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The eye of the storm
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 2251
We're downstairs in the basement, the owner and I, it's a dug-out basement, unfinished cement floors and walls, sitting and having coffee. Light streams in from a walk out patio; for a moment - just a moment - the light crosses his face, it's beautiful - jet black hair, vivid, startling blue eyes, he's very handsome and I say that I want a camera, he doesn't understand but someone runs to get me a camera....
They bring it to me, it's an old Minolta or some such, film camera, and I'm a little amazed but it has all these little cardboard key cards on a thread hanging from it, and as I begin to take pictures I understand, he's had it adapted to digital, each photo I snap cycles the key-cards through it, I'm making him stand and move forward, trying to recapture the slash of light across his face as it was there for just a minute before, it's no use.....
We end up outside, the light, it was that of the setting sun, we're around the house now, still taking photos, there are clouds in the sky and the patches of light disappear quicker than we can find them, the moment's been lost....
Now, through his yard on this farm, there comes a wind, then a slender tornado...and I realize why the light was so eerie; we dodge it, then run through some trees to look, from the east there comes a storm, multiple tornadoes touch narrow fingers to the ground and we turn to run for shelter but it's too late, it's upon us -
And for a moment it's quiet...all to the east, we're in the very eye of the storm, within the cut swathe of destruction, strange shapes clutter the grounds, it takes but a second to recognize stegosauruses, giant dragons, winged fairies, simulacra and demons all cavorting in the strange, unquiet peace that permeates this place....beside me the owner asks me what it is he's seeing, he doesn't trust his eyes, I snap a picture and the flash alerts them to our presence, the storm reawakens and we're running for shelter again, the house with it's concrete basement has imploded...
The week from hell
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Miscellany
- Hits: 2351
It's over, the week from hell. Slippery walks to the bus stop at 9:00 AM, work at 10:00, the theoretical break after lunch eroded, dissolved entirely by the dozens of people on early Christmas break, extended office parties that last into the evening.
1st thing is get the ice. Set up the butters. Replace candles, fill sugar bowls, check pepper mill. Set up dining room for large lunch parties. Fold napkins. Service. Reset dining room, by which time it's usually 3:30, if not later.
I try to get a nap in in the basement. Upstairs the owners son is pounding the veal, muffled conversations about Jesus, there's the sound of polishing cutlery, the phone ringing....
Up at 4:30 and repeat. Finish at 11:30 or 12:00, catch bus home, repeat.
Next week the same, but a shorter week, only until Thursday. Tomorrow off. But the week from hell is over....
I've inherited my father's charm...
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Conversations
- Hits: 1726
She's back, the Fox, the one who thinks I look like Lyle Lovett, only now she's back as a friend of a staff member, we're all eating dinner and she pulls up a chair beside the owner. There are introductions, the owner's son tells her what a hottie she is and that if it wasn't for the fact that he's a born again Christian and didn't believe in sex outside of marriage she'd be in trouble. There are a dozen people present.
"I've inherited my father's charm, you know" he says, by way of explanation. His father looks distinctly uncomfortable.
***
Walking through and setting up the dining room later I encounter him and a waitress, Fox's friend, in conversation.
"NAMEOFOWNERSSON, I don't want you to talk to me, touch me or come near me, is that understood?"
- "Yeah, but..."
"I mean it"
I feel for him, he's being told in as harsh a way as possible, yet he's not hearing it...he tells me a minute later, unfazed....
"I really like her in a strange sexy-mom kinda way....."
***
The conversations ramble. He wants to know if I think he can "take" his father in an arm wrestle. And he threatens his father with how things will change if and when he takes over the restaurant....his father leans close to me and repeats under his breath ..."I should-a drowned him when he was-a born....If I'd-a only known..."
It's the joke that never grows old....
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Conversations
- Hits: 1489
He's come out, the rush is past and he's visiting his customers.
He's quite charming, greeting and talking to the customers, inquiring about their dinners, their lives, it's a small family business. He knows everyone.
Sitting with a table he leans back in his chair and and shouts
"eh, Franco, how long-a you work-a here?"
"20 years" Frank answers.
"And how many-a children you have?"
"5" says Frank.
"And how many days off I give-a you in 20 years?" he shouts.
"5" says Frank.
Everyone laughs.
The waitress leans across the table we're setting and confides in me..."It's the joke that never grows old..."
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