real to me. Fly smoke! Meat-real, as nerves
TENDON
Ion, FLAME, Muscle, not banners but bulks as
we are all "deer"
and move as beasts. Stalking in our forest
as these are speech words!Burn them pure as above they rise from attitude are
stultified. Are shit. Burn
what arises from habit. Let custom
die. Smash patterns and forms let spirit
free to blasting liberty. Smash the
habit shit above! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

LET PURE BLACK WORDS MOVE FROM THOUGHT BEHIND

*       *       *

((OH BRING OH BLOOD BACK THE COURAGE THE DEEP
THE NEGATIVE CHALLENGE
I deny. Love. Deny. Defy oh love. In blackness
a forest, oh damp earth. Put forth. Decry! Put down
until a shoot is sent forth matching. The purity
the image within. Oh crass and easy polemic
say
!I LOVE !
Let me be a torch to myself.))
OH HEART-SICK BURN STRIVE Past the drift-ease
to the depth within making a film of the gene
over the surface. Say meat hand, the hand black
in the deed as the strain toward the act. Each strike
an ugly huge music. Walking walking huge Love.
All a web from the black gene to the black
edge.
(((torture destroy tradition seek what gives damned
pleasure.)))
Exult in drugs
draw back to sight,
VISION
of purity & liberty,
MORALITY IS BEAUTY THE BEAST SPIRIT LIVES FOREVER
!                                                                                                       !


!
I REST

Fund Raisers I have Known- Part #1

It really started when the bears were in elementary school. I had done a walkathon for several years in a row at the Bonaventure Hotel where I worked in the accounting department, but that was just getting pledges and then walking with your co-workers and then going around and collecting the cash afterward. I don't even recall what kind of money I raised for that. In the bears elementary school, there was a group of mostly Moms that were organized as "Friends of xxxxx School" designed to raise money. They sold script for grocery stores and sold magazines and gift wrapping paper. Every year they had a fair where there were rides and activities and food and a silent auction. I thought this was great fun. All the Moms were in their thirties and good-looking. So I volunteered to do the Silent Auction. Little did I know. The first cool thing that happened was that one of the Moms was the art curator for a large banking concern in LA. They had just bought out their competitor and were closing all those duplicate branches. I get a call and I drive over to the Marina- the Mom wants to know if I'd be interested in some artwork to auction. She has maybe seventy framed prints from all those closed banks. I take them all. Make several trips back and forth- I figure if I just get 5 bucks a piece for the them, that's maybe $350.00. I'm on my road to riches.

Then you have to have gift baskets. Each class made one and wrapped them up. I sent out flyers, drove around to pick up people's stuff. Wrote letters to corporations that were known to donate to school. Came up with In-N-Out Coupons and tshirts, Rhino Records CD sets, Gift Certificates for dinners and restaurants and Movie Tickets and Play Productions and Music Classes and Gymnastics and Beauty parlors and on and on. A friend brought a couple of concrete outdoor candle holders that he couldn't sell at his garage sale. I cleaned them up and sat them in front of a $300.00 Crystal vase and got $40.00 for them. There was one Mom that worked in Beverly Hills in an upscale shop and hit up all the neighboring shops for designer things.

Then there is the whole process of creating bid sheets and attaching them to the item and then closing the auction and collecting everyone's money at the end. It's a whole lot of work and almost impossible to do on your own. There were two Moms and I that headed up the various overall fair activities, with me doing mostly the Silent Auction. I raised 10K on my auction the first year, and I didn't even know what I was doing.

Oh, and you have to be there at 5 in the morning and you are always one of the last ones to leave at 6 that evening.

Making of A Band - Part Two

Then we flirted with Gail and she came all the way up from Irvine to play uke and sing with us and I invited Marla who could really always play the piano. And thus we went on for a while and did some open mics and ate Chinese food over and over a my house. We did a pancake breakfast and the guy with the beard acted as if he was dropping out, so I recruited a guitar player, a dad in the scout troop that we did the pancake breakfast for, and a lady I met in a class who I thought was a mandolin player- it turned out she mostly played fiddle. And it turned out that Marla played fiddle as well. And then Gail dropped out because it was too far to commute and the guy in the band she was interested in wasn't going to have his way with her. So here we are kinda going forward with a couple of more people, if they show up.

Basic rules for keeping a band going:

1. Tell them they are wonderful every chance you get.
2. Let them think they are calling the shots.
3. Make it democratic and they all get votes, even though some of them don't even bother to vote.
4. Tell them they are brilliant every chance you get.
5. Tell them how much they are needed.
6. Give them a place to perform.
7. Get gigs.
8. Tell them they are god's gift to music every chance you get.
9. Be patient.
10. Pretend they are all competent musicians, even though they aren't a lot of the time.
11. Be happily surprised when they actually show up.
   

Pictures From The Trip

This was in Lyell Canyon in the first stretch of the first day leaving from Tuolumne Meadows. We started out and immediately took a wrong turn and found ourselves near a highway which shouldn't have been there and found we were going the opposite direction than the way we were supposed to be going. So we had to back track about a mile and start again. Our two 'never been backpacking' companions on this trip, a 22 daughter of my friends and a 15 year old Boy Scout from the troop my buddy and I still help out with were both filled with great confidence in us. But of course said nothing. 

We camped the first night near our, turn off and climb out of Lyell Canyon, and then climbed a thousand feet and hiked a bit more to reach here, Evelyn Lake. Both nights got down to around 34 degrees. There was still ice on the lip of the lake and here my water bottle was half frozen in the morning when I tried to make coffee. My buddy and the Boy Scout tried to fish here, but didn't catch anything. The snow was a bit of work to cross, the sun melts it every day in an odd way that leaves it like those waffle like foam pads they put under bed-ridden patients to prevent bedsores. Its frozen and slippery and since it melts mostly from underneath, you can break through and find yourself with a foot down in it up to your knee- which happened to me early on, but not again. We had to cross a patch that was directly over a running stream beneath it, but didn't break through. There was a ranger that passed us and helped by waving back at us. He sat for several minutes looking at the patch over the stream before trying it. The snow also covers the path, so you have to try to keep it in mind where the path comes out so you keep in the right direction. It a bit worrying to lose the path for a bit. You may be climbing the wrong hill. This was a bit of work and we lost about a day's hiking here navigating it down and out of the snow. I was going to cancel the trip because of the rangers report of it being here. My buddy says, we can do it. It was worth doing.

 My buddy helping Jeanette across a stream we had to ford with our boots off. I had had always believed that if you got your socks and shoes wet and then hiked you would get blisters. Afterward, we talked to a couple of different Rangers and none of them bother. We could have done this in our shoes. But it did feel really good. The water was cold cold.

This was the gorge above Merced Lake. It was a hell of a lot of water roaring down. I need sound effects.

The was the top of the Mist Trail. We had cell phone coverage at the campgrounds the night before above here and had found out that three church group hikers had fallen from the the falls below here on the Tuesday we came in. The Boy Scout's father had called my wife very concerned. My wife said it was alright because it was only three, if it had been us, the fourth one would have called them. We were a day behind schedule, but we were up in Lyell Canyon on the day it happened. The Rangers all were upset. It was dumb and sad. They were just trying to find a a way to recover the bodies- they had no other expectations. There was a poster above the railing and drop with their pictures on it asking for help if anyone spotted anything. They were young.

 This was overlooking where they went over. There was so much water and so much spray that there were rainbows all the way down this incredibly steep descent of a thousand feet and a mile or two of rough hewn stone steps that were all slippery with water. There was also hundreds of sightseers from the valley up here to see it all. Families, little kids, little old ladies. It took a while to work through them - you are supposed to give the right of way to the people coming up.

 It was probably one of the best trips I've had. Me and my buddy who have been doing this for 6-7 years and we were having fun being together. Got to reconnect with a girl that had hung out out at my house when all the kids were in grade school and I was a stay at home parent and we meet this 15 year old who will probably be up here from here on out.

Something to Feed Your Imagination

Glorious as are these rocks and waters arrayed in storm robes, or chanting rejoicing in every-day dress, they are still more glorious when rare weather conditions meet to make them sing with floods. Only once during all the years I have lived in the Valley have I seen it in full flood bloom. In 1871 the early winter weather was delightful; the days all sunshine, the nights all starry and calm, calling forth fine crops of frost-crystals on the pines and withered ferns and grasses for the morning sunbeams to sift through. In the afternoon of December 16, when I was sauntering on the meadows, I noticed a massive crimson cloud growing in solitary grandeur above the Cathedral Rocks, its form scarcely less striking than its color. It had a picturesque, bulging base like an old sequoia, a smooth, tapering stem, and a bossy, down-curling crown like a mushroom; all its parts were colored alike, making one mass of translucent crimson. Wondering what the meaning of that strange, lonely red cloud might be, I was up betimes next morning looking at the weather, but all seemed tranquil as yet. Towards noon gray clouds with a lose, curly grain like bird’s-eye maple began to grow, and late at night rain fell, which soon changed to snow. Next morning the snow on the meadows was about ten inches deep, and it was still falling in a fine, cordial storm. During the night of the 18th heavy rain fell on the snow, but as the temperature was 34 degrees, the snow-line was only a few hundred feet above the bottom of the Valley, and one had only to climb a little higher than the tops of the pines to get out of the rain-storm into the snow-storm. The streams, instead of being increased in volume by the storm, were diminished, because the snow sponged up part of their waters and choked the smaller tributaries. But about midnight the temperature suddenly rose to 42°, carrying the snow-line far beyond the Valley walls, and next morning Yosemite was rejoicing in a glorious flood. The comparatively warm rain falling on the snow was at first absorbed and held back, and so also was that portion of the snow that the rain melted, and all that was melted by the warm wind, until the whole mass of snow was saturated and became sludgy, and at length slipped and rushed simultaneously from a thousand slopes in wildest extravagance, heaping and swelling flood over flood, and plunging into the Valley in stupendous avalanches.
Awakened by the roar, I looked out and at once recognized the extraordinary character of the storm. The rain was still pouring in torrent abundance and the wind at gale speed was doing all it could with the flood-making rain.
The section of the north wall visible from my cabin was fairly streaked with new falls—wild roaring singers that seemed strangely out of place. Eager to get into the midst of the show, I snatched a piece of bread for breakfast and ran out. The mountain waters, suddenly liberated, seemed to be holding a grand jubilee. The two Sentinel Cascades rivaled the great falls at ordinary stages, and across the Valley by the Three Brothers I caught glimpses of more falls than I could readily count; while the whole Valley throbbed and trembled, and was filled with an awful, massive, solemn, sea-like roar. After gazing a while enchanted with the network of new falls that were adorning and transfiguring every rock in sight, I tried to reach the upper meadows, where the Valley is widest, that I might be able to see the walls on both sides, and thus gain general views. But the river was over its banks and the meadows were flooded, forming an almost continuous lake dotted with blue sludgy islands, while innumerable streams roared like lions across my path and were sweeping forward rocks and logs with tremendous energy over ground where tiny gilias had been growing but a short time before. Climbing into the talus slopes, where these savage torrents were broken among earthquake boulders, I managed to cross them, and force my way up the Valley to Hutchings’ Bridge, where I crossed the river and waded to the middle of the upper meadow. Here most of the new falls were in sight, probably the most glorious assemblage of waterfalls ever displayed from any one standpoint. On that portion of the south wall between Hutchings’ and the Sentinel there were ten falls plunging and booming from a height of nearly three thousand feet, the smallest of which might have been heard miles away. In the neighborhood of Glacier Point there were six; between the Three Brothers and Yosemite Fall, nine; between Yosemite and Royal Arch Falls, ten; from Washington Column to Mount Watkins, ten; on the slopes of Half Dome and Clouds’ Rest, facing Mirror Lake and Tenaya Cañon, eight; on the shoulder of Half Dome, facing the Valley, three; fifty-six new falls occupying the upper end of the Valley, besides a countless host of silvery threads gleaming everywhere. In all the Valley there must have been upwards of a hundred. As if celebrating some great event, falls and cascades in Yosemite costume were coming down everywhere from fountain basins, far and near; and, though newcomers, they behaved and sang as if they had lived here always.
All summer-visitors will remember the comet forms of the Yosemite Fall and the laces of the Bridal Veil and Nevada. In the falls of this winter jubilee the lace forms predominated, but there was no lack of thunder-toned comets. The lower portion of one of the Sentinel Cascades was composed of two main white torrents with the space between them filled in with chained and beaded gauze of intricate pattern, through the singing threads of which the purplish-gray rock could be dimly seen. The series above Glacier Point was still more complicated in structure, displaying every form that one could imagine water might be dashed and combed and woven into. Those on the north wall between Washington Column and the Royal Arch Fall were so nearly related they formed an almost continuous sheet, and these again were but slightly separated from those about Indian Cañon. The group about the Three Brothers and El Capitan, owing to the topography and cleavage of the cliffs back of them, was more broken and irregular. The Tissiack Cascades were comparatively small, yet sufficient to give that noblest of mountain rocks a glorious voice. In the midst of all this extravagant rejoicing the great Yosemite Fall was scarce heard until about three o’clock in the afternoon. Then I was startled by a sudden thundering crash as if a rock avalanche had come to the help of the roaring waters. This was the flood-wave of Yosemite Creek, which had just arrived delayed by the distance it had to travel, and by the choking snows of its widespread fountains. Now, with volume tenfold increased beyond its springtime fullness, it took its place as leader of the glorious choir.
And the winds, too, were singing in wild accord, playing on every tree and rock, surging against the huge brows and domes and outstanding battlements, deflected hither and thither and broken into a thousand cascading, roaring currents in the cañons, and low bass, drumming swirls in the hollows. And these again, reacting on the clouds, eroded immense cavernous spaces in their gray depths and swept forward the resulting detritus in ragged trains like the moraines of glaciers. These cloud movements in turn published the work of the winds, giving them a visible body, and enabling us to trace them. As if endowed with independent motion, a detached cloud would rise hastily to the very top of the wall as if on some important errand, examining the faces of the cliffs, and then perhaps as suddenly descend to sweep imposingly along the meadows, trailing its draggled fringes through the pines, fondling the waving spires with infinite gentleness, or, gliding behind a grove or a single tree, bringing it into striking relief, as it bowed and waved in solemn rhythm. Sometimes, as the busy clouds drooped and condensed or dissolved to misty gauze, half of the Valley would be suddenly veiled, leaving here and there some lofty headland cut off from all visible connection with the walls, looming alone, dim, spectral, as if belonging to the sky—visitors, like the new falls, come to take part in the glorious festival. Thus for two days and nights in measureless extravagance the storm went on, and mostly without spectators, at least of a terrestrial kind. I saw nobody out—bird, bear, squirrel, or man. Tourists had vanished months before, and the hotel people and laborers were out of sight, careful about getting cold, and satisfied with views from windows. The bears, I suppose, were in their cañon-boulder dens, the squirrels in their knot-hole nests, the grouse in close fir groves, and the small singers in the Indian Cañon chaparral, trying to keep warm and dry. Strange to say, I did not see even the water-ouzels, though they must have greatly enjoyed the storm.
This was the most sublime waterfall flood I ever saw—clouds, winds, rocks, waters, throbbing together as one. And then to contemplate what was going on simultaneously with all this in other mountain temples; the Big Tuolumne Cañon—how the white waters and the winds were singing there! And in Hetch Hetchy Valley and the great King’s River yosemite, and in all the other Sierra cañons and valleys from Shasta to the southernmost fountains of the Kern, thousands of rejoicing flood waterfalls chanting together in jubilee dress.

-John Muir, from "Yosemite"

Off Again

Off again tomorrow morning for Yosemite for a week. Gonna hike down from the Meadows to the Valley with my ole Backpacking buddy, one boy scout and the college age daughter of friends. I'll bring back pictures. Did a similar trip with my daughter and son and their two friends 4 or 5 years ago. Pretty much an easy trip- mostly down hill. Gonna be cold though, the Ranger I talked to said to expect snow cover in some places- bad enough to cover the trail- and temperatures in the thirties at night. We shall see. I'm hoping he was giving me the worst case which we will be ready for and that will make it seem even better.

How to Make a Band - Part One

Well, it started with my boss wanting us to sing out the retiring director at his retirement party. I brought my banjo, the boss and two others brought their ukuleles and one guy had a guitar. We rehearsed in the unused wafer lab at lunch time. We were pretty bad. For the retiring director's luncheon, we sang and played "Aloha" and "Hit The Road Jack" I can't recall if there was a third song. So the guitar and the banjo and the three uke players decided to keep on keeping on one day a week at lunch back in the wafer lab. My boss was the first to drop out- she wasn't a performer she said. Then I invited a guy that worked up on the 12th floor to come join us. He played harmonica and mandolin. He had a long beard - like ZZ Top. I found some simple 2 or 3 chord songs for us to play. Then the guitar player and the programmer uke player brought in other songs. We had a copy of "El Paso" that kept gaining and loosing lyrics and changing keys occasionally because the guitar player couldn't ever remember which version we were playing. I brought in Gulf Coast Highway by Nancy Griffith, I think. We also played "Roll In My Sweet Arms" and "Wabash Cannonball" and "Back Home Again" oh and "Tom Dooley" The guitar player was the only singer. The programmer Uke player sang with barbershop quartets, but would not really sing with us. The Techie Uke player kept coming to play. I could hardly play in front of anyone and had to go warm up before hand. I slowly got over being anxiety driven.  
The Programmer Uke player finally quit, saying he didn't have time to practice and I was sooo thankful that I didn't have to play El Paso any more. Then we decided we would move the activity to my house on a Friday night and practice there. The Tech Uke player came and sat on my couch and played without saying a word and came a second time and then dropped out because he couldn't keep up and wasn't practicing at home.
So it was just me and the guitar player and the guy with long beard. This is like six months later I think

This is about Something Else

I never have enjoyed friends that turn into school marms. The bottom line is what do you know? I know I get applause for my songs, in a lot of different settings. I know I can write pretty intelligent lyrics that have feeling hidden in them. I have been told by an MC at on open mic that the song I just butchered was a really good song. I've been asked in disbelief if I really wrote the song I just sung. I've been told by am acquaintance who I've known from open mics that she wants to hear my songs because they are good. I know that the only song my band plays is because one of the members thought it was a great song and I let the band members spruce it up with a couple of extra chords. I know there are a incredible number of bad songs out there- an incredible number of stupid songs out there.

I know a friend who had a disapproving negative father. I know a friend who sees himself as a mentor. I know a friend who couldn't write a song if his life depended on it. I know a friend who has resisted learning any of my songs. I know a friend who feels angry and threatened when someone else takes charge of things. I know a friend who after a bit starts to talk himself out of things because they are not quite as good as they should be.

So when the friend wants to know how it went last night singing one of my original songs at an open mic, and I say ok, he wants to delve deeper into what the audience response was like. He says that all my songs sound the same. He acts concerned that I might have a sense of failure or frustration.

I know this isn't about the songs.

For A Friend Far Away

We were fools in unkindness in our twenties - Our children will redeem us- maybe

Monday Night

Decided I'm going back to the open mic at The Talking Stick. The thought was that there were a couple of folks performing there that are writing their own songs. Maybe, if they are interested, I can get a little duo or trio going of songwriters that would back each other up to play original songs. It became apparent Friday night, that Rhubarb Meringue Pie will never willingly play my original songs. (Primarily, because I may be the only member of the group that practices our material.) Also, it is hard for me to take criticism from people who do not write songs. A little helpful direction is fine for I am still a beginner musically, but come on. Most critique groups, (and I've been in thousands now it seems) usually just tell you how they would do it if they were doing it. All groups get to a certain level and the group develops a standard which is not really anything but the level of the water you treading. Friends can be just as deadly. Listen for the: "I know you are doing your best , but..." If I wanted my songs critiqued there are plenty of groups out there to go to. Even classes in how to write a song. I'm almost 59 years old, I have no time to sit and be taught anything (unless work is paying for it.) If I've learned anything ever, its the realization that you'll never be successful joining these groups that promise you seminars and exposure and rules to follow to succeed. I'd rather have fun. 

How our paths meander away

Wonder if Gertrude and Leo started this way? 

Deborah has hated my writing for a long time for being unrealistic and I believe I told her I would teach her how to write poetry.

I am having 40 people over on August 14th and we are all going to play music together and all you have to do is bring yourself and an instrument if you have one and a dish (half-baked) if you like.

More Daydee- cause I ain't got nothing to say

She jumped up the next morning, afraid that she had over slept, but she hadn’t. But now she couldn’t go back to sleep. The sun hadn’t even come up. She spent a couple of hours sorting out her mother’s clothes, actually keeping some things for her own use, mostly old lady shoes, and a few things that her new friend might like. She showered and put on her own jeans and a one of her mother’s flannel shirts. They’d be the Bobsey twins. She dumped everything on the bedspread and tied up the corners and dragged it out to the truck, figuring to drop it off on at a Goodwill on the way. It was heavy and took a bit to get it there and even more work to get it into the back. When she turned to go back inside, she saw it. In large spray painted red letters, across the wall and front door of her apartment, was written Whore. The letters were a couple feet high. Her first thought that maybe it wasn’t dry yet. She ran back to test it. They must have done right after she went to bed. It was dry all right.

                Was this her friend? The frigging lawyer? She hadn’t been here forever, how could she have any enemies? Winston did it because she didn’t call him yesterday? This didn’t make any sense at all. She must have aroused somebody’s pent up anger. Well, the whole world would get to see it today, because she didn’t have time to paint it over now. She grabbed her bag and the check book and her keys and the little something for Mark and locked up. Looking at it again from the car, made her sad suddenly.

                What on earth did I do? This goddamn town! She had never done anything to deserve this?  She’d make somebody pay for this!

                She put it in gear and jolted down the street. She realized she hadn’t met or seen any of the tenants in the apartment building. Maybe it was one of them.  The bundle of clothes was easier to get off the truck. She just backed to the door of the donation office and dumped it there. There was no one around yet. Mark was in the alley waiting sheepishly, dressed as a Bobsey.  They drove on out of town.

                She told him about the graffiti.

                “You don’t think I did it?”

                “It had crossed my mind, but you wouldn’t be standing there waiting for me, if you had.”

                She pulled over in a secluded spot beside a corn field. There wasn’t a house in sight and no one was on the road. He was wearing the bra she had given him. She padded him out with balls of nylons, applied his make-up and helped tie a head scarf on his head.  She had a scarf on herself to look the part.

                “So you get to be Marcie today.”

                She turned the rear view mirror to him so he could look. He was presentable. As long as he didn’t talk or try to sashay he could pass.

                “Try not to say anything when we’re around anyone down there. You comfortable?”

                He had an erection. He laughed.

                “Deep breaths,” she said and started back down the road. “And remember not to touch your face.”

                There was quiet for a little while as neither of them could think of anything to say.

                “Why come back now?” he asked her.

                “My mother’s estate.”

                “But you act like you’re here to stay. Usually the folks that live out of town come back and hire a lawyer and leave again.”

                “It was time.” You never confess anything to the johns.

                “It must have been fun there,” he said.

                “It was. There was always music and drinks to be had. And friends if you wanted them. The sunrises in the Quarter were always something to get up for.  The city at night was like a great whore queen that made you pay and pay.”

                He had to think about that.

                “You looked like you were enjoying yourself when I saw you that time.”

                “Would you go out with unhappy hooker?”

                “I guess not.”

                “I’d guess you went away to school to be an accountant. Why did you come back?”

                “I had a girlfriend here and Edward offered to help me set up my office.”

                “He seems like a mean person,” she said.

                “You don’t know. He’s dangerous. If I wasn’t obligated by the business he sends my way, I’d not have anything to do with him. Your mother and Winston were good friends with him. I never saw why.”

                She wanted to say ‘you’re wearing her underwear,’ but she bit her tongue.

                “My mother was mean.”

                “She never really spoke to me. She’d drop of the financial info and I’d do her taxes. Winston barely gives me a nod, though I’m usually in the diner for coffee in the morning when he’s there.”

                “You said Edward was dangerous?”

                “After he came back to hang out his shingle, he got into an argument with his first landlord and clobbered him down on Main one afternoon. Edward cracked the guy’s head on a display window.”

                 “So, you all right?” Daydee asked.

                “Sure, I guess.”

                Mark grew quiet.

                “I just cry sometimes,” he said. “How about you?”

                “I haven’t cried in twenty years,” she said. “You could change things if you wanted to.”

                “Don’t much know how.”

                She patted his hand.

                When she stopped for gas, she bought them both a beer. It made the ride a lot more fun.

They found the memorial company in Terre Haute and Daydee pulled around to their loading dock. Mark stayed in the truck. She went in and paid and without trying at all got them to load the vault in the back of the truck. They even told her they could deliver next time if given enough notice. She was surprised by what it looked like. It was just a big white casket, big enough to put a casket inside. She wasn’t sure why she was thinking it would look like a big bath tub.

They were loaded up and on their way out, when Mark waved at a guy on the dock.     

                “Flirt!” she told him.

                “One of my guys in the French Quarter used to sell stuff like this to the elderly. Down there the water table in the ground is so high, that if you used something like this, it would just back out of the ground like a cork floating on water. He would sell special two way valves that cost extra so the vault wouldn’t come out of the ground. He said the guy that was putting it in the ground would just smack a hole in the side with his shovel.”

                “If the water is getting to the casket, why have a vault at all?” Mark asked.

                “There never has been much sense to what people do,” she said.

                They  got back to the cemetery before lunch. There wasn’t a soul around. She pulled the truck around behind the shed just to be careful.

                “All thing need to come to an end,” she told him.

She cleaned his face from her bag of tricks and took back the stuffing from his bra before they pulled out to go over to the grave.  He removed the scarf and rifled his hair. Winston’s car was parked in front of the office. He was walking back toward it from the shed when they saw each other. He had seen something.  She pulled alongside him. 

                “You’re just in time to help,” she told him. “Mark offered to help me get this where it’s supposed to go.”

                “Go ahead. I’ll walk behind you.”

                She carefully navigated the markers and stopped with her tailgate next to her stakes.

They got out. Mark was very embarrassed, but was trying to act nonchalant. If Winston knew anything, he wasn’t letting on.

                “I got the guys I bought it from to load it. I don’t know how heavy it is,” she told Winston,

                “It’s not. It’s fiberglass. I helped Jack out from time to time when your mother got too ill to leave the house.”

                The three of them easily pulled the vault from the pickup and sat it a little distance away from the stakes.

                “This will give Jack room to get the backhoe in and out.”

                “There’s a little crane thing to lower the casket down?” she asked. “I’ve seen it done, but never looked close before.”

                “It’s in the shed. I can come the morning of and help if you want,” Winston said. “Jack knows what he’s doing. Is it all right to stop by the apartment later? I have a couple of things to discuss with you.”

                “Sure…thanks. I need to take Mark back to his office.”

                They hopped back in and took off.

                “You think he saw something?” Mark asked.

                “No,” she said, but didn’t believe it. This whole thing was unraveling. Pretty soon the entire town will know she was turning tricks for a living. And along with that poor Mark would be driven out of his closet. How would he explain driving around town in drag to his wife?

                Daydee was knocking on the several apartment doors in the building with the thought of introducing herself to the tenants, but no one seemed to be home. She was walking back to her own door when Winston pulled up. It was evening and the shadows were growing long behind the trunks of the elm trees in the yard. She waited for him.

                “I found a couple of folding chairs in the closet,” she said to him when he reached her. “Why don’t we sit out here? I’ve even made some lemonade.”

                He agreed and helped her bring it all out on the lawn.

                “What you usually do for dinner?” she asked him.

                “If I’m real hungry I go to the diner. Usually I eat a frozen dinner in front of the TV.”

                “You cook?”

                “I’ve been known to, but there’s just me,” he said.

                “You and me are cooking dinner tonight, how’s that?”

                “All right.”

                She poured them both a glass of the lemonade. Thought she might go get the rum to add to them, but then changed her mind.

                “So what’s on your mind?” she asked him.

                He developed a real serious look on his face and stared off at his car for a bit. Men could take a hour to say what it would take a woman fifteen seconds to say. She was patient. They were all children.

                “I wanted to tell you that it was above and beyond the call of duty- what you did for Mark. You really are a generous person.”

                “What exactly did I do for Mark?”

                Winston looked at her.

                “It’s really none of my business, it just struck me as real generous. We’re friends?”

                “Sure,” she said.

                “I’ve done a lot of horrible things in my life.”

                “Everybody has,” she said.

                “No, real things that can’t even be talked about. Things that I should be in jail for.”

                He glanced at her again. Now she realized it was a pleading look.

                “I’m afraid I’m going to go straight to hell when I die.”

                “I don’t know what to tell you, Winston. You sure that things are that bad?”

                “I’m scared.”

                “Well, if you feel this way, maybe you need to go talk to a minister.”

                “I’m not ready. It’s going to take some time to get where I can talk about any of it. But I was wondering, if you were serious about going to Jack’s church and if you were, would you mind if I came along. I don’t think I could go on my own.”

                “Winston, church isn’t my favorite place in the world, but if you think it will help I’ll go with you.”

                “Thanks, you have no idea how much this means to me.”

                They didn’t talk after that. Daydee didn’t want to slip information about New Orleans and god only knew what was going on in Winston’s thoughts. They sipped the lemonade and then went in to make dinner together. Winston fund an old Frank Sinatra album in the hutch and put it on the old stereo. They ate without much said. Only when he headed out for the evening, did he pause to touch the sprawled graffiti across her threshold.

                “Maybe I get a little paint to cover this up,” he told her.

                “That would be great.”

                The next morning, she found her mother’s pass keys for the apartment building and exactly at 9:00 she started at the first apartment next door. She knocked a couple of times and when there was no answer, she let herself in. The apartment was empty. There was no trace of any furniture or any belongings. She went to the next apartment. It was empty as well. She didn’t bother knocking at the next one. Every one of them was empty. The last one, with the entrance on the side near the driveway that led back to the building parking lot, had a bureau and an old bed, but those looked like they had been abandoned. There were no personal belongings. What kind of crazy person would own an apartment building and not rent the apartments?

                What was she going to do? The mortgage would be due soon, where would she get the money? She had no rent income? She went back to look at her mother’s receipt book. It hadn’t dawned on her to look at the year on the most current receipt. It had been a year since she had collected her last rent payment.

                She hopped in the car and drove downtown to look for a real estate agent.  She found one open and it looked like there was a woman agent so she went in. The woman was about her age, and had that look of perky businesswoman written all over her. Just the bleached blonde you’d expect to meet at an open house. Daydee was offered a seat and introductions were made. Her name was Sarah.

                “I have an apartment building to sell,” and she told her about inheriting it and who her mother was and the woman seemed to know where the building was.

                “You are in probate now?”

                “Yes.”

                “And you’re the executor?”

                “Yes.”

                “Who- never mind, I know who your lawyer is. We shouldn’t have any problem listing it. You need to let Edward know what you want to do. He will need to file with the probate court and they’ll have to approve and hold a hearing to close the sale.”

                “I just don’t understand why there are no tenants.”

                “Your mother was pretty wacko toward the end. Let me see what I can do about finding you some tenants. It would help to sell it at what it’s worth. Would you willing to give a first month discount or a freebee?”

                “Sure,” Daydee said. This woman could be trusted. “I’m not sure if I can come up with the mortgage the way things are now.”

                “It’s a small town, honey. The bank will goof off if they know the building is listed for sale. Edward is on the Board of Directors at the bank. I’m guessing it’s financed there.”

                “Which bank?”

                Sarah wrote the name down for her, The Edgar County Bank,  so she could check the paper records to make sure it was the same one.

                Daydee went to the Goodwill. She’d been doing this all of her life. It was a good place to get things cheap. It had started in New Orleans, with her first pimp. He took most of her money.  You tried not to think about the part where most of this stuff came out of dead people’s closets. She found a couple of cheap lamps that were kind of funky. Then she started in looking for dresses. She had promised to go to church on Sunday. She hadn’t seen the inside of a real Midwest church in a thousand years. The only time she was in a church in New Orleans was when someone she knew was getting married or there was a funeral. With the crowd she ran with most of her life, there were more funerals. Occasionally, though, one of the girls she knew from the street would hook up with someone legit and down there it meant a big hokey Catholic wedding. The whole religion thing down there was so much hocus pocus. It just wasn’t real. Up here it was real. She couldn’t remember which church Jack said he was the minister of and she wondered now, if that was the one Winston had meant to go to, but it was a Paris church and she didn’t have any dress appropriate to wear. Everything she had was too short and too tight. Somehow she doubted it was going to be a Pentecostal church. The one she remembered from her childhood had collected all the real weirdoes from all over the county. Those losers wouldn’t care how she dressed; in fact, they might have gotten a kick out of her wardrobe. There was a very thin line between the Pentecost and alcoholism. Jack struck her as strictly middleclass. 

                The dresses had to be pulled out and checked for size. There was nothing here that was sorted in any way. Some of them she recognized as part of what she had dropped off here that had come out of her mother’s closet. A lot of the others looked like they came out of someone else’s mother’s closet.  She had put on a couple of pounds too, which didn’t make her feel any better about dressing dumpy. She tried on several and finally decided on a flapper like dress that was actually pretty plain. Having curves in the right place, livened up almost anything. It did look a little retro, but it was blue and to her knees and didn’t demonstrate anything up above. She also found what looked like a banker lady’s suit that was navy and would be good for funerals at the cemetery if she had to be there to officiate. The first one was this Saturday. She wasn’t sure if she was expected to be there. She would go and hang out in the office if nothing else. She reminded herself to go by this afternoon and check to make sure Jack opened the grave and had set everything up. What was the name of the secretary on the Beverly Hillbillies? This was her kind of suit.

There was a blue flannel shirt on the men’s rack that caught her eye. She went to look. It was soft and untouched. It didn’t look like a soul had ever had it on. It also struck her as an expensive one, somehow. Were there designer flannel shirts? The color was warm and it was big enough to get lost in. It could be worn as a dress, not that anyone would.  The only thing missing was the slight hint of aftershave or someone’s odor that she knew fondly. She tried to recall what John used to use. It was probably just Old Spice or something dumb like that. This shirt was a real find.

She looked through the costume jewelry for something conservative and demur, but didn’t find anything. Then she wondered what had become of her mother’s things. She hadn’t seen a jewelry box anywhere. This whole thing was getting weird. Maybe they were hidden somewhere in the apartment.  This was fun, you could have a whole shopping spree and spend nothing. She even took a little pair of cow salt and pepper shakers that she liked.

She waited in the lawyer’s office reception for nearly a half hour before he could see her. He was in grumpy mood when the receptionist showed her in.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

She told him about the necessity of putting the apartment building up for sale and told him that the real estate agent had explained how a sale in probate could work. He laughed out loud at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You talked to Sarah?”

Daydee nodded, put out by his whole manner.

“That’s my ex-wife. She should know what she’s talking about, sort of.”

“She told me you were on the Board of Directors of the bank that held the mortgage.”

“Did she tell you I was a crook and a bastard as well?”

“Well, now that you mention it.” She heard herself say. “No, she didn’t say anything of the sort. She didn’t mention that she had been married to you.”

“Well, the bank makes its loan decisions separately from the board involvement. There’s little I can do there. If they foreclose, they foreclose. I will make a motion for the probate court to schedule a date for the sale closure. It’s up to you to find a buyer.”

                “I realize that.”

                “Good luck. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said.

                He didn’t get up.

                Daydee let herself out.  Maybe it was time to change lawyers. She reminded herself to ask around about other lawyers in town.

                She found the jewelry box under the bed. She set out on the bare mattress and looked through it, laying the things out in neat rows beside the box. She hadn’t been allowed to touch it as a child and a teenager. This was all too valuable to be touched. God, was she crazy. There was nothing really here. A few slight chains of plated gold. A few rings, and the earrings that her mother had thought valuable, were barely so.  Daydee had real diamonds and pearls in her own box that she had brought with her. The johns when they did buy things spent good money. And the pimps’ little things were real as well. It looked like her mother had taken all of her great grandmother’s and her great aunt’s things. There was a nice broach she recalled her aunt wearing. She would keep the things the older women had.  She fingered a cheap pendant of her mother’s, and wondered what her eyes would have done if she had ever seen Daydee’s huge emerald. One of the girls, years ago, had advised her to put extra money into jewelry. You get down on your luck, you can always hock it. Daydee had splurged on a few things. All of which looked good in a big hotel in the French Quarter, but would be totally out of place in this little town.  Giving her mother’s things to the Goodwill would be an ultimate form of revenge for her refusal to share with her as a child. She could have at least let me touch a little here and there. There were good church going earrings here and even a little simple cross on a chain that had been her great grandmother’s. Hopefully it wouldn’t burn her flesh when she put it on.

More Daydee for the 4th- Happy 4th!!!

She was awakened by the phone ringing. The sun was well up outside, so it wasn’t too early. Who would be calling her? She hoped it wasn’t Winston. It was a customer for the cemetery. The son calling to make arrangements for his father.  The son and sister wanted meet with her. She invited them out to the office on the grounds. The apartment was looking even worse than the first night. She had planned to spend today getting rid of things and making it livable. She got herself presentable instead. She needed some longer skirts, but at least she had black. She would sit behind the desk. She needed groceries too. A piece of toast would have to do.  The truck started right up, though she still had to fight with the stick. She had to drive back downtown to find her way. A map would be a good thing too. She managed to get there ahead of them.

                She looked under their name in the files and found three different folders. She was wishing for coffee as she took them to the desk to sort out. There was very little that made sense here. There were a couple of sale receipts with different names on them. Nothing said what plot was used and what wasn’t used.

                They arrived as she was organizing the folders. The son was maybe her age and his aunt looked seventy. He was wearing a suit, but it fit him awkwardly or he was awkward in it. He kept pulling on one sleeve. The old lady was in one of those leisure suits that was an odd color. She invited them to sit down.

                “I’ve got to be honest with you,” Daydee told them. “I’ve just arrived in town two days ago and I need to get a handle on things. Tell me what you are expecting, and that will help me figure things out.”

                “Well, “ the aunt said, “The funeral is for Saturday. Goshen’s Funeral Home is taking care of it, so you can call them for the details. We’re having a honor guard from the VFW coming to do a three rifle salute. My brother was in the South Pacific you know.”

                The son handed Daydee a couple of papers he took out of his jacket pocket.

                “My mother had purchased the marker and two vaults along with plots. There’s a number of our family here. “

                “Thanks.”

                Daydee found paper and a pencil in the drawer and wrote down all the details from the receipts. 

                “Now, you’re going to think I’m real stupid, but will you show me where the plot is?”

                “My mother bought it,” the son said. “She would know. We were hoping to take care of things for her.”               

                “How about you show me where your other relatives are and I’ll figure it out.”

                They all walked out and across the grounds. She could fell the man’s eyes all over her.

                “Where did you say you were from?”  he asked.

                “I’m from here. But I’ve been living in New Orleans.”

                “That’s a pretty wild town, I’ve heard.”

                They found the area and there were some empty spots nearby. She wrote down the names on the markers and walked back with them.

                “If there is any question, I will call you both. Otherwise, we will be ready for him.”

                “I’ll call you in a couple of days to make sure the details are correct,” the aunt told her.

                “I’ve always said that if you take care of the little things, the big thing take care of themselves.”

                They both looked at her as if she was from Mars.

                “How about you take care of everything, deary,”  the aunt told her.

                She went back in and called the funeral home and got the details, called Jack, but got his wife. She almost hung up out of old habits, but left him a message instead. The wife seemed nice enough once she explained who she was. She went out to the shed to check if there any burial vaults there, but there wasn’t. The phone rang making her run back.

                It was Jack. She gave the details to him about opening the grave and he promised he’d be there. He asked her to stake out the grave for him, just so there wouldn’t be any mistakes.  As soon as she figured it out, she thought.

                “I need a burial vault. Are they in storage somewhere?” she asked.

                “Oh, your mother didn’t have any left. Last time she got Winston to drive to Terre Haute to get one.”

                Shit.

                “Remind Winston or me to tell the story about your mother trying to make them herself.” He was laughing.

                “Funny, see you.”

                She rifled the desk and found a card for a vault and marker company in Terre Haute. She called and managed somehow to order one. She could pick it up anytime. She had four days, so tomorrow would be it. She wasn’t sure how big a vault was or what it was made of. It was probably big and heavy, big and heavy enough to hold a casket for eternity.  She could flirt and get them to load it on the truck. Getting it off would be another problem.

                She ransacked the office. There had to be a map of the goddamn cemetery somewhere. Nothing anywhere. Going over all the records again, she drew herself a map of where the relatives were and noted their plots numbers and since the new guy was supposed to be in a plot numbered in sequence, the plot had to be next to them, but in what direction? She spent another hour enlarging her hand drawn map of the markers out there and coming back to check those peoples files to find their plot numbers. It wasn’t a help that some of the files were a mess with things noted on napkins in there. All from the restaurant where they had breakfast.  Finally she was sure where the goddamn plot was supposed to be. She found stakes and a mallet in the shed and pounded them in out there in parallel to the direction of the markers nearby. By the time she was done, she was sweaty and her hands and legs were dirty and she had ripped her pantyhose. She felt like a mess. You were only supposed to work this hard with your clothes off. She went back into the office and shut the door to take the hose off. There really wasn’t much privacy. The office was all windows with no curtains. It made for a nice view, but you couldn’t pick your nose in here when people were about.

                She had to be back for the accountant this afternoon, she suddenly remembered. She had brought the address of the empty house in town. She was thinking she’d wait and have Winston show her where it was, but she decided she had time to run by before going home. She only had to ask directions once, from a grandma out with a little boy. The house was in another quiet part of town. The yards here were huge, so there was a lot of space between the houses. No fences at all. Just a lot of bushes and trees. No sidewalks and no streetlights here. The house was an odd contraption. It looked as though two had been stuck together. One was a small low farmhouse with the wide porch and the other was a two story gabled thing that may have lost half of itself somewhere. The width of the clapboard siding were different, the eves were different and the roofs were two different colors. One faded green, one reddish. None of her keys worked. She peered in the window. There were no curtains. The house was empty, no furniture, no nothing. She walked around. The keys didn’t work on the garage or the back door.  A window in the back seemed not to be painted shut. There was not a sole around. The only house in view from the back of this one looked as if no one was home. The curtains were all drawn. She jostled the window and it opened easily. Somebody has been coming and going this way. 

                She found an old trash can out back and pulled it around and turned it over so she could climb in. She didn’t manage it very gracefully. She was glad there wasn’t anyone around to be mooned. Little tight skirts were not made for obstacle courses. She took her shoes off, so she could walk quietly. There could be someone in here she realized. The kitchen had a couple of dusty drinking glasses and a plate on the counter. There were no appliances.  She found what she thought was the door to the garage, but it had a padlock on it. None of her keys worked.  The living room had an old blanket in the corner and next to it was a little heroin set –up on a newspaper. The spoon and the syringe and the elastic tie off and a little candle. Even an ashtray filled with butts. But everything was covered in dust, so it had sat there a while. The newspaper had a big Spanish headline. Where on earth would you get a Spanish newspaper in town, she wondered.   The house had been two houses. From this living room, you walked through a doorway that had obviously been the front door of the second house. There were little glass windows on either side, though the door and its hinges were gone. The stairs upstairs were off a second living room. There was nothing up there at all, except for one lone students chair from a classroom. It was hot and stuffy and smelled stale. The bathroom up here was filthy. She went back down. This was where her great-aunt and great-grandmother had lived out the last years of their lives. It was hard to imagine them living here. She remembered them from the farm. There were both large fat women. Unis , her aunt, had never married and had lived with her mother her entire life. She did her own plowing and harvesting and had livestock. Neither woman ever wore make-up. Daydee’s Great Grandmother had been bedridden and partially blind and partially deaf when Daydee was a girl. And the woman lived to ninety seven. She had been a school teacher, she thought, but that was before she married. She’d have to figure what year on a piece of paper when she thought of it. Unis never had anything to say. Great Grandma was always holding forth about something. Usually it was about how wonderful she was and how wonderful her family was and how it was the greatest farm on the planet and Daydee should grow up and be President some day. There wasn’t much to do if you were forced to lie around all day. Daydreams could take over what’s left of your life.

                She would have to come back with a crowbar and find out what was hidden in there. She didn’t believe that there would be anything valuable, but there might be some family secrets.  She went out the way she came in, leaving everything undisturbed. She needed to get back for the accountant.

                She had time for lunch, another bologna sandwich, and a shower and a do. She straightened up the living room and kitchen. And threw everything into the bedroom and shut the door. That would have to be figured out if he wanted something else besides a business meeting. Men were too easy. John was only one that she had known in years that was hard to figure out. Her very last client had been an alcoholic printer. John Seegum. He had stuck around after all the other guys had faded away. She had reached the magic age- when the clients go looking for younger women.  He was an attractive man, full head of hair and muscles. But he was serous drunk. He paid her to just keep him company, and they seldom had sex. He had those black stained fingers that printers had; the ink after so many years never came off. She didn’t mind. He was kind and delicate with those dark hands. He read books and could recite things to her. He would get sloppy drunk and stand in the middle of his little apartment and sway and wave his arms to a Brahms record. He could be goofy too. He called them Matt Dillon and Miss Lily. Drinking coffee with the shakes in the morning, he’d say he had to make it to Dodge one more time. 

                He was in jail now. When Winston called, she was thinking about finding a waitress job.

                Mark was at the door. She let him and had him come sit on the couch.

                “Would like a cup of coffee? Or a soda,” she asked.

                “No. That rum looks good, but I need to get back to the office later.”

                She sat down beside him and he laid his papers out on the coffee table and then went through the last several years of the corporation’s life. The corporation being her mother’s assets. He showed her the expected farm revenue and how much everything was bringing in and went over the regular expenses. And ended up on the tax returns for the last five years. About forty minutes later, she was up to speed and it was all business. This was good. He wasn’t condescending. He didn’t act as if her questions were stupid. It was apparent however that her mother had been losing money for the last five years at about ten thousand a year. Every tax return reported business losses. Winston must have been right about the drug trafficking.  They were done.

                “I want you to know how much I appreciate your help. “

                He eyed her. He pulled a check book out of his briefcase and handed it to her.

                “I notified the bank and they have created a new account with your name on it. All you have to go down and sign a signature card and show them ID. They sent over these for you to use until you get the ones with your name printed on them.”

                “I didn’t think you could open a checking account for someone else.”

                “It’s easy here, everyone knows me. I do bill maintenance for some older folks that can’t remember when to do it right. The kids hire me.”

                “So what do I owe you?” Daydee said, waving the check book. “I may even tip.”

                “Well, I have something to ask you…”

                “Ok.”

                “I saw you in the French Quarter about ten years ago. You were out at club with the President of our NSA at a convention. I know his wife and their kids. They live over in Springfield.”

                “I don’t recall him. You sure it was me?” she asked.

                He pointed to her penny birthmark on her neck.

                “All the boys in town knew everything there was to know about you.  All the wild things you’d do. We all thought you were dead.”

                She laughed.

                “So what is the NSA?”

                “The National Society of Accountants.”

                “So what do you want to do, Mark?”

                “I thought we could barter if that’s ok with you. I don’t have much money. I have a family. My services for a little help from time to time.”

                “You know, Mark, you’re not a bad looking guy at all. I could probably go for you, but lovemaking is not something that’s going to work out with me for the long haul. I’d hate to disappoint you. And I kinda wanted to turn over a new leaf.”

                “I wasn’t too interested in that right now anyway.” He hesitated. “I wouldn’t tell another living soul about you, I promise.”

                “So what do you like?”

                “I was looking for a little help in learning how to be a woman. It’s a small town.”

                He was turning very red.

                “Relax,” she patted his hand. “Let’s have a drink first. I’ll make you a cup of coffee before you go.”

                She went into the kitchen and poured two rum and cokes. She had them click them in a silent toast and she closed the front drapes.

                “Let me go see what I can find,” she told him.

                This was easy. She knew the routine. She also knew her mother. In the bottom drawer of the bedroom, was the new lingerie her mother always had stashed for a special occasion.  She gathered up some of it and brought them out to the coffee table.

                “The first thing you need to do is take off your clothes,” she said.

                He complied. He carefully draped his trousers and shirt over the back of the coach. He was a little saggy, but wasn’t too bad. If he worked out, he could look good. The tidy whities were the last to come off.  The erection was there.

                “Turn around,” she said.

                She helped him into a little white baby doll nightie complete with bra and panties and the see through cover up.  She led him into the bathroom by the hand, made him sit on the toilet and put a little make-up on him. The lipstick and he was more than ready. She stood him up to look at himself.

                “Oh dear,” she said.”This won’t do.”

                She pulled his erection out and he went off like a teenage boy. She played with it until it went down and folded it back into his panties.

                “Now you will get remorseful, but in this house we don’t do that. You have to come back out and sit and talk to me and have another drink. And fold your legs like a girl does.”

                “You’ve done this before,” he said.

                “You have no idea.”

                She brought the run and cokes over to refill their drinks.

                “Your wife doesn’t appreciate this?” she asked.

                “No.”

                “Too bad. There’s advantages. I had one guy that would come over and clean my apartment for me.”

                “That might be fun,” he said.

                “Let’s remember it’s a small town. There’s not much that will go unnoticed. You want to keep your family…and I got other things I want to be doing now. But, I could use a favor tomorrow though.”

                “What?”

                “I need to drive to Terre Haute for a burial vault and I need some help. I could pick up in an alley somewhere in the morning and drop you back the same way.  It would only be a few hours.”

                “I don’t know, there’s work I need to get done.”

                “You could be my girl friend for the day. We’d be out of town. Nobody would have to know. You wouldn’t even have to get out of the truck until we got back to unload it.” He was scared. “I’ll pack you some underwear to take back to the office. Just show up in jeans and a flannel shirt.”

                “I should be getting back now,” he said.

                “Remorse is for stupid people.”

                “Ok,” he said, smiling.

                He took his clothes to the bathroom to get dressed and cleaned up. She had him draw her  a map to where he would meet her and she handed him a brown bag to carry off with his briefcase.  She was really doubtful that he would show up, but you never could tell. The little nightie was carefully folded on the bathroom counter.

                This line of work made you think ahead. She had to be ready for odd turns. She had promised, so she prepared a bag to take along in the morning if he did show up. They were like little children. If you promised a piece of candy, you’d better damn well have it to give them. Broken promises were what their bad mothers, bad wives, and bad sisters offered.