by Elyce | Feb 20, 2022 | bad boyfriend
On the second floor of the house, up the stairs, to the left, and through the double doors, there was an enormous closet. Gigantic in size. Like a hotel room. Even if you stood with your arms straight out to your sides with double twirling batons in both hands you wouldn’t you be close to the walls. They would be a dozen double batons away. Every time I walked into the closet, I felt like the whole world must be so much bigger than I realized. If a room like this could be made just for shoes and dresses and custom watches, what else were people creating? Limitless possibility. I would stand at the entryway and forget where I was going.
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by Elyce | Feb 14, 2022 | bad boyfriend
There hadn’t been cowboys in The Valley since the early nineteen eighties, but they were re-emerging. At shopping malls stocked with shoe stores, cell phone kiosks, jewelry retailers, and airbrush photography studios, you could find them. Even though it had been forty years since their boots clicked against the cold, shiny floors, the cowboys were comfortable because the shops hadn’t changed much. And shoppers still had fancy hair, big earrings, and credit cards just like in 1983. On any given day in 2017, there would be a cowboy leaning up against the wall of an ice cream vendor or with his arms propped up on a corn dog stand. It was home.
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by Elyce | Feb 13, 2022 | arrival
They open the door because I’ve arrived. I move to step inside, one foot over the cracked threshold, mid-air, inches above the living room floor, the padded welcome mat. One foot is nearly grounded while my arms stretch in that circular maneuver, embracing others, accepting an embrace. It’s what one does at arrival. Step in, share greetings. The door is still open, one foot now firmly down, the other one closely making its entrance; I’m now inside.
I’m thinking, for god’s sake pretend this is our introduction, that I can create a first impression, erase what you know, what you think you know, leave that on the porch, so I can walk in for this first time. The hug I accept is light, unsure, comes with a pat, attached to a how are you, how have you been, attached to a caution, a flashing light, a warning.
The door is closed. I am inside. What happens now, let me hand off my coat, thank you, it’s cold out. Then it’s good to see you rolls like a muffin from a table, you look well, you look tremendous, so glad you are here, offer a drink, offer anything, turn up music, there’s punch in the dining room, help yourself.
I am inside and I am very much still outside. Still on the porch, no feet within, calculating the risk, the escape, running back down the stairs, hiding behind the garbage cans, creeping silently toward the sidewalk and around the corner to freedom, to solitude, to safety. Punch sounds perfect, this is lovely, thank you, so glad I could make it and thank you for the invitation, very happy to see everyone, been too long, yes me too.
I’m down the street with my bag and my coat and I’m running.
by Elyce | Feb 13, 2022 | arrival
It’s one of those dark mansions, it’s almost a mansion, with these rustic, reclaimed barnwood slats that have this just-been-rained-on sheen, so they’re kind of a wet color. The windows are all framed in black, the glass overlaid with rows of Georgian ornamental work, symmetrical, stunning, unassuming.
Outlining the barnwood mansion hunches a winding calliope of branches and vines, rocketing in stillness, vying for sky in fluorescent green. The fence is a quiet explosion of life for 150 square feet. It calms me at first, even though its presence is a surprise. Behind it, the mansion is daunting, massive, an accomplishment, a claim on good fortune. By contrast, the fence is imbalanced, held together by mercy, by determination, it’s patternless, directionless, simply living as nature demands.
When I get to the house, it starts to rain.The afternoon has been swept away by an avalanche of storm clouds and wind. By 5:30, the gray clouds are a wash of black. I nudge open the braided gate and crunch over the September leaves to the front steps. All twelve of them. Leading to the door. Where I will knock in moments. Where I will present myself to a yellow living room with gold balloons and explain the events of my life as they are on this particular day, this September evening, after a slap-in-the-face of a Saturday, and leave that particular imprint on the guests. Oh, good to see you!
It’s time to knock. I look back at the beautiful fence. Then my knuckles descend. My arrival is quickly noted and there are eager footsteps coming for me.
by Elyce | Feb 13, 2022 | arrival
Her skirt was ironed, the petal pink done in straight-arrow pleats, the bottom seam flattened squarely. Unbeknownst to Charles Montecito, hysteria seeped from the woman’s pale petticoat and up through her floraled collar. She was, as they say, hysterical. By way of design or experience, or clobbered hash browns of the two, she was flat-out-and-straight-across a hysterical woman.
Hands in her lap, she waited on a sofa while the December issue of Poetry Today waited in a state of discernment across the room. Being Poetry Today, it didn’t have interest enough to whisper disdain in response to her arrival, so it just remained as it was, in its place of belonging.
In spite of the conditions, she recited, “I really appreciate this opportunity, I want to thank you.” This was not audible to anyone in the room, including Poetry Today. “It’s a privilege to even be considered and I recognize the responsibility involved.”
The way she’d practiced, it sailed from her mouth like the whisk of a wand. Gracious, humble, articulate, sharp, without threat. She was the perfect candidate. Sitting in the wide pleated skirt, shoes gleaming, face charming and warm, she was an added decoration to the room. The centerpiece even. Not the least bit hysterical. On the contrary, when the man entered the room, he immediately concluded that she must be some kind of angel.
“Miss Noelle, I presume? I’m Charles from Montecito Magazine.”
“Oh, hello Charles! Thank you for this opportunity. I’m so excited to have this chance to talk to you.”
She’s a fountain. She erupts with lullaby words that put him in a stupor and all he hears is her voice and impeccable articulation. He hears the laugh, the comically exquisite pitch that rings in a circle and he wants more. He will hire her. She knows. She speaks flute. Pied piper as it were. Come for me. I’ll let you.
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