George Harrison comes to America

Chapter One

"I hear the girls in America like a good yank . . . but prefer a limey."  

John had said it with a straight face, but George was having trouble keeping his composure after hearing the remark. He and the band were about to go on stage at the Prom, and it wasn't their usual weekday lunchtime shift they screeched and stomped through at the Cavern, a hole of a place on the winding Liverpool Mathew Street. No, this was a serious gig, and George felt serious about it. At the Cavern they'd won over the common day crowd, most of all the little executives as they called them who were there to down the java, have a wee ciggie and enjoy a short break away from the confines of each office they had come from. Secretaries, electricians, banker assistants, para legals, shop boys and girls, plumbers, hairdressers, street sweepers . . . you name it, they all came in to see The Beatles. The real rave had begun after their apprentice stint in flesh and piss Hamburg. George had figured out that the appeal of a German band had replaced their utter failure as a Liverpool attraction, and now back in England, he'd done nothing to correct the assumption that they were German. Sometimes he even spoke in German to keep up the allure. The girls really liked it. 

"What's this place yer going to again?" Paul asked George, adjusting the guitar strap he had slung around his right shoulder to keep a brand new hofner bass aloft. Paul was a leftie and a smart ass. A real diabolical wanker sometimes. But also, his best friend for many years. 

"I told you, it's this place called Illinois," George said. "They have states there, and it's called Illinois. It's close to St Louis."

"Ah," John said, cutting in.  "Chuck Berry." 

"That's right," George said, feeling a wave of excitement.

Roll over Beethoven . . .

Their name was called and they all bounded to the stage amid a wild crowd. The stage had been laced with a decoration of fresh flowers. George felt his nose itch and a wave of humidity and oven-like heat smack down upon him from a set of stage lights; it instantly wrapped around his thin body. The sweat began to pop on his forehead and neck, and all he could think was that it wasn't as bad as the Cavern, but the perspiration had become worse now in the shiny suits their manager Brian had put them in, as if they were his own set of Cupie dolls.

Richard, or Ringo as he called himself based on a western character he loved, hit the kick drum and they all started up their new hit record, "Please, Please Me." It was more upbeat than their other songs with a fast succession of chords and big harmonies. Upon first hearing it, Brian had smiled and said, "It's a hit!"

Speaking of Brian, a gay Jewish businessman from the better parts of Liverpool who'd taken the band on seemingly from good taste and intuition, but more like a whim of fancy, stood on the sidelines and George caught a glimpse of the tall, soft-faced manager with hands white as the moon, arms crossed over his chest, supine smile on his beautiful face. This bloke had been the one to put together the right connections with EMI and Parlophone. He was meticulous in his job as manager, and press wrangler, so even if you wanted to call what he did magic, the truth was it had been a lot of hard work.

George had no qualms about Brian's secret sexual orientations, in fact, it added to their overall mystique. Another secret, like pretending to be German. The truth was, if Brian wasn't a homosexual, George would think he was a super, annoying prick. 

He'd procured gigs like this: the Pop Prom at the Royal Albert. It was a dream come true! Theyd always heard of the Prom and wanted to be included. Brian made things happen. He was gear. After they all came back from their two week break--him to see Louise in America, John to France with Cyn, Ringo and Paul to Greece--they were going to record another album. That made two! Hard to believe that only a year ago they'd all wondered if they'd make it out of the bloody Cavern with ten shillings between them.

Brian was a bloody magician.

George strummed along while John and Paul sang, hamming it up to the crowd so he wouldn't become invisible in their heady presence. He'd perfected the art of shaking his hair like a mini mop atop his thick skull and smiling in a half-moon kind of way. He also liked to waggle and scrunch his dark brows. His mother Louise said it was from all the Buster Keaton movies she'd let him watch as a child. Keaton had strangely been her favorite actor, and all his intimations had stuck with little George. But it was more than that; it was the ability to stand out from blokes like John and Paul. He had his own pull! He did it his own way! Even Ringo had his bits to get looks from the crowd. But George had perfected the "sullen" silent act. More than anything, George knew that he had a "look" if you could call it that; the brooding look, and to play upon it was his own little genius. If you sent a stare under a set of dark, heavy brows you could unnerve even the most intimidating bloke in the crowd, funny thing was, it had an opposite effect and the girls all loved it. Throw in a crooked smile; you were more than halfway there. Even Buster didn't have that!  

Brian had recently told him, "George, you are too good at playing a dark gypsy. I'd tell you to stop. but I myself think it's lovely to see." 

And now, here they were, the jewel of the Cavern, crowds every day at lunch and in the evening, a record, several hit songs, and enough pocket change to buy a round of ale. And yet . . .  

The song concluded, and George reached up quickly to swipe away a layer of sweat before it ruined his fringe, then he peered around the place. Not one of them understood.  

That's what left him feeling so hollow at night after hitting the sheets, guitar slung up against the wall with silver moonlight illuminating its amber sheen. 

No one knew. And most of all, he didn't know. There was a mystery to life which was both wonderful and debilitating and he wanted so much to understand what this pariah was that ate his insides out, day and night, but it was impossible to grasp. There had to be an answer somewhere, and he George Harrison wanted to be the one to find it, if only to save whatever there was left of his cotton candy soul. 

Show over, the four of them bowed and ran offstage to waiting sodas and terry towels Brian handed to them with praise and smiles. George threw off his suit coat immediately, as did John. Then they hung the clothing up on hangers just as Brian had taught them to do. 

"No, wait," Brian said, peeking his head in. "You still have a meet and greet with the fans." 

"Bloody hell," John breathed, reaching for his suit again. "It's fucking summer. Do we really have to wear this shit all summer?" He shimmied his slacks back up bare legs to cover a set of tightie whities.  

"Yes, John, you do." Brian nodded and then left. He'd seen them all naked a few times.  

John threw George a look. George shrugged and also slid on his pants and jacket once more.  

"They make you wear suits in prison too," George said. He and John were always equating things to the monarchy and prisons. School had been the worst prison of all, and suits had a tinge of that. 

"Right you are," John said, sucking on a ciggie before heading out to meet the fans.

Meet ups at the Royal Albert happened outside the stage door within the shipping area where food trucks parked to deliver sammies and drinks. Visually, a complete and opposite effect from the rest of the venue. But at least there was a breeze.

Paul, who had remained in his suit, made a quick turn and followed them along with Ritchie. Paul began silently filling out one of many questionnaires from a fan.

"What is your favorite color?"

"Black."

"How tall are you?"

"Five foot eleven."

"What kind of girls do you like?"

"You." 

It was Sunday, and as they stood out there in a nice realm of fresh sunlight, summer breeze on their necks, George heard a set of church bells tolling from the nearby Holy Trinity cathedral. He liked the sound. It had a cleansing, beautiful feel that seemed to lighten his body. Like he'd been admonished from all darkness.  

Not everyone enjoyed the sound.  

"Shuddup!" John yelled, shaking a fist at the bell towers. Then he turned and smiled at his circle of fans, and they all screamed. That was all it took lately to ensure a wild reception from their female personage: a smile, a growl, even a hiccup. More and more it seemed they could do almost anything and the girls would scream their bloody heads off. It was scandalous and titillating but also concerning as George had never thought himself the kind of lad to be taken in by false idolization. At least it came from girls though and somehow that lessened the importance, not that girls were lesser than boys when it came to opinions, music or otherwise; it just made more sense. George was able to compartmentalize the adoration in a sexual suitcase and not get too hung up on the idea that he was great or important in any way. The fact was, when George woke up each morning, he was still his mother and father's (a bus driver) son.  

They all signed their names on autograph books, cards and scraps of paper the girls had provided, then Paul turned to them and secretly tapped at his wristwatch. Time to hit the road, he said with batting eyelashes.

Brian stepped forward and addressed the crowd. "Thank you all for being here and we hope to see you at our next event." 

He motioned to a waiting car, and the boys pressed forward, a sectional of hands grabbing at them, to get inside the car. It was only Brian's wheels, a nice car but not a hired thing. They weren't that famous yet. Maybe not ever. Yes, they'd begun to pierce the tight walls of Europe, and yes, they'd appeared on Thank Your Lucky Stars, but other than that they were still unknown. Because the truth was, they hadn't conquered America yet, and you were no one until that feat was accomplished. 

"America," John said, lighting up inside the car. "Promise me you'll bring back a memento." 

"Doris Day's girdle," Paul quipped.  

Brian got in the passenger's side and turned to grin at them. "You boys were fantastic. They told me you are invited back to next year's Prom." 

"Great," John said, with an air that belayed not needing or wanting to do another Prom performance. He was already thinking bigger, better. George knew this.  

The driver pulled into the road and took them back to where they'd all parked their own cars, except John who didn't drive. Eppy had arranged to take him straight back to his old flat that he'd leant to the newly married leader of the band. John had recently married his girlfriend Cynthia because she was secretly pregnant, or with child as his mother had commented when he'd brought the topic up. 

"Did you know they were having sex?" his mother asked over tea.

"No, of course not."

"Oh, sure you didn't. And fairies are real and the sky is pink."

"It's pink sometimes, Mother," he said, smiling at her. 

Back in the car, George looked at the newly married John and thought how strange it was that the wildest member of their entourage had gotten chained to a bird and would be a father. John saw him staring and shoved him away with a curse. "Ger off me!"

It was still John and Paul was still Paul and Ritchie was still just sad-eyed Ritchie. And he was just George. The string of thoughts comforted him.

They arrived at their destination.

"Have fun in the States," John called out to George. "Don't forget the memento or I'll kill ya!"

"Have fun in Paris," George replied as Brian's car pulled away.

Two weeks, that's what they'd been allotted. It didn't seem like enough time, but it was the longest stretch of vacation they'd been allowed since signing with Brian and NEMS which had led to a recording contract with George Martin and EMI.  

The others left and George stood alone in Abbey Road by his own modest car. All of a sudden, he felt nervous. And excited. America? It was a true adventure, that. What if he got lost? What if some ruffians like Marlon Brandon knifed him in New York all for showing his huge, ratty teeth? 

His sister Louise had been there a while though and said it'd be fine and had ensured him there was nothing to worry about. She'd take care of him. Anyway, he wasn't a coward. The youngest of the band, he'd seen far worse in the streets of Liverpool and Hamburg. He'd had his face bashed many times for nothing at all, and here he was, still standing. 

He lit up a ciggie and decided right there to push away any more fear if it crept up. He felt called to America, fear or not. And he liked trying new things, to be a trailblazer for himself without the others to pitch in their doubts and nay saying.  

With that, George got in and drove to his mother's old house in Speke where she fed him and his brother Peter a nice proper Scouse and a beautiful tart to see them off before their flight the next day. 

New project

 Well in other news, I’ve begun to write a screenplay about the summer George Harrison traveled to the US. Trying to get kickstarter funding started but it hasn’t been approved yet. I just want to be able to write this without major stress of life eating at me all day. But I know life is tough for everyone currently. Wish me luck.

The summer of 63 was a calm before the storm, a dawn before great transformation across the US. Soon the world would experience the passing of JFK, an event which left the collective heartbroken and suffocated in a dark heaviness of grief. When young George Harrison traveled to the US to visit his sister Louise, the band he belonged to had already cemented a significant amount fame in the UK, but the small town of Benton, Illinois had no idea of such things. Upon his arrival, he was a veritable nobody, and no one suspected the tousle-haired boy with handsome dark looks would cause a storm only a few months into the future. But some things are undeniable: electricity was in the air. Folks say you can smell a tornado coming, perhaps the same can be said about magic. By the time George returned to Liverpool, he'd left the small town of Benton adrift with a new era of hope. Everyone he touched remembered the boy abroad. 

He too, in his mystic contemplation which would blossom within the walls of Indian transcendentalism, saw Benton with the eyes of introspection and a firm inner knowing of self. He saw the rift of civil rights and a society divided and the experience left him wanting to know why. 

A BOY ABROAD is a screenplay about change on many levels: societal, personal and universal. 

The Story of Lennie Johns

ONE DAY AT A TIME is a work of fiction, based on a cartoonish version of a real celebrity. Which means, artistic license was used to create the people, places, and things in this story.

Many will say it's about musician and famous member of The Beatles, John Lennon, and that's hard to dispute. I took inspiration from his life and attributes, but that's as far as it went because when he was killed on December 8, 1980 all ability to wonder about his life ended: what it would be like had the event never happened, and what would he be like as well. My character Lennie Johns required a fictional status because he needed room to grow outside of all that; he needed room to develop his own existence, as well the story needed the same ability to expand. As a writer, that would not have been possible if I'd stuck to any ideas about a real person called John Lennon or anyone else you have in mind. The fact is, there's a lot of Ozzy Osbourne in Lennie Johns and for those who are still mourning his passing, perhaps they'll find comfort in the fact that he, like John, can live in the world of Lennie.  

Let me tell you about Lennie. The time is October 1990, he has woken from a coma after a violent attack, and he is originally from Manchester though he now lies in a hospital in Staten Island. It’s a financial thing. Being in a coma costs money. He used to have a lot of it, but you know how things are. How things are . . . his artist wife Kiko emigrated to Europe to hang out with Andy Warhol with rich financiers and she's a big star. It’d be admirable, really, if it wasn’t so shocking. Lennie thought she loved him but clearly he was wrong about a lot of things. At least he has his two nurses, Candy and Madge, to keep him company, although with his salty words and acerbic ways he fears they too could leave in a revolutionary style of dissention. The thing is, he can’t walk and that means he needs them. When Lennie found out he couldn't walk he felt very alone and . . . what did Ratso say in Midnight Cowboy? Scared. 

Lennie is scared. He can’t walk, he can’t pee, he can’t get out of bed; it’s ten years later and the world has changed. There’s a war in the Gulf and no one seems to remember any of the goddamned wonderful shit he said about Peace and it’s frustrating and . . . he’s scared.  

So when one of his toes moves, then the other, then his entire leg . . . Lennie declares himself a miracle (but not bigger than Jesus), and he and Nurse Madge hit the road for the panhandle. Fun and chaos ensue. Along the way he meets up with his ole bandmates Saul, Dingo, and Jorges and together they write a new hit song called, “Yeah, I Love You.”  

“Are The Bootles getting back together?” That’s the age-old question. Nothing about how his legs work or world peace. Nothing about what he wants now or how much he's changed. He's changed? Yes, but not like the world outside his window. Music's done a 180, people are cut-throat, clothes are different, society is different and it's all a bit too much to accept. His own lawyer Ethan said it best, "You can't get a blow without, well, blow."

If he wasn't so scared, he'd be inspired.

Lennie's trying not to look too far ahead. You can’t do that. You always must be an optimist, even if you're opposed to it. You have to remember to keep a clean pair of underwear, never look back, and continue to take life ONE DAY AT A TIME. And that's exactly what Lennie intends to do. I hope you'll enjoy the journey of Lennie Johns and all the people he meets along that way. 

Amazon bookshop: https://a.co/d/4kKD1rZ

Brats

There's been chatter online about the new documentary on Hulu called Brats led by 1980s teen heartthrob Andrew McCarthy. Centered around his time in Hollywood amongst a group of young thespians called the Brat Pack with members including Rob Lowe, Demi Moore, Emilio Estevez, Ally Sheedy, Molly Ringwald and pretty much anyone you can remember in a John Hughes' film, the documentary is a wayward look at a bygone era and lots of navel-gazing. Despite mixed reviews, I decided to have a go at watching Brats and didn't find the show as lacking as others stated online, but it's not like we're talking about Steinbeck, you know? 

Here's the thing, I was one of the pimply teenagers those films were made for, though I wasn't quite in the Sixteen Candles era, my time was more like the latter Pretty in Pink timeframe. Things really did change that fast--fashion, speech, makeup, hair, books, music . . . those subtle yet serious changes did not fly past my own scrutiny behind ugly, plastic, prescription frames. I knew very well that what was being shown on the big screen wasn't exactly real-to-life, only a small percentage of it. Growing up in a small town meant that we were behind on everything, so often the styles in a movie or popular magazine didn't appear for another year at least, but I also knew that most of society was behind as well. I knew that a movie was meant to show a style or thought process as an idea, and that the themes of the character's miserable existence could never exactly match the full truth. 

My truth.

I saw Pretty in Pink at a local mall with a group of various aqua-netted puerile angst-ridden primordials and enjoyed it. When Andy, played by Molly Ringwald, walks into a shabby bungalow and chats with her scruffy alcoholic father, it was to make me feel sympathy, I knew. But I didn't. I didn't want that style, it was too close of a look at what my life was. No. I just wanted her cool vintage earrings and thrift-store room with no older sister bitching at me all while my catholic mother was downstairs in a depression over the divorce. Andy was supposed to be "poor" a "loser." But she was cool. And had her own room.

She was . . . a brat. I knew it, we all knew it. 

The job she had was cool--the boy she liked was cool. I'd had a crush on Andrew McCarthy ever since tearfully begging my mother to rent St Elmo's Fire from the local Kroger at age 13. Those big, sometimes crazy, mostly intense and deep eyes of his made the film watchable. That hair, and sweet twisted smile . . . we rented it a second time on my babysitting cash.

After seeing Pretty in Pink at the mall, I went out and had my auburn hair cut like Molly Ringwald's--once again, at the mall--our colosseum of expression and hot gummy bears. Leaving the salon with earlobe-length red locks, bangs teased like Albert Einstein with too much hairspray, I decided it was NOT a good idea to look like Molly Ringwald after all. Andrew McCarthy would never go out with me, even if James Spader stuck a million dollars of blow up his left nostril. 

But still, a girl could dream.

I mean, like Andy, I lived in a single-parent house due to divorce and had a cult-church loser father who loved to hit us in the name of Satan. Got Andy one-upped on that one for sympathy. But still, it made me an instant outsider. So I did understand her plight. What I didn't get yet desperately wanted was how all the boys loved and fought over her. Let's face it, that part was pure Disney mixed with Twilight. 

Those movies were the salve of our teenage, dysfunctional American dream. And we loved them exactly for that.

So, they can pontificate all day about how shitty it was to be so cut down and squared by being called a "Brat"--but wasn't that what they were selling after all? They were brats. Hey, Andrew McCarthy, you guys were brats.

Life is hard, kids. Unlike those characters in the films we absorbed throughout the decade like buttered popcorn, we just had to ignore it and act cool. No ripping posters off walls, no lip sinking Otis Redding to our doomed romance. We just grabbed our Trapper Keeper, put a chin up against the cheap waft of fake Georgio Armani body spray and slicked on another layer of Lip Smackers.

The 80s weren't a particularly deep period of time. It was shallow as heck, but the music was cool. We had Friday Night Videos, neon tank tops and jelly bracelets in every color. But we didn't think too much. Nope. 

That was the 90s. 

On Disney + 'Let it Be' is released once more for Beatles fans old and new

What’s there to say about the new release of the old ‘Let it Be’ originally directed by Michael Lindsay-Hogg with enhancements by Peter Jackson (‘Get Back’)? If you’ve never seen the original, a lot. But for those who have had the chance, it can be considered a replay, but a joyous one. A long-time fan, I enjoyed the movie with its clean restoration which brought out the same vibrance we saw in ‘Get Back,’ though with still enough graininess to be tactile like an old record. 

For those who haven’t seen the 1970-era ‘Let it Be,’ the experience is much like viewing an old Polaroid yet with echoes of history similar to current day: themes of protests and war, civil unrest and political power-play. When a darkly bearded Paul plaintively croons, eyes heavy with meaning, “Let it be, there will be an answer, let it be . . .” you feel it. You don’t have to be old or new, you just feel it down to your toes.

One particular highlight is the interview between Linsday-Hogg and Jackson which explains the process and motivation of bringing ‘Let it Be’ back to life. Jackson states that ‘Let it Be’ was the father of ‘Get Back’, a good description because after having watched both I can say that the latter is a much more enjoyable experience with lost footage to explain why Paul and George argued themselves into a full-on split (it wasn’t just about a guitar chord) and how they came upon doing a concert overlooking London’s busy Abbey Road. ‘Get Back’ also shows the coming together with a private conversation between John and Paul recorded in the canteen. Controversial, perhaps, but it's fun to decipher their gobbledygook Beatle-style of talking.

What to look for in ‘Let it Be’—a young Linday-Hogg arranging his four toys in a controlled, almost a zoo-type arena as if capturing hairy creatures mid-mud sling. Look at them sing, write, and dance. Isn’t it amazing? I’m capturing the real Beatles. Holy shit. The film shows how tired they are, tapped both high and low. We see they are better late morning, and worse after a few rounds. One of my favorite highlights is John and Yoko making out and then dancing a waltz to George’s ‘I Me Mine.’ But we also see Paul at the Piano playing a gothic tune, glossy-eyed Ringo next to him, almost slumping with tiredness. 'Let it Be' is a lot of this, which is why upon its release in 1970 John called it too painful to watch, much like a divorce on film. 

But truly ‘Let it Be’ is worth seeing again because it is history, difficult or not. It’s part of their lineage as a band. It’s art in their name. It’s a heavy, heavy film which reflects a heavy, chaotic time. Vietnam still raged. Contemporaries were dying of heroin overdose. John was fresh off a drug bust, which would later turn into a deportation battle in the states. Yoko is in the mix, with her minimalistic wares and primal voice. Always watching, listening, and clinging. There’s much to argue about whether she should have been there or not. Yet it's the script that we all know as an important Beatle era . . . plus it just makes a great film.

‘Let it Be’ does not show the magical moment Paul writes the iconic hit, ‘Get Back’ from thin air and alchemy, but it does gift you with three other music videos, so to speak: the original theatric presentation of ‘Let it Be’ ‘Two of Us,’ and the beautifully edited Rooftop Concert--their first in years which was preserved on the LP, and last ever as a band. It’s such an euphoric moment any fan or music-lover can appreciate. For that reason alone, watch this film, even if you’ve seen it before.

A Millennial romp through Jane Austen

 

A few years back I wrote this story about a fifteen-year-old girl named Frankie drudging through a very complicated life in a fictional small town called Haleman, Iowa. Recently, I decided to reedit the manuscript for publication because there was something charming and genuine about the story that has never left me. Usually I . . . hate my work and think it blows chunks.

Little did it occur to me at the time of writing that I was capturing a ton of early 2000s nostalgia that has now changed or become non-existent (twitter anyone?). It also hit me after watching and reading many versions of the film and book, that I had penned a modern-day version of Pride and Prejudice, one of my nightly hyper fixations. If you are a Jane Austen junkie, like me, you don't care. There's never enough Austen. 

The story is also based on the era of time my Catholic mother sent my sister and I to a different high school because my sister was too wild. FRESHMAN YEAR. The worst year you could ever be relegated to newbie status. I mean, walking through those doors you're already fresh meat, and being from a different town made me a double threat: a newbie newbie. Ouch. Plus, my body was changing, doing weird shit. In a matter of weeks, none of my jeans fit and everything seemed to be in my way. Then out of nowhere I got my menses and developed boobies. Add red hair, freckles, crooked teeth. Welp, I wasn't Giselle Bundchen. However, those miserable days of awkwardness and freakdom became a great inspiration for this book and daily excuse to remind my kids that their life is sparkling unicorn ass compared to their mom's freshman year. The year I still refer to as . . . HELL.

I survived HELL and all I have to show for it is this crummy T-shirt. 

Anywho, it is my deepest wish that you will download and read my little tromp through time with hints of Regency doomsday romance. Oh, and silent movies. It's clear that I know way too much about that particular topic, and now you can too for the low price of $8.

Just know that if you do read My Zygotic Creation and leave a review, I'll perform a curtsy and sing Greensleeves. Yes . . . I know . . . you've been asking for a long time . . .

As always, thank you for reading and stopping by.

My Zygotic Creation 

Remember Jan 6

 

A few days before Jan 6, Trump supporters pushed back against cops at one of their protests, and I remember many of us online reacting with fear that they no longer respected the law and what did that mean? Tr*mp himself had shown he would not concede. He hadn’t even allowed Biden into the customary pre-inauguration White House visit that Obama had allowed for Trump. Prospects did not look good. It was clear there was one side against the other and we were in a veritable Civil War. 

When Tr*mp said he was having a rally outside the capital January 6–the day the electoral votes were counted—I felt dread. He had not conceded and was not giving up. I said to my daughter, “It’s going to be violent and at least one person will die. Tr*mp’s not giving in. He has something under his sleeve .” 

The morning of January 6, the kids went back to school after winter break, snow was on the ground and the radio played, ‘Lawyers and guns and money.’ In the back of my mind, would Pence certify the election?

Trump’s rally began, and  it was announced Pence would certify. That’s when he said to his crowd, “Pence let us down.” And in the crowd you could hear “Hang Pence, kill Mike Pence.” 

The live counting began only to be delayed by Ted Cruz opposing. That delay was when Trump sent his angry mob to the capital saying, “Fight like hell.” People with red hats and Tr*mp flags scaled walls and broke windows. They pushed and beat the security guards. I remember seeing birds dive-bomb the protesters and thought that it was angels trying to stop them.

The protestors made their way in like rabid dogs. It was horrifying watching this on TV and all of us on Twitter asked why they wouldn’t tell Trump to put an end to the insurrection?

My kids came home from school and saw the chaos of MAGA zombies sitting in Pelosi‘s chair, going into her office destroying peeing, defecating, laughing enjoying—still Trump does not call them off.

Finally late in the day,  he posts a video saying he loves them. He loves his violent protesters. He loves that they were gonna kill Pence. He loves them but  they better go home. Thanks for trying. I said by the grace of God our capital was protected and our votes were counted that night.

They came back and counted the electoral votes and Democracy was saved with bated breath. Biden was inaugurated on January 20, though like many, I was terrified something would happen to stop the event. Call it PTSD or situational awareness, but many of us were terrified for the future of America. 

And then came the trials. The insurrection we had watched on live TV led by Tr*mp was called into question, and they let him off the hook. If you called in a group of thugs to break into a bank and you encouraged the robbers so that you could have the money, would you not be part of the bank robbery? Would you not be considered the head of the event? Would you not be prosecuted along with them? Now, he calls them hostages; he has a song celebrating Jan 6 because to him they are HIS America.

January 6 put a stain on protesting— an American right—and the way we are heard because otherwise our voices are lost in the crowd. Now anyone who protests is seen as a potentially violent insurrectionist so we leave it up to the justice system, yet he has insurrectionists in high places to fight for him. Is a justice system or a guerrilla republic?

A few summers ago, a woman at the grocery store became belligerent saying Biden was a fake President and Trump would come back, and if she could be in another insurrection she would. I know this to be true—they deny it was a violent event and say it was antifa, but in a heartbeat they would do it again.

Tr*mp has stained America. He cannot come back. He does not deserve to be on the ballot. He does not deserve to be president. People died on Jan 6, but by the grace of God, America remains a democracy and for those who fought and died to preserve our Constitution, we should act in great reverence by protecting and honoring the vote. And we should all vote, no matter the party. Vote like your life depends on it, because it does. Your life and liberty does. 

Welcome to Green Valley

     

 

Joe Walker turned the corner and balked at the sight of yet another one, thick as thieves in his little town. Wearing their best clothes, eyes wide at every landmark—God, even the laundromat—and always with an air of importance as if they had every right to be there just because they’d bought a ticket for the time trip. He wanted to tell every single one of them to screw off, but even that was against the rules.

RESPECT THE TRAVELER. SMILE AT THE TRAVELER. HELP THE TRAVELER.

It was a crock, no, an investment.

Into what? The future?

What was wrong with his future, anyway? Wasn’t it good enough?

Barging past—he likened them to illusory objects—Joe felt a sense of relief that he’d almost knocked one over. Inside the protective bubble it cussed and the man in a funny looking T-shirt and Bermuda shorts—the uniform of all travelers—exclaimed, “Hey! You could have popped my pod.”

“Yeah, I was hoping to,” Joe said over his shoulder. A shiny, powder blue Chrysler sped by and nearly ran over his dulled dress shoes.

“But it’s against the rules.”

“Yours or mine?” He lit up a Lark cigarette, stopping to sneer. “Why don’t you go back where you came? Don’t you like your time? If it’s so bad, why don’t you fix it?”

The man gaped and even Joe knew he’d gone too far—it might even land his ass in the slammer for a week, or worse, he’d lose his job at the bookstore. Books were the only thing he was good at, the only thing he could sell because books didn’t need selling. They served a voracious need to learn. His own. The rest of the world could burn in ignorance, and would, and had many times. Yet books, and women, were his only salvation.

“Look,” he said, motioning to the man.  “I didn’t mean what I said. No harm done, right? You won’t report me?”

The man had an air of rejection, of needing to be served and his ass kissed. What’d he want, a goddamn ticker tape parade? The town he’d travelled to was Green Valley, nothing special. A hobunk, nothing town. Why not L.A., New York, Rome?

Because Green Valley was the perfect American dream. Or so they said.

Just then, a bird flew by and shit on top of the man’s shiny clear pod. White glossy scum ran down the sides and blurred his vision. Joe tried not to laugh.

“Well anyway, welcome to my shitty town!” he called out, before crossing the street. It was only two minutes before the hour. Behind him, the man cussed and headed to the nearest safe hotel—the only place the things could stay during their visit. There, they would get a hermetically sealed room to escape their oxygen pod for the night; take a shit, a shower, a shave. And eat. Then it was back into a fresh pod the next morning. He’d like to watch it sometime—these human bugs shedding their shiny latex skins every night and squeezing back into a clean one every day.

So far, the time zones available for travel were 1778, 1898, and 1958. Nothing else was available because of war. Or maybe they liked 8s. And would there ever be trips to the future? No one knew . . . but he was content staying right here. No matter how many came, or what they did or said, this was his place. He’d been born here, and he’d die and have his body embalmed by Martha Biglaow at the Green Valley Bigalow Family Funeral Home--just like everybody else. And he’d be damned if the things forced him out.

Though sometimes he did wonder what the future was like and he desperately wanted to break the rules to ask. But that was number three on the list of forbidden interactions.

NO TRAVELER SHALL BE ASKED ABOUT THEIR TIME!

A few blocks down from his job, the Old English Bookseller, Joe almost ran into another one.  A female. He skidded on his feet to avoid her plasticine wrapper, and then heard a muffled whimper inside.

“I’m punctured,” the woman said. She was petite, well-dressed in a nice two-piece suit and she looked about as 1958 as anyone could. She didn’t look like a traveler, but she did look in distress. Her skin was pale with shock.

“Swear I didn’t bump into you—you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay. But I have to make it back to the safe hotel before anyone sees.” She turned and showed him a long, jagged rip likely caused by the sharp pair of heels she wore.

“Ooweee. Why didn’t you wear soft sneakers like the rest? I thought it was standard.”

“I wanted to look . . . authentic.”

Someone walked by, a normal, and the woman in the ripped pod twisted so they couldn’t see the damage or hear the hiss of air flowing out.

“Would you cover for me?” she asked him.

“Me, aw shit. Not me. I’m late for work. Just over there—” he pointed to the bookstore.

“Please. I’m scared. I—I only wanted to know what it was like to come here. But I don’t have two thousand dollars to cover the fine—for breaking the rules.” She hit him with a pair of brown eyes threatened by tears.

“Fines. Stupid fines . . . Fine,” he said. “I’ll help you but walk fast. I’ll get you to the corner where the safe hotel is, and you’d better hurry in and to your room. Come on.”

“Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

He led her down the sidewalk and across the street, mindful in keeping his stride near the rip in order to hide it. She kept up well, better than expected.

“First thing, get rid of those heels,” he said once they arrived. The safe hotel loomed over them with its slick metal and glass. You should have seen the mess they made erecting it and how much chaos it caused. And now, you’d think it’d been there from the start.

“Oh, I will, believe me. It’s kitten heels from now on.” When she smiled at him, he saw that a few actual tears had come out. He’d always been a sucker for a girl in distress. But, holy shit, she was a thing, not a girl.

“Hadn’t you better get inside?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. I’d better.”

She headed for the door.

“What year,” he said to her back.

She turned around. “You won’t believe it, 2044.”

“Jesus. You’re right, I don’t.”

He’d never asked before. It’d never mattered. 2044 was a million years from 1958 and an entire galaxy away. The concept boggled his mind.

“You might as well tell me your name as well,” he said, lighting up again. He didn’t know why he asked. Things didn’t have names. It was better that way.

“Peggy,” she blushed. “My great grandmother’s name. It’s so old fashioned.”

He wouldn’t tell her it was the name of his first girlfriend and that there was a Peggy on every corner. Everyone, it seemed, was a Peggy around here.

“Well, see ya, Peggy. Suits you.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the help.”

“Better hurry.”

She smiled and went in, and he stood for a moment thinking how strange it was to have had a conversation with someone from 2044, though she looked and sounded like any person he’d ever met.

Then he realized how late he was for work and rushed right to the bookstore before a customer could come by and tell his boss he hadn’t opened the doors yet.

“Peggy, from 2044 . . .” he muttered while unlocking the wood and glass door, then he repeated it again as he set up shop. “Peggy, from 2044.” Turn on the lights, open the shades, take out the trash. “Peggy, from the future,” he went on, as he took a seat behind the front counter and waited. He counted the cash drawer and slid it in the register.

Then just, “Peggy.”

The clock struck fifteen after nine. The place was empty—he’d been foolish to worry about customers. Hardly anyone ever came in until ten.

He wondered if he’d ever see her—Peggy—again.

Things, travelers, usually only stayed a week, and most of the time they stuck together. It was like families going to Coney Island, then going back to their hometown all spent and sated with milkshakes and poodle skirts and James Dean movies on their mind. Rebel Without a Cause was all they showed anymore. If you wanted to see a new movie you had to drive out of town. But see, travelers didn’t care. It was all new to them.

Joe wondered if Peggy had already used up her week, if she’d seen the movie, had the milkshake, and he also wondered if she’d come alone. And if so, why?

A little brass bell above the door jangled when a thing came in. It was always a spectacle watching them peruse books without touching or being able to flip through the first chapter. Almost everything was protected. His boss—Marty—had set up a nifty stand with a crank. This allowed Joe to put any book in there a thing asked to read, and then he’d stand there flipping pages each time they said, “When.” It was laborious and mind killing, but more and more part of his job. Then, worst of all, the books they wanted had to come in their own hermetically sealed plasticine that no human—of his kind—had ever touched. It was all pure and safe, and boring.

Hardly any normal came in to buy a book. They were too busy watching . . . the things.

One of them strolled casually around the store for a few minutes before finding a book they wanted him to crank. Then they rang the bell attached to the contraption and he smiled and came over.

“This one?” he asked with fake congeniality. WAR AND PEACE FOR GOD’S SAKE. “Are you planning on buying?”

“I don’t know. I only want to read a few pages. It’s banned in my time, you know?”

“Oh?” His ears pricked up. What time? “Why is it banned?” he asked.

The thing’s eyes widened. He couldn’t break the rule.

“I know, I know,” Joe said. “You’re not supposed to tell me, and I’m not supposed to ask.” He leaned in, though they were alone. “I won’t tell anyone, will you?”

The man smiled, then shook his head. “No, I won’t fib. I’m from 2050. And novels aren’t allowed anymore, only fact fiction.”

Joe pondered the idea of banned novels. “I can’t imagine. Why would they do that? And more importantly, why let you come here when they know you’ll read them anyway?”

“Oh, well that’s just it. I had to sign a waiver not to read any books.” He smiled faintly. “Another rule broken, but I know you won’t tell. And since I’m breaking the rules, why not tell you this? They’re planning on closing you down soon. That’s what I heard. No novels at all. No history, at all.”

The brass bell rang and a mother and three children came in—each wrapped in their own protective pods.

Joe grabbed War and Peace and stuck it into the crank contraption. “Table of contents, or go to the first page?” God, he’d do for another smoke.

“First page, please,” the man said. His eyes were orbs of excitement as he read through the first lines—all contraband in his time. So, Tolstoy’s passionate telling of war and love had become illegal history? How could you erase a time that had been, even fictionalized versions of it? Events and people, war? That was sacrilege!

And now they were coming for his store? How could such a thing be allowed?

“Say when,” he told the man when enough time had passed. “I’ll turn the page every time you say when.”

“When,” the man said after finishing the last few lines on page one—he moved his mouth when he read.

Joe turned the crank and it jostled the book just right so page one turned to page two and three.

The woman and children left after perusing a few Mother Goose books, and Joe looked the man square in the eye—plasticine between them and all.

“Why would they want to come after me? You can’t erase history, you know.”

“Look, I know. It--it’s all the violence. It got worse and worse until everyone was shooting each other with oozies--in my time. Then came the bombs, and my God, people began buying tanks and shooting each other in the street. They said they had to erase all literature that mentioned war, shooting, killing. Hate. I guess I understand. Ten years ago, a peace treaty was signed and then it’s been quite nice, to be honest. We call all go outside again.”

“But you can’t erase history,” Joe said.

“When.” The man shrugged, and a squeaky sound came off his pod. “It’s not me, it’s them. I prefer the truth—but peace is nice too. Say, you’re not going to break our agreement and go out and tell everyone, are you?”

“No . . . of course not. An agreement is an agreement.” The thought had occurred to him that his boss Marty might want to know. But then Marty would go to the City Council and blab the whole thing. Which might not be bad because what if it stopped the things coming around altogether?

The man stepped back. “I don’t like the look in your eye.”

“Listen, I said you can trust me, and I meant it. Do you want me to turn to page four or not?”

“I guess not. I don’t feel like it anymore.” The man turned and headed for the door.

So that was it? All the trust between them eroded, all because Joe had carried a suspicious look in his eye? Who was the bad guy here?

“I told you, I won’t rat you out . . .”

“I’m leaving!”

“Well, come back later then. Maybe I can find you a copy of Mein Kampf.”

The man practically scurried out the door, but Joe didn’t care. He wouldn’t squeal, and how dare the man ask? Typical thing. From now on, it was back to hating them.

He went to sit behind the desk, fear burrowing in his stomach for the future—his future. Because, what would become of him without his job at the bookstore? Books were all he cared about. He didn’t have a wife, or kids, or even a dog. All he had was books, and a bungalow out by the railroad tracks, and he loved it even though it had a leaking roof.

“I can’t lose my job,” he said to himself. “But what can I do?”

The front door jangled and in walked Peggy. The Peggy. All fresh and new. He’d never seen a perfect pod before—usually they had a slight yellowness to them like an eye with a cataract. Wearing a pink sundress and white sneakers, she came in with a smile and damnitt if she didn’t shine like a diamond.

But she’s a thing, he thought. And things are fleeting. Things are trouble.

“Can I help you?” he asked, unable to hide his animosity. “Romance, cooking, cleaning?”

She laughed. “None of those, thank you. I’m into fashion—do you have any books on that topic?”

He nodded his head toward the back wall. “Do you need a crank?”

She halted in place. “A what?”

“A crank. Choose the book, and I’ll crank the pages for you. Any book. I’m here all day.”

“Oh . . . no, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll only look at the covers.” She walked to the back corner. That’s when he realized once again the pods had feet—little attached booties that shuffled on the floor with a sickening slug sound. She was out of sight now and couldn’t see the smirk that came across his face. Slugs. She was one beautiful slug.

“I have all these already,” she called out.

“You do? So they’re not banned in your time?”

She went quiet. The whole place went quiet. That is, until the sound of her shuffling feet carried her to the front desk.

“Pardon me, did you say, banned?”

Oh, shit. It’d only been a few minutes and he’d ratted the guy out, already. Shit. Fuck. Damn.

“I was only presuming,” Joe said, covering up his sin with a wide, unassuming smile.

Peggy searched his eyes. It was then he realized hers were a sparkling green with hints of blue. He’d never seen a thing’s eyes that close before, or even taken the time to look.

“I don’t think you were,” she said with a drawl. “I think you know something.”

“Look, I--”

“It’s been my estimation that certain books will be banned in the not-so-distant future, she said. "Here and everywhere. My fears are confirmed. I know the man who just left—he told me at the depot that he was from 2050.”

Joe shifted on his feet; she was intuitive. And damn his stupid mouth.

Inside the pod, Peggy reached up to scratch her neck. “Think I’m allergic,” she said. “A new pod is the worst.”

She kept itching, and Joe saw a band of red welts rise on her skin. It reminded him of the time he’d walked into a patch of poison ivy at summer camp. He’d itched for days, and even the pink chalky calamine lotion hadn’t been able to quell the urge. At the time, he’d secretly wondered if it was the fear of being separated from his mother that really made him itch.

“I’ll be okay in a minute,” she said. “Imagine your whole vacation in a hot, annoying skin? Like you’re a hotdog or something.”

She smiled and he smiled back—despite his annoyance. Then when she tried to reach for a pencil on the desk, he burst out in laughter.

“Oh, Christ. I forget I can’t reach through,” she said. “I need something for the middle of my back.”

Hesitating, he retrieved a ruler off the desk and came around to stand beside her. “Turn. I’ll to scratch it, carefully.”

Peggy shrugged and turned, putting herself into his trust. “I trust you.”

Joe slowly pushed the ruler across her back, careful not to puncture. “Is this the spot?” he asked.

“Higher,” she said. “To the left. Just a little bit--there! Ah! Yes! Thank you. That’s it. That’s the spot.” She sighed and then turned around. “You’re a hero.”

Fingers suddenly gripping tightly around the ruler, Joe turned to the desk. “All travelers are welcome here.” He slapped the ruler down. “In other words, it’s not a big deal.”

“I see.” Peggy looked around, “I like your store. It’s nice. Look, it’s well known that travelers aren’t accepted in Green Valley. In fact, some people liken us to bugs. Is that how you see us—like bugs . . . like things?”

Joe stammered. He’d never been called out like this. Sometimes he was known for being caustic, sometimes pushy—but never outright rude. He still followed the credo of his father—that all women deserved respect and that a real lady was a gem.

“I won’t lie to you, Peggy. Ever since you people started coming here, I’ve been filled with anger and resentment. You show up and you leave, and at the end of the day what does it mean to me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. To be honest, it feels like we are the bugs—like you’re ogling us. All for a cheap thrill. And all can ask myself is, what’s wrong with your time? Why do you have to come here to get a cheap thrill?”

Scratching at her neck again, Peggy seemed temporarily lost before speaking. “I’ll tell you what we come—why I came. It’s lonely in my time. 1958 looked so happy and carefree. But coming here, I realize every time has a flaw and that no matter where you go, there’s always something missing. I guess you can’t escape it.”

“You used the word lonely,” he said to Peggy. “Is it lonely in 2044?”

“Yes,” she said, lowering her voice. “Yes, it is. No one talks. No one interacts. It’s a wonder we even . . . procreate.”

“That’s something that’ll never end,” he said. “Thank goodness.” There. He’d made her smile.

“Yeah, thank goodness,” she said, laughing. “But in my time, it’s more of an ordeal than a connection. I’m serious. People do it to have children, but it’s not for love. And then children are sent to school at age three. The whole thing is . . . lonely.”

He wanted to reach through the plasticine to clasp onto her fingers.

“No,” she said, as if reading his mind. “It’s against the rules.”

“Right. The rules. I wasn’t really going to.”

“I know.” She craned her neck to get a view of the mother and children. “Well, I guess I should go now. Thanks for your help. I might be back later to look at one of those cook books you mentioned.”

“Oh, right. Cooking.” He gave her a look of apology. “Sorry. It was because you’re a girl and—”

“It’s okay.”

A middle-aged woman came in—a faded drag of a thing. Joe had a suspicion she would ask to read the ever-popular poems of E. E. Cummings. Women like her all did. She gave Peggy a strange look in passing, then another at Joe after Peggy left. When she came over to ask for the E. E. Cummings, just as he’d suspected, he reached under the desk for a copy with a weak smile. They loved the erotic suggestion—Joe figured they felt the poet was speaking just to them. And only them. Sometimes he read it out loud, with much inflection, so they’d get the full effect.

Joe set it up in the crank, then turned pages slowly each time she gave a breathless, “When.”

He thought of Peggy and wondered what the world had done to become such a lonely place. My God, the look in her eyes. Total desolation. He wanted to save her somehow but didn’t know a way. There were so many walls and barriers, plastic and rules and restrictions.

There had to be a way though.

That night, he lay awake in the back bedroom of his bungalow thinking hard about what he would do if and when they came to take the bookstore away. Move to another town? Start another life? But how long before they began sending travelers to that town, and the next and the one after that? There’d be nowhere to go where books weren’t banned, and he wouldn’t live like a criminal.

“Stupid Tolstoy,” he muttered into his hot arm, then slipped his face under the pillow just in time before another train went roaring by. But really, it was the memory of Peggy’s face that had made him want to hide. He couldn’t get those goddamned sorrowful eyes out of his memory.

To be continued . . .

Photo by cottonbro studio: https://www.pexels.com/photo/sophisticated-woman-talking-to-a-man-inside-an-office-7319478/

Early November photos