Date: Tuesday, July 10, 2007 11:24 AM
Subject: Re: RAVEN issue location moved
Rolling out of bed at 8:30 this morning, not starting up the computers, not checking email I stood outside in the rain repairing the temporary door on, "The Shed From Hell," I had built last fall. I saw that its cardboard door finally deteriorated into a slump of impregnated wood fibers, glue, and print, fell into itself and hung forlornly from the door frame, when I looked out the kitchen window on my way to the toilet in the basement.
Taking the initiative I jumped into the Honda, whilst I was dressed for the out of doors anyway and drove over to your house where I had been told, upon arrival home last night, that THE RAVEN copy was "… on the screen porch, next to the glass of cold milk and cookies."
Arriving at the McDs residence, the dark clouds of September descending on me in July, rain ricocheting from the basswood leaves blurring my vision, I nimbly stepped from flagstone to flagstone mentally calculating its cost at $4.50-$5.00 a piece--"Whew! The Honda didn't cost me that much," I said to myself. (Aloud, I will add.) Then proceeded to jump puddles, muddy stretches, flower plantings, stone edgings around flowering 'flower' beds; I slipped under tree boughs, waved mosquitoes away, erstwhile looking for signs of life in the house, thinking 'oops' perhaps it's too early and not all were away to work--and here I was traipsing about like a thief, trespassing on hallowed ground... ("I could well be shot," I shuddered to think.)
Reaching the screen porch door, casting my eyes about for signs of milk and cookies, (I keep a pocketful of extra eyeballs in all my jackets, for just these situations.) I tried to open the door--and it was hooked from the inside!! "Somebody forgot to leave the door unlocked," I thought to myself. (Inwardly, I will add,) the dampness of my Wannaska cap soaking through to my forehead about that time, its bill beginning to droop, the drip-drip-dripping of rain tweenst the basswoods, the walnut trees, a calliope of pith, pith, pith, plit noises …
I slapped my back pocket for my wallet, thinking I'd have to use my credit card to lift the hook, but realizing I had no wallet on me, I thought to use my Leatherman knife blade but hesitated, looking intently now for THE RAVEN copy that would be laying, somewhere, in plain sight should it actually be in there …
I backed away, thinking now I'd been set-up. This was some kind of evil doings. I was captured on video tape and now, as I stood there like a doe in the headlights, the Palmville Police & Constabulary were on their way I just knew it. I fled, rounding the corner of the screen porch, slipping, sliding on wet green grass, arms flailing, down on one knee--splish! "Shit!" I said, not caring who heard me, my leg soaked to the skin now, my pant leg clinging to the-no-hair, lily-white blank-slate surface like Saran-wrap 'round a painted wooden fence post. I dashed to the porch frantically peering in and out of all things not nailed own, ("… there's the door key …") I could hear the sirens wailin', I felt like a fox chased by hounds; a felon escaped from the federal pen …
Desperate now, swooshing the cloud of mosquitoes billowing about the front door away, ("Out you damn spots!!," I shouted,) not caring who was listening, throwing both my hands to either side of my wet head, my cap about my face like a warm blue towel now, totally misshapen, to look inside the dark house--and there--and there lay THE RAVEN copy within its confines. There it lay near the door, face down, a little yellow stickie note with scribbling on it in a woman's handwriting …
Tires squealed out on the county road as the copper slid by your driveway, his shotgun, shells, wallet, extra keys, comb, and pens from Cafe 89; his can of almonds, chewing gum, pocket spiral notepad, all sliding to the floor around his feet when he hit the binders; he looks south down your driveway as the squad car careens past your mailbox, sliding off the road onto the shoulder, and plunges sickeningly into the muddy-sided ditch, steam arising from the water.
Testing the door to see if it is unlocked, the heavy brass lever falling under slight pressure, I open it quickly, snatch the RAVEN copy from its rest and close the house back up tightly behind me, dashing from the porch, past the key, past the basswoods, past the pine. I reach the door of the Honda and throw myself inside.
Starting as though willed-to, I drive as a madman might, down your driveway, jettisoning puddle-water with its tires from either side of the car, the tree boughs lifting ahead of it as though swept with hurricane force, (windshield wipers going 90),-- a constable blocked the road ahead with his skinny body, wet grass hanging from the barrel of his wet shotgun, the badge on his clammy chest dulled with mud.
("Fuck 'im," I said,) not caring who was listening, and called his bluff 'ginst a Honda going 200 mph straight at him. He moved. They don't pay him enough in Palmville, I knew. But turned instead east, not west, to throw him off the trail in case he called for back-up. Even a fox don't run straight for home....
So that was my morning, bud. Thanks for the editing!
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