Dinner for Eight

[Steven Hunley]

Today’s assent to the dome of the rock would be organic freestyle.

When we finally got to the top it was worth the climb. You could see everything. It reminded me of the romantics, how they had a notion that viewing nature increased their romantic disposition, how it fed their romantic natures. It must have been true. I could feel the effect the vista had on me. Close by, things were delineated, familiar, and known. But the hills in the far distance were shrouded in mystery, nature was hiding her secrets. Nature could be cruel at times, but you could understand her. There were some things she never let you in on.

In the shade of the ancient oak the surfer positioned two wicker chairs on either side of a folding table. It sat on a small red rug. Over the back of one chair hug a canteen. Taking it off, he shook it next to his ear.

“There’s not much, but you’re welcome to it.”

In a manly manner he tossed it to me. He was right, only a swallow.

“I’d rather not, if it’s all you’ve got.”

“Oh no, I’ve got this.”

In the shade was a stack of wine bottles. He took one off the top and started fishing in his cargo-pockets. He pulled out a pocket knife, a heart-shaped red stone the size of his thumb, a cork-screw, and placed them on the table.

“Sit down and take a load off. You could use a rest.”

“You’re an excellent host.”

“I don’t like to eat alone. Meals are best shared. How about splitting a sandwich with me? It’s a foot-longer.”

Reaching in his other cargo pocket, he pulled out a Subway sandwich. I nearly fell off Gibraltar. It was like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, then a bunch of silk streamers, a few hard-boiled eggs, eight Chinese linking rings, a dozen bananas, a pitcher of milk, and six hands of cards fanned out cleverly forming geometric patterns. No way would a twelve incher have room in that pocket. I couldn’t have done it, even with a fold-up sandwich.

He unwrapped it on the table and sliced it in two with panache like Errol Flynn.

“There, six inches for each."

Twisting the screw into the cork, he pulled it out with a flourish.

“Oh, gee,” he confessed. “I’ve only got the one plastic cup.”

I fell to my knees and searched through my overnight bag.

“I’ve got this old cup, this will do me.”

His eyes fixed on the cup. “That’s unusual cup, it’s a little beat up.”

If he only knew about last night. I decided to let it go.

“I think you’re going to enjoy this,” he said, and poured me a taste. “It’s made from these local vines. But it’s a Chardonnay originally from the red soil near Mount Tabor.”

It was good, I was thirsty, and the hospitality and warmth extended was out of bounds. I hadn’t exchanged a dozen words with him, yet we’d established a rapport. It was like the seventh grade teacher I had once. He’d come clean to the students early in the year.

“It was a survival strategy,” he told me later, “to keep them from eating me alive.”

I learned a lot from him, and not all of it was English. This carpenter was the same way. I had the distinct impression that I was a traveler and he was the destination, pretty odd when you think about it. A feeling like that comes only once in a lifetime.

“Call me Ishmael,” I said, and extended my hand.

“I’m Josh,” he answered, and we shook. “Now that formalities are taken care of, let’s you and I take care of that sandwich.”

We ate every bite. When we were done there was nothing left but the yellow and green Subway wrapper. The afternoon’s essence reminded one of the comforting notes of a familiar lullaby scored with organic perfume. The fragrance of newly-mown hay from a quaint farmhouse led to a garden trellis covered with night-blooming jasmine. When the off-shore breeze drifted in from the coast bearing the scent of salt, barnacles, sea-weed and spray, it hinted of exotic islands fringed with coconut palms thousands of miles distant. It was an astounding morning, an unusual day, a rare afternoon, and the spell it cast was nowhere near finished.

to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

author's note: And neither am I with the story-so kindly hang in there!

[Steven Hunley]

We sat at the table and drank. He, from his ninety-nine-cents-a-dozen plastic cup, and me, from a cup, that had it been as advertised, was the most valuable cup in existence.

“When I saw you earlier, you looked troubled.”

“I had quite a night.”

“Had trouble sleeping, did you?”

“That’s not the half of it.”

“Sometimes I have trouble sleeping too, you’re not alone.”

Below us, a flock of black birds did aerial acrobatics; it was funny seeing them from above, it changed your earth-bound perspective.

He poured another.

After a while, the view of nature, and the effects of the wine, insured a peaceful ambiance. Josh took on every aspect of a perfect stranger. I had the feeling I could tell him just about everything, for the simple reason I never expected to see him again. For me, a man so stuffed full of secrets it hurt, it was a unique experience.

“I had dreams, well maybe not dreams, more like nightmares.”

“Really?”

“You’d never believe me if I told you.”

Seagulls from the coast flew between the couple and the lowering sun, swooped and soared like silhouettes suspended on invisible wires, resembling Calder’s poetic mobiles clothed in artistic intentions.

“Try me.”

So then basically what happened was, I related the story of my life in an hour and a half complete with interesting anecdotes, vital statistics, and child-hood memories wrapped up like a ball of yarn. He shook his head at some spots in amazement, and at others in strict disapproval. He didn’t judge you like a judge, for instance, judging my behavior as it stacked up against the law of the land, ready to impose an impartial sentence, but rather like a father who was looking out for his son’s best interests. He grimaced, grew thoughtful, took pity, all with a sincere brilliance.

“Well, that was some story!”

“Yes, it was. I’m glad it ended.”

“It hasn’t… yet. What are you going to do with the stuff?”

“You mean the earrings?”

“I mean all of it. The earrings, the cufflinks, even this battered old cup.”

“Quein sabe?”

“You do. You just haven’t figured it out yet. You did it for the thrill, right? To get away with it. Like when you were a child shifting M&M’s around in a bowl. You said your mom and you would watch movies together and eat M&Ms. When she’d leave the room you’d steal a few and rearrange them in the bowl so she wouldn’t notice. You were thrilled knowing you weren’t going to get smacked.”

“That’s right,” I laughed. “I was a jerk.”

“So you got what you wanted. It isn’t the objects themselves, but the excitement you crave, the thrill. So what are you going to do with them now?”

“You got me there…I’m not sure.”

Josh surveyed the surrounding scene. The bronze sun was lying dented, flattened, like Hector’s impotent shield outside the Skiaian gate.

“I have to leave now, and you’re in no condition to walk back down, not in the half-light.”

He lifted the table and put it to one side. Reaching on the other side of the tree trunk, he produced a sleeping bag and unrolled in on the small carpet.

“You sleep here. You may not even need the bag; it’s going to be warm.”

I was stunned, tipsy, and glad someone was in charge, because it certainly wasn’t me.

“When you finally decide, make the decision from here.” He tapped his index finger several times on my sternum. “Not here,” tapping again on my noggin. “No matter how logical it seems.”

And then he was gone, like smoke, a phantom, a Sufi mystic, all magic but no illusion.



I imagined sleeping on hundreds of tons of unforgiving granite with only thin square of carpet between me and nature was going to be a tough assignment. It wasn’t. It was like sleeping on a goose-down mattress, head cushioned on a pillow as soft as a cloud, snuggling next to your lover.

There’s an expression I use, ‘I need to sleep on it’. In this case it rang true. While I slept, neurons snapped and rejoined, redesigning themselves in miraculous fashion. And not under the auspices of my intellect, but under the influence of a place more primitive, less influence by learning and conditioning, somewhere nearer the truth.

Birds woke me. The view was terrific. Now that the sun was in a different portion of the sky it revealed features of the landscape not visible in mid-afternoon. I went to the edge and looked down. This side was steeper than the side we climbed, more like an escarpment straight out of Edgar Rice Burrows. Low slanting rays shown against the face of the rock and revealed a narrow strip of crystal running upwards and under my feet. I traced it with my eyes. As it proceeded along the surface of the rock where I was standing, it gradually widened near the edge of the rug.

I threw off the sleeping bag and tossed it aside. Sure enough, the crystalline matrix started again from the other side of the rug and ran across the surface, then over the opposite side of our granite citadel, and when I looked over the edge, I saw it ran down the side.

I picked up the rug, and directly beneath, the matrix was wide, almost the size of the rug itself. As Alice once said, things were getting curiouser and curiouser.

Before my parents passed away and I moved in with Uncle Silas, my parents were into rocks. They found them, usually from old mining sites, cut and polished and set them. On summer nights I’d sleep outside in a hammock near the tumblers, listening to the sounds of semi-precious stones tumbling in barrels filled with water and silicon carbide. I’d pretend I was suspended in a hemp hammock between two coconut palms, listening to the surf wash onto a coral beach in the Marquesas. At dusk, I’d visit Gauguin’s black basalt tomb, and lay upon its roughened surface a wreath of scarlet hibiscus.

I recognized the matrix, almost clear but with needle-like threads in it. It was Venus’ Hair, rultilated quartz, a stone reputed to have healing properties.

All morning I waited for Josh to return. After a while I wondered if he was going to come a second time. I grew restless, packed everything up in my bag and decided to climb down without him, now that the path was clear.

Besides, I was no longer a criminal escaping a crime scene; but a serious soldier intent on his mission.


to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

[Steven Hunley]

I felt I had marching orders and therefore a goal, a destination, and the direction was south.

A week later found me at the Bell Inn in downtown San Diego across from a tourist trap called Seaport Village. Although I’d never visited a pub in the U. K. this one seemed authentic. There was a long oak bar with ivory-handled pumps and tables, a beamed ceiling and wood-paneled walls. One more thing was necessary to complete the perfect picture, a neighborhood clientele drunk on camaraderie.

Check.

It had that too.

Even though it was early it was crowded. You expected any minute to see Arthur Seaton tumbling down the stairs, wrestling with the other drunk and angry young men, fueled to the brim with dark bitter ale, Nottingham accents, and swallowed up by depressive moods as dark as the pits.

Then I heard, “Howdy, Barkeep, I’ll take a Miller Lite.”

It was a cowboy, a cowboy! I could tell by his boot-cut Levis, snake-skin boots and ten gallon hat.

He caught my eye and responded with a Howdy and a smile, and sat down. The sad beer that sat before me was my last. I was out of money, and since travel relies on money as a precursor, I suspected my mission was about to end with a whimper, not a bang. The cowboy looked over and noticed my empty.

Then his eyes moved to the barkeep filling his order. The cool amber liquid flowing into the glass was topped off by a foaming head, a delicate piece of liquid art. The cowboy rubbed his manly hands together in anticipation.

“Partner, I’m as dry as the Sonoran desert in summer, how about you?”

“Me? I’m as dry as a pop-corn fart.”

“Oooowee! Hear that, Barkeep? You’ve corralled one sharp maverick. Give him another of the same.”

He slapped his knee and then my back. “Where you from?”

“Californ-I-A.”

“That’s as west as you can git. Know anything about horses?”

“Not me,” I shook my head. “Only what they look like. I just saw the film War Horse though. I was amazing how that horse was trained. It must of taken some time and patience.”

“Partner, you’d be surprised how smart horses are. Say, I thought the minute you said film instead of movie, you had an education. Maybe I was wrong. So git on over here and let me tell you a thing or two about horses. If there was a class I’d be doin’ the lecturin’. I’m what you call an expert.”

“You have an M.A. in horses?”

He hooted.

“Feller, it’s more like a P.H.D.”


The next hour we sat at a table and he lectured. He was the only ‘feller’ I ever met that actually sounded like Slim Pickens. Most of the talk was about horses, pedigrees, boots and saddles, Custer, the Seventh Cavalry, but at the same time the beer unleashed his more private side, where he was born, his family, his hopes and dreams, and finally, as he put it, ‘the whole enchilada’.

In the process he wheedled out of me much the same information, and the fact that I was stalled in my travels and broke.

“You know,” he looked thoughtful. “I got a job right now that’s a little too big for me to handle. I could use some help. I need a ramrod.”

I wasn’t sure what a ramrod was, only a vague black and white memory that Clint Eastwood played Rowdy Yates, Gil Favor’s ramrod on Rawhide.

I looked a bit puzzled.

“Don’t you worry yourself, Ishmael, you don’t have to ride ‘em!”

You get a feeling that what’s happening is directed, just like that gold eagle when it rolled into the room off the library and I followed. So what did I do when confronted with Kismet?

“O. K., Sonny. I reckon you got yurself a hired hand.”

That’s me, Cameleon Man, whose miraculous powers allow him to get along with anybody. Maybe I should be a diplomat, and bring peace to the world.

As it turned out a week later, the job wasn’t quite how I pictured it.

I imagined I’d be driving a jeep somewhere on the north forty, mending a barbed wire fence, wearing a pair of sweat-soaked leather gloves, even, saints preserve me, smoking a Marlboro, the smell of purple sage filling my nostrils when I wasn’t exhaling clouds of toxic cigarette smoke, and humming the theme to the Magnificent Seven through manly-clenched teeth.

Instead my assignment was on a small freighter, out in the Pacific, heading towards the Panama Canal, wearing canvas deck shoes, breathing clean sea air, humming What Will We Do With The Drunken Sailor, ready to shave my belly with a rusty razor.

And the horses? The horses were twenty thoroughbred polo ponies whose ultimate corral was on the Lion Castle Polo Estates, St. Thomas, Barbados.

Me, ride? That was out of the question. I didn’t even know how to swim.

http://youtu.be/qGyPuey-1Jw Irish Rovers Drunken Sailor

to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

[Steven Hunley]

I saw Sonny on an off until after we slipped through the Panama Canal, then for some reason he’d disappear for hours at time. Figured I ask Captain Joe.

Captain Joe was one of those serious types, and had a grizzled Van Dyke beard and an impeccably clean uniform. Although I’d been introduced to him, we’d never really talked, and if we did it was only about the weather. I caught up with him in the wheel-house overseeing a mate polishing brass work on the G.P.S. system. He had an eye for detail and nothing escaped him.

“I’ve known Sonny for years. Met him on the gulf coast,” he confided. “He’s a Texan born and bred. His father’s was in oil, owned refineries. His mother died when he was born, leaving him sole heir to the estate. But Sonny would have none of it.”

“Really? He talks like a cow-puncher.”

“Don’t let the southern drawl fool you. He’s a college graduate in philosophy. He gave up the princely allowance his family set up for him, and started practicing meditation. This isn’t the first voyage he’s been with me. We first met while I was carrying loads of pipe and drilling equipment to one of the off-shore rigs."

“So what’s he do now besides babysit polo ponies?”

“You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“I can’t find him.”

“He’s up on the aft deck near the fantail. You can’t miss him, try there.”

I didn’t recognize Sonny at first. He was sitting crossed-legged on a bamboo mat facing away from me between two potted palms. He’d jettisoned his Levis and boots and cowboy shirt with pearl-button snaps. He was shoeless, wearing white canvas pants, and a loose saffron-colored shirt. His hands were resting on his knees palms up, thumbs and index fingers making a loop. I know when a person’s meditating, so I sat down nearby and let him have at it.

“Let the cowboy get comfortable in the saddle of the cosmos,” I figured. “And rock the cradle of love.”

He couldn’t have picked a better time. The sea was ironed flat, the sun was mild, the only thing moving was the gentle throb of diesel engines, and even that wasn’t hurried.

I decided I’d get in on the non-action. I closed my eyes and assumed the position. Hard to say how many minutes go by when the only measurement of time stops because you’ve finally decided to put the brakes on your mind. The cradle of love don’t rock easily. It takes effort for the mind to find its off switch.

Finally he placed his palms together, opened his eyes and took a deep breath and got up. He saw me and smiled. I noticed an ant crawling on his shoulder and went to flick it off with my finger.

“Whoa, Partner,” he said. “No living creature will ever be sacrificed, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant.” He placed his finger next to it, and after it climbed aboard, he transferred it to one of the palm leaves. “Now, what’s on your cotton-pickin’ mind?”

“Have you any idea where we’re headed after we off-load the ponies?”

“No idea at all.”

“I need to get to the east coast and look for a passage across the Atlantic.”

“I reckon they don’t have many tubs like this one ferrying ponies across the Atlantic. Is there anything else you can do?”

“I do a few magic tricks.”

“Well, that’s a tough one. But here’s an idea. Can you make balloon animals?

“Just poodles, everybody can make poodles.”

“Then you look for a job as an entertainer on one of those fancy Carnival cruise ships or something like that. You twist and squeak and magic your way across the Atlantic.”

“Now that’s an idea.”

Most of the next morning was spent googling my prospects. I came up with nothing. Cruise ships aren’t what they used to be, the days of the Queen Mary are long gone and it looked like the type of ships that plied the Atlantic trade didn’t provide much entertainment. I closed the computer and fell back in my chair in a blue funk. Then there was a knock on my cabin door.

“It’s Sonny.”

There stood my partner, and his face was beaming.

“Buddy, hold on to your hat. I got news. After we dump these here polo ponies, Captain Joe is going to pick up a load of sugar cane and anise in Jamaica. Seems a company in France wants it to make Absinthe Supérieure, some kind of booze. Got some kind of secret formula they use to refine it, and only do it in France. No other place will do. From Jamaica we head north, hang a right turn somewhere out there on the Big Blue, and then on to Le Havre.

He started counting out money on my bunk.

“Now there’s what I owe you. I was ready to give you a bonus, but once the ponies are gone you’re out of a job. You were good at shoveling pony poop, a regular Hercules. So instead, I’ll give the bonus to Captain Joe for your passage.”

“Do you think we’ll pass the spot where the Titanic went down?”

“What do you want to do, take a picture or something? One piece of ocean looks mighty like another.”

“Well, not exactly…”

“The Titanic you say? That’s quite a poser.”

Sonny rubbed his forehead.

“Come on up to the chart room and let’s see what we got cookin’.

to be continued…

©Steven Hunley 2013

http://youtu.be/N8j9vdPSgFo Billy Idol Rock the Cradle of Love

[Steven Hunley]

Every league further north grew colder, especially at night. We’d stroll on the deck after dinner, dressed in our pea coats buttoned up to the top, stop in the shadow between two lights and talk, steam escaping with every breath. The stars were like diamonds sewn on the black canopies of Tamerlane’s tents. The Atlantic reflected them, but its clumsy waves broke them into a thousand pieces of lesser carats, therefore lesser value, in their sea-born form.

“Sonny, do you believe a ghost can haunt you?”

“I got an ex-girlfriend, haunts me all the time.” He looked up at the heavens. “So why not a ghost?”

“Sonny, have I got a story for you.”

I told him about the cufflinks. The cufflinks! Can’t believe it did it. My mouth always gets me into trouble. Maybe not this time. Sonny grew thoughtful.

“That feller Shakespeare had a sayin’. He had a sayin’ about everything I reckon.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

He may be an oldie, but I like the feller’s way of thinking. I put my money on him any day.”

He slapped me on the back.

“I’ll fix it with Captain Joe, and see you git where you’re goin’.”

Two days later we were nearly there. I ran to the cabin and found the cufflinks. Sonny walked in and tugged me to the forward rail. Captain Joe appeared from the wheel-house, waved and then pointed.

“Now,” said Sonny.

Over the side they went, with a tiny insignificant kerplunk. The whole episode seemed kind of anti-climactic. I didn’t expect much mind you, and nothing in return, after all I was just doing the right thing. And besides, I never wear French cuffs.

Crossing the Atlantic was uneventful; we weren’t attacked by pirates, or any of those unnamed diseases that run rampant among the well-healed passengers of luxury liners. From Le Havre it was just a European version of a hop, skip, and a jump to Ferrara.

There was an incident with Italian customs I might mention. I thought the train would stop at the border, and wondered how they managed customs. How long would it take, and did everyone have to get off? But no, the customs and immigration men got on at Monte Chiuso and as the train moved south they went from car to car instead. They stepped into our car first.

“What’s in the bag,” one asked me in Italian.

Most of my Italian is food language, you know, Parmesan, penne, prosciutto. I took too much time searching my brain for a proper answer. He grew suspicious and motioned he wanted it down, and most likely decided I must have something to hide, as he went through the bag thoroughly. Everything was taken out. He might have thought since I was American I’d stashed some Purple Kush somewhere, but no. In the end he just shrugged his shoulders and moved on.

I found the palace easily as it dominated the city and decided to take a tour, along with a slew of other Americans, Brits, Germans and French. I was still looking for the ticket office when it started to rain, and a guide herded the crowd into the main room, including me, ticket or no ticket. Even after the rain let up, no one checked, so it was a free ride for me, a free ride back into the Renaissance.

The Duke of Ferrara, Alphonso d'Este, lived and built on a grand scale. We toured the immense buildings and saw Feast of the Gods. I’d swear I heard Bellini and Titian arguing about it in the hall. The last place on the tour was the gardens. It was getting near lunch time and I knew they’d close, so while the others filed out I fell behind. After they’d lost me I sat down on a concrete bench where I could see the well.

It was covered by a small red tile roof made in six sections that radiated outward from the center like a pizza. Ivy crawled up one side and clung to the supports. No more oohing, and awing, and gasping and gapping in a dozen strange tongues. The tourists were gone, and their outcries were replaced with a full therapeutic measure of stillness and quiet.

A peaceful interlude settled over the garden and while the flower-scented air gave off languorous perfume, the only sound was a family of swallows making a home in the eves. I took the earrings out of my pocket to give them a good-bye look.

I wondered about their owner. She was the daughter of a Pope famed for her beauty and ill-used for the same reason. Was she an innocent woman who’d received a lot of bad press, or a blond femme fatal with a poison ring on her aristocratic finger and a heart of stone to match? If she had been born more recently she would make the Yahoo headlines, she’d be, as they call it, ‘trending’. Lucrezia would leave other notables like Madonna and Lindsey Lohan in the dust, unworthy to, as they say in romantic novels, ‘touch the hem of her skirt’.

Was she a manipulator or manipulated?

I looked down inside. It was bottomless. I danged the pair from my fingers, then contemplated, examined, decided, and let them fall into history.

That’s me, the ultimate gentleman acceding to a great lady’s wishes no matter the cost.

Now it was two down, and one to go. Next stop-Jerusalem.

The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was the first place I checked out. It was rife with problems. There were too many people around at all hours and nowhere to hide the grail. Besides, I didn’t know where it was originally discovered, and between you and me, wasn’t sure it wasn’t genuine, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. It was the last card of the game, and I was determined to play it correctly. But the church? No nooks, no crannies, so no go.

That left me the Garden of Gethsemane with plenty of loose sand, easy to get into at night, and not so frequented by pilgrims. It was the perfect place to do my midnight creep. I figured Jesus didn’t have much choice where his tomb was going to be, but he had plenty of choice over where he’d reappear, and that was in this particular garden.

If there was any place to enjoy a cup of wine it was here. Unlike the last supper, it was a drama-free place, no wonder he chose it.

At midnight I was on my knees under an ancient olive tree scooping handfuls of sand. I put the cup in the hole. Something about it didn’t look right. I had the impression I should stand it upright in its tiny grave, like a warrior in Borneo in Pierre Schoendoerffer’s novel Farewell to the King. I dug more handfuls and then a few more. I wanted to position it just right, like when you get disc TV and they position the disc to align with the Hughes satellite to get perfect reception. When it was just right, and I mean just right, I covered it back up.

Then I returned to my hotel and got ready to check out. Figured I hit the Silk Road, wearing Sufi sandals and a kaftan, doing the Sir Richard Burton thing, looking for the real magic.

But the story wasn’t over. A big change was on its way, and its first manifestation was this:

The next day a Jewish fellow ran out of gas a block away from a filling station in Gaza. A Moslem fellow decided to help push his car. The day after that about a mile away a small tour bus from Damascus got a flat tire late at night, and nearly ran off the road. Nearby, a league of Jewish women in a sewing circle found out, took them in, and fed them tea and cakes and sympathy.

In Iraq, the Sunnis stopped fighting the Shias. In Ireland the Protestants and Catholics kissed and made up.

Some kind of hocus-pocus was definitely happening.

In Bosnia, the Serbs started partying with the Croats and vice-versa, at first just on the weekends, but later all week long. In Korea the north finally shook hands with the south, and it didn’t stop there. I read about it in the papers, had my suspicions, and began to follow it on a map.

“Yes, that it,” I said. “There’s a definite pattern.”

The earliest transformations started in the holy land and were radiating outward in a circle, like a shockwave or an atomic bomb of good will and non-violence. It blasted sub-atomic particles of love way up into the jet stream and was carried around the world seven times.

Africa gave up seething. South Americans forgot what juntas and cartels were.

When it hit the States all the gangsters and fearful people exchanged their guns for food coupons and tickets to Disneyland. Even the cops gave their weapons up. Mayor Garcetti of LA said in a speech,

“Why bother with guns? They’re just not needed any more.”

Scientist said later that they didn’t know what caused it, but it was the biggest natural explosion since Krakatoa, in a quiet and peaceful sort non-invasive way.

I’ll be the first to admit my tale is a little fantastic. But isn’t that what life is?

Fantastic, incredible, unbelievable, as Hammett once put it, “The stuff dreams are made of.”


©Steven Hunley 2013