Falling from Grace

[Steven Hunley]

When Kristina got her divorce and moved out she needed a place. She found it in Hillcrest. It was upstairs in back, with nine steps up, a landing with a left turn, and twelve more to the top. There the stairway ended, with her door on the right, the neighbors’ on the left, who were Tim and his wife Chris. It was cozy, which was a nice way of saying it was small.

I’d stop by after work or school. Sometimes I’d sleep over. That was an accomplishment for me, and I felt rather risqué, not sleeping at home. She had a Murphy bed, a marvelous contraption that folded down from the wall. It creaked and cracked if you gave it much action, which we did whenever we could. Kristina smoked cigarettes, Marlboro Reds. After doing it she’d smoke one. We were young and eager, and she’d hardly finished, (with the cigarette) and placed the still-glowing butt in an ashtray ‘cause I wanted more. The second time the bed was moving so much, rocking and rolling as it were, that the ashtray with the still-glowing-butt fell from where it was balanced, turned over in mid-air, the cherry falling on the small of my back. This increased my thrusts by a good number of foot-pounds of torque, driving her wild. I don’t know why she referred to them as foot-pounds, I wasn’t using my feet, perhaps because her father was a mechanic.

I was calling her one afternoon to see if I could come over, but no answer.

“That’s funny, where could she be?”

So, impetuous youth that I was, I went over anyway.

I climbed up the first nine steps,, turned, climbed up the twelve, and knocked. She opened the door.

“This is Sean,” she said with a flourish, “he works for the circus.”

I knew Ringling Brothers was in town, but didn’t expect to see the circus in our love-nest.

“Hi,” he said, and we shook hands.

He was tall, taller than me. He was good-looking, and his jeans were skin-tight. He was tan and tattooed. In other words, he was definitely not me. He looked like the lead singer from Nickleback, a handsome guy if ever there was one. To top it off, and I mean top it off, there was on his shoulder a falcon. This circus idiot had a falcon on his shoulder! What could I say? He oozed charisma.

“Whadda you do for the circus?”

“I sell tickets.”

It was more than tickets he was selling, I just knew it.

But I had to go to work. I didn’t want to go, believe me, but reluctantly took my leave. When I left, Kristina didn’t give me a good-bye kiss as usual. That wasn’t a good sign. I worked until ten o’clock selling books at Hunter's in La Jolla. When I got off I gave her a call. No answer.

So, impetuous youth I still was, I drove over.

I bounded up the stairs. I knocked, no answer. I ran down the stairs and out to the back to take a peek. The lights were on but low. Bad sign number three. I bounded up again. She answered this time.

“Whadda you want?” she said, not removing the chain.

I could see inside, though the door was only open a crack. I saw the low lights, I saw him, his shirt off, tats prominent, sitting on the Murphy bed. I saw no bird. Bad sign number four.

“I want in,” I said lamely.

“Not now,” she said, and closed it in my face.

I was hurt, dejected, and rejected. I drove home.

Moms and Pops weren’t home. That was good as I needed to smoke a joint and think. I rolled downstairs, rolled a joint, and put on some tunes. If there’s anything that can change your emotional outlook it’s smoking a joint and listening to music. Let me tell you about the room. My parents didn’t use it so it was all mine. There were the paintings I’d done, they sucked, and posters. There was the bookcase I made in high school, filled up with the books I’d stolen at work. Now I was kicked back, allowing the music create my mood. I looked up and saw the poster of Jimi. Jimi, what a great guy. He was so damned cool it hurt.

“Look at Jimi,” I said to myself, the joint half wasted. “He’s so damned cool.”

But then the tune on KPRI was over. I figured I needed another, so as homage to Jimi, I put the original Jimi Hendrix Experience on the turntable, and took a hit.

My eyes drifted over the wall. There was the kukri I stole from Cost less Imports. It was a huge knife from India used by the Gurkas. Gunga Din probably had one or Sam Jaffee had one I couldn’t remember which. It was shiny and large, somewhere between a machete and a Bowie knife, an evil looking blade. I took another hit.

“Yeah,” I thought while exhaling, “It’s a mean motor scooter.”

But then something happened I didn’t quite plan. My thoughts drifted back to him and her.

Just then, of all things, Hey Joe came on.

I had feelings for this song. It had been done a thousand times in a million ways by others. Only Jimi had the sense to slow it down, to give it drama. He gave you time to think, time to let the words sink in.

“Hey Joe, where you goin’ with that gun in your hand?”

I looked at the shiny thing on the wall.

“Hey Joe, where you goin’ with that gun in your hand?”

I took the kukri off the wall, feeling its weight in my hand. Right then, it felt good, unusually good.

“I’m going to shoot my old lady, she’s been messin’ round with another man.”

I knew, as the joint was smoked far down now, exactly what I had to do.

I turned off the stereo, hopped in the car, drove across town, the kukri in my lap. I was ready to go. I knew real and ready equaled ready and real.
I’m up the stairs again. I know I have to go through with this fast, before the mood is lost, before my nerve is lost, before the weed wears off.

“They’ll blame it all on the marijuana,” I told myself, “the evil weed whose roots grow in Hell.”

I’m up on the landing in seconds, then rocketing to the top. I knock on the door. She opens it up.

Here’s what happens in a nutshell.

I break through the one sixteenth-inch chain holding the door like a real man. That’s pretty impressive. I flash the blade of the kukri. Circus Boy sees it real good, as his eyes turn the size of saucers. Pretty impressive too. Then everything gets a bit foggy, and the rest is only an impression, but here it is:

He hits me up the side of the head. I lose possession of the knife. Then somehow I’m out the door. Then I’m down the stairs, starting with my butt hitting stair number twelve, then my shoulder hitting stairs numbered ten and nine, my right hip careening down stairs numbered seven and six, then plummeted my worthless *** to stairs numbered four, three, and two, eventually landing it on the landing, where else? The stairs not numbered are not numbered because they weren’t contacted by my body, it being in the air at the time. So I come to rest on the landing, a crumpled, forlorn, and defeated man. Not so impressive. Then I limp down the remaining nine steps to the cement that leads to the gutter.

A day later I’m nursing my bruises realizing I’m out one hell of an exotic knife. I figure it’s all over between us. I’ll never see her again. But as usual, I’m wrong.

A week later she’s taking my calls. A week later we go out. The week after that we’re rockin’ and rolling with Murphy, and the performance was so good we did a few encores minus the ashtray. I never talked to her about it, never asked her why she took me back. Maybe I didn’t want to know at the time. But I found out years later.

Chris, Tim’s wife, asked her one day,

“Tina,” she said, “Why did you take him back?”

Kristina looked out the south window towards Tijuana and noticed a dove on the alleyway fence. It was so soft and pure it hurt her to look at it, made her eyes tear, as her voice wavered, “Because he’s so sweet, and because he’s still here.”

The women were busy having coffee and cigarettes; Kristina, tapping the ash from her precious Marlboro with the tip of her forefinger, casually catapulting it into the ashtray in magnificent arcs.

“Besides,” she said logically, without a trace of emotion. “The circus left town.”

©StevenHunley2015

http://youtu.be/44G3Zwm8hgM Hey Joe

[108 fountains]

Great story Steve! It brought back painful memories of Shanna. I guess we all have a Shanna or a Kristina somewhere. I thought I had forgotten about her - but 37 years later, this brought it all back.
The consolation is... never mind, I was about to say something very unkind.

Anyway, I liked the tone of the writing - sounded about the way I would expect a 20-year-old to think and talk and write, and I think that's what you were aiming for. You should take one more look at it though for correcting typos and making other possible changes in word choice, stuff like that. (You inadvertantly duplicated the first few paragraphs.)

The change from first person narration to third person narration at the end was not the smoothest, but it worked, and I can't really think of any other way to do it to get the same effect.

Foot-pounds, huh? Hey, I've still got a kukri packed away in my things somewhere.

[AuntShecky]

I can't believe I haven't weighed in on this before now. Please forgive my oversight.

This is the kind of stuff you do so well --nostalgia with a wry perspective. The style reminds me a little of that of Jean Shepherd. (If you've read him you'll realize this better than merely watching the movies based on his works.) You've got a way with the colloquial expression, no doubt about it. Also, you could go to any bar and ace "Trivia Night," as your expertise in pop culture strongly attests.

Speaking of which, I remember Jethro Tull's music. If I recall, Jethro himself (if not a band member?) employed a flute in his tunes. You could hear a flute in West Coast Jazz (was it Shelley Mann?), but seldom if ever hear one in rock music, which then as now was heavy on the guitar. I don't know about Jethro's lyrics though. Strike me as kind of pretentious, especially with the "Yoda" speech.

Oh, and the Fitzgerald connection. Once I told Daughter #2 about how much I admired F. Scott Fitzgerald when I was about my daughter's age at the time. When I mentioned Zelda and their daughter Scottie, my daughter thought it was hysterical. "If their daughter's name was Scottie," she said, "what did they call their dog?"

Anyway, bottom line, Steven: your stuff is always fun to read.

Auntie

[Steven Hunley]

Then came a day of magic. It wasn’t planned to be that way, few often are. It was planned to be a simple afternoon at the beach. We left too late, forgot half of what we intended to pack, and were totally unprepared for the weather.

On the way out Kristina said, “Where are we going anyway?”

“To Torrey Pines.”

We wound our way up the Five north and parked the car and got out. The wind coming from the Pacific smelled of salt and seaweed and tropical islands thousands of leagues distant. The sun sat low and rested just above the horizon. Cumulus clouds welled up along the rim of the world and promised a sunset of incomparable beauty.

“Looks good to me," I said. She nodded in agreement.

The beach was long and stretched its arm beneath tall sandstone cliffs standing like silent sentinels. When you walked its length you felt safe on both sides.

“It’s surrounded and cut off,” I thought, “It’s a good place for thinking.”

“It’s cut off and surrounded,” she thought, “a good place for loving.”

The wind gusted again so I gave her my coat.

She took it with a smile, because she knew as a girl always does, it would require us to sit close later. As the sun lowered, the sky turned pink and gold cellophane. The only sound was the scream of plummeting gulls and the wind kissing the waves white-laced necks like in Tales of Brave Ulysses by Cream. It was just us, the sky, the waves, and endless expanses of sand.

“Let’s sit awhile,” she whispered, so not to break my thoughts.

We picked a place at the base of the cliffs. I pulled a joint from my pocket and tried to light it. The on shore breeze refused to be polluted.

“It’s OK,” she said. “Try this instead,” and gave me a kiss. “You must be cold,” and snuggled up close.

It was only too obvious I had something on my mind. Women know such things because they can cook. She knew I had a thought baking, she could tell by the smell of me. I strive to be mysterious and opaque. In reality I’m transparent as glass.

I looked at her face. She saw what was coming. We’d come to the point where it might be said with impunity. Well, only if I was lucky. I was guilty of the thought, she could see it in my eyes, so it was time to confess.

The sun dipped lower, setting flame to the clouds. Dark cumulus rims tinged gold. The heat spread, setting the night on fire. Jim Morrison roared his magnificent roar. "Try to set the night on fire." It was time to release, set free, unshackle, my most intimate emotions. I’d entered the confessional of sand wave and cliff. I confided in her ear, afraid of seeing her face

“I love you,” I blurted out. “You know?”

“It’s OK,” she said. “Don’t worry. I love you too.”

The words were out like chained lightning. If they meant exactly the same thing to each of us it would have been a miracle. But they were out, and right now that was good enough. It was something we both wanted to hear.

I let out a breath. When I was satisfied she wasn’t saying it just for form or as something she knew I expected to hear in return, I squeezed her tight to protect her from the wind. It was useless. My coat could do that. What I really needed to do was protect her from myself. I, the perfect fool, didn’t know what was within me, or what I was capable of. But it was too late; the words escaped.

Feeling a chill, I dropped my arms and clasped myself. There was no going back. She took off the coat and blanketed me like an autumn leaf trembling with a sudden awareness of mortality, afraid to give up the sap of life. Kristina fell over me, protecting me with her flesh, attempting to drown my sorrows in her fragile body.

She overheard me say, more to myself than her, “This isn’t going to be easy.”

“I know,” she answered calmly, her breath caressing my ear. “I know,” she repeated, even more softly this time, but with all the weight of experience, humanity, and common sense behind it.

When we left the beach at dusk, the sky had turned to ink and gold. Our tracks in the wet sand glowed with the sparkle of florescent diatoms disturbed by the pressure of our naked feet. Those caught in the ebb tide were busy dying.

Our relationship, a relationship freely entered, was caught there too. Trapped by the words of love we uttered, captured in own poisonous red tide of love, tangled by the love-knot she’d plaited in her hair with delicate fingers and placed around both of our necks like a noose with only the strength of her beauty.

When we got in the car and drove away, the sand, the cliffs, the sky and waves, our whispered promises, our impossible dreams, faded into the distance, where they’d been all the time, took a realistic perspective, and were forgotten as easily as unintelligible sentences spoken in dreams.

©Steven Hunley2015

https://youtu.be/u8hLc_nqx8g Tales of Brave Ulysses-Cream

https://youtu.be/LY1l8T2Lcl0 Light My Fire-The Doors

[Steven Hunley]

We had a fight. We were both on each other’s neck for having been with someone else. So you could say it was a fair fight. Each of us had plenty of ammunition. I had to go to work soon, so there was a certain sense of urgency to the matter. That didn’t help. I was pissed because I’d caught her red- handed. I suspected she’d had more than that one idiot from the circus in her tent so to speak. She, on the other hand, hadn’t caught me in flagrante delicto. Instead, she’d found my journal, which I’d been keeping for my English class. It was written for my eyes only, so it was damning evidence for sure. I never kept much from myself in my journal. Not as much as I kept from her. After this episode finished I promised myself I’d hide it better next time. But right now I was busy defending myself.


“You know you’re the only one for me,” I said, “the only one who really matters.”

She was sitting on the edge of the bed. I was standing near the brass post at the end. Tears were welling up in her eyes. They weren’t in mine, but only because I thought I was a man. It was her turn in the confessional.

“I couldn’t help myself,” she sobbed, “I just couldn’t.”

Tears of heavy weight came tumbling down.

The thing here is we knew we had hurt each other with our indiscretions, and hadn’t meant to. Because any way you cut it, we cared about each other. And it wasn’t as if either one of us was ready to claim the moral high ground with a cry of “victory” either. We were both equally guilty. Both of us perpetrators, both of us victims, of each other’s lust.

The clock hand was approaching three. I’d have to be in La Jolla soon. It was time to leave.

“Maybe we can finish this later,” I said, “I gotta go.”

She’d grabbed my hand a minute before, so it was clasped between hers. I pulled it free.

“I’ll give you a call when I get off.”

So when I got off at ten I did. There was no answer. I went over anyway.

Racing down the freeway a few thoughts crossed my mind.

“She shouldn’t be like that. Women I know aren’t like that.”

I searched for a name of a woman I knew and came up with one. It was Laura, beautiful blond Laura.

“Laura liked Pasha, and why not? Every woman has to have a first love. But when she made it with evil Victor Komarovsky it was only because he was in a position of power over her. In reality she hated him. That’s why she shot him at the Christmas Ball in Moscow. Slimy Rod Steiger anyway. And when she balled Dr. Shivago, it was only because they were so isolated, and because he had such drippy eyes, because of the revolution, because it was so cold and all.”

Somewhere there, somewhere on the freeway I heard Somewhere my Love playing on balalaikas.

“That’s how a proper girl should act,” I concluded, “how a proper girl should be. Why can’t she be more like that, more like Julie Christie? This sexual adventuring stuff should be left up to us men. We’re the ones who can handle such matters.”

I pulled off the freeway, and turned on to Brooks avenue in Hillcrest. It was late on a hot summer night. I ran up the stairs. I should explain that I had trouble sleeping on hot summer nights. I’d turn the pillow over and over, trying in vain to find the cool side. What I needed was a distraction. What every man needs on a hot summer night is a cool woman. I was no different from the rest.

So I knocked.

No answer. Perhaps she wasn’t home. Maybe she didn’t want to continue the argument. Maybe she’d already made up her mind what to do. I turned and went down about seven steps when I heard the click of the door. It was a lucky seven. I looked up and saw it had opened a crack. It was time to take a chance. I was feeling lucky. So I did.

The lights were off. She’d already gone to bed. So why did she open the door? It didn’t open by itself. I entered in silence. I couldn’t see much. Outside, cumulus clouds were racing across the face of the moon. Sometimes then you’d get a glimpse of the room from the moonlight dancing in the large open window. Mostly you didn’t. But there was one thing I glimpsed when I had a chance. Strands of her blond Julie Christie hair were making S curves that shined like silver threads against the black-coal darkness of her bed’s satin sheets. That was good enough for me. If I couldn’t see, then I’d feel my way to her. I was pretty good at feeling my way in the dark. So the lights were off… but the game? The game was on.

I took off my clothes without a sound and piled them on a chair nearby. When I sat on the corner of the bed nearest me the mattress springs made a creaking sound. I started to say something, but was stopped immediately when she pressed two fingers to my lips, setting the rules. So this was how it was going to be. She was taking charge. I would have to trust her if I was to have my way with her. Almost as soon as she touched my lips with her fingers she drew them away and retreated. The clouds covered the moon completely just then, plunging the room into total darkness. I drew up a bit, then pressed my knee into the mattress, inching forward to begin my search. Another creak was heard. It would be the first of many.

I decided to reconnoiter. My weapons were to be my kisses. I figured that it really didn’t matter which end of her I found first. I could work my way up from her bottom as easily as I could work my way down from her top. I always ended up in the same place anyway. But, my beloved enemy had plans of her own. That’s how women are. Their strength lies in the fact they make you think you’re the one in control. In reality, I was the one out of my depth, and she, being a surfer girl, was the ultimate swimmer.

About the time I thought I might find some flesh with my fingertips I noticed some warm breath near my ear. There’s nothing as nice as warm woman-breath near your ear. Then there was the scent of perfume and the tickle of hair across my neck. That was nice too. She’d snuck up and taken me from behind. So, man or no man, I gave up. I surrendered big time. There were a few more strategic creaks, then more tactical creaks, followed by several creaks in rapid succession. This was followed by the only word she uttered that night. I obeyed, so then it was several long slow creaks, or rather I should say creakings, with some squeaks thrown in for good luck. When we concluded, we panted with the breaths of exhausted angels.

No couple sails blissfully the whole distance do they? Nobody I know. That’s what sailing is all about; making adjustments, picking the proper tack, being a sailor, surviving the storm. As the Beach Boy’s sing in their song Sail on, Sailor, you’ve got to, “Sail through the sorrows of life’s marauders.” You do what you gotta do. That’s why your lover is called your mate. That’s why it’s good if at least one of you can swim. Life is such a rough sea.

‘Cause truth be told, I can’t swim. I’ve always been afraid of the water. The next day, when I left in the morning I was heading down the stairs when she told me,

“Stop.”

She ran back into the room, grabbed a small something off the counter, then reaching down, pressed it into my hand, closing my fingers over it. It was like Michelangelo’s God passing the spark of life into Adam’s hand on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It was a gift.

“Don’t open it ‘till you’re driving away,” she instructed me. The woman was good at instructing me.

It was hard to drive with it in my hand while grabbing the steering wheel, but I did. About a block away I opened my hand. To be candid, I already knew what it was by the feel, but seeing it was even better.

It was the key to her place. I guess she’d made up her mind.

It had been her intent all along to drown me in herself.

[Steven Hunley]

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