George (Part Two)

George (Part Two)

by BJ Neblett

© 2009

            Another loud crash startled George. It came from within the yard and rattled the fragile wooden privacy fence. A cacophony of rising voices filled the night air. George could see most of the crowd was already gone. The remaining party goers had moved outside from the stuffy house. Now people were shouting and arguing. Through the gaps in the slats of the rotting fence, George saw his friend, the girl from the second floor, sitting in a corner.

            She was crying.

            “Get up!” a rough voice barked. “Get the hell up and do as you were told!”

            The girl looked up, wiping a tear. “Please, you know how I feel about…”

            Her words were cut off as a massive fist clamped around her thin bicep, viciously yanking her to her feet. “And you know I don’t give a shit! Now get inside!”

            The girl from the second floor was half dragged to the open rear door and shoved through. Her assailant spun around glowering at the small stunned audience. The man stood six foot two inches, and was sharply dressed in black, with heavy gold jewelry. The sleeves of his stiff collared shirt did little to conceal bulging muscles. They were the kind of muscles that result from illimitable hours in the weight pit, trying to relieve the mind numbing tedium of prison life.

            George recognized the burning malevolent sneer and cruel dark eyes. He knew the man, knew him well.

            One Sunday afternoon, while napping in the shade of a friendly tree, George felt the sting of a pointed shoe against his ribs. “Freakin’ worthless bum…”

            George jumped and found himself staring deep into a pair of dark, unforgiving eyes. The sight made George shiver. Since then, the unfriendly muscular man returned to the old blue house many times. He often traveled in the company of scary, serious looking men; scantily clad women, and obnoxious, vulgar music. George quickly learned to give him, and his companions, a wide berth.

            “Hey, man, take it easy. Chill out,” a strained, high pitched voice called.

            The muscular man took a threatening step forward. “You got a freakin’ problem, sonny?”

            There was no reply.

            He glanced around, dismissing the others with a curt wave of his arm and a harsh expletive. “You mama’s boys are polite enough when you want what I got, ain’t you?” He gestured with his head, beyond the wooden gate. “But out there, on the streets, you ass holes wouldn’t stop to piss on me if I were on fire.” Laughing out loud, he turned to his two buddies, “Self righteous bastards, with their college education and their yuppie attitudes. Yeah… but who’s driving the C-5 and flashin’ the bling, huh? C’mon… let’s blow.”

            The inimical trio burst through the wooden gate, climbed into the waiting Mercedes and were gone. George watched the remaining visitors file pass him, unaware of his presence, to their cars. The stunned residents wandered back into the old blue house in silence.

            With a sad heart, George glanced up. The light in the second floor rear apartment winked out.

            The following Friday it was business as usual at the old blue house. People had been arriving since sun down, and George heard talk of a big end of semester blow out. It was spring, school was over, and the people of the old blue house were ready to party hard. George knew that could mean trouble.

            Earlier in the week, he’d seen the girl from the second floor briefly as she emptied the trash. She looked sad and preoccupied. George tried to get her attention but she didn’t notice him. Despite the carefully applied make-up, he could see her bruised and swollen eye. Her right arm wore ugly purple rings from the steel grasp of the muscular man in the Mercedes.

            Around midnight the party was at full volume, bigger, louder and more rowdy than ever. It spilled into the small back yard and beyond the wooden gate, to the street. The girl from the second floor was nowhere to be found, the lights of her apartment dimmed. At one AM the silver-grey Mercedes sedan rolled up to the old blue house, discharging the muscular man and a pair of tough looking thugs. He carried with him a small leather case and was greeted with all the revelry of a celebrity.

            George knew what he had to do.

                                                                                    Seattle, WA

                                                                                    July, 2009

George (Part One)

George (Part One)

by BJ Neblett

© 2009

            George cowered on the floor of the old Chrysler. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. His pulse raced. George shivered in the still, warm night air, his eyes searchlights, his ears at attention.

            It was late, perhaps three or four in the morning. The slanting rays of the waning moon filtering through the grimy tinted glass told him so.

            It wasn’t the din of the raucous party that stirred him from a fitful sleep. George was used to that. The worn blue house with the white trim and new roof was the scene of many late night adventures, especially on weekends. This Saturday was no exception. By midnight, the vacant lot adjacent to the two-story home was full. Incongruent to the tired neighborhood, fancy SUV’s and sports cars now crowded George’s derelict Chrysler. Against the curb sat a flashy silver-grey Mercedes sedan with 20” spokes.

            George liked people. He enjoyed seeing new faces, making friends. It had become somewhat of a hobby, listening to and collecting the lively tales and sullen stories most people openly related.

            Everybody had a story. George understood that most people were basically lonely, at least on the inside. A friendly greeting and willingness to listen were all it took to elicit unrestrained reverie from his recent acquaintances. He’d keenly watch them; observe their sadness as it puddle the corners of their eyes. He could hear the excitement in their escalating voices; taste the regret as it welled up in their throats. Yet, throughout his many years being a people watcher, George felt himself slowly becoming disenchanted with people. He’d come to the decision that there was a growing apathy, what he termed a disintegrating awareness among mankind. It seemed a virus like disappointment in life. What triggered this alarming trend, George didn’t know. But with the surety of an empath, George could peer into the souls and psyche of those he listened to, and understand the forces and motivations that propelled the stories they related. Increasingly, George didn’t like the things he learned.

            The officious operators of the gaudy vehicles that peppered the vacant lot were prime examples. Unlike a few of the residents of the old blue house, these outsiders seldom had time for George. They’d bruise past George without as much as a greeting or acknowledgment. That was a shame. Despite the obvious self-centeredness and negativity, George enjoyed their tales. It was his entertainment, his television, movie theater  and best seller. But beyond that, the stories of the individuals he encountered were his school, the tellers’ unwitting docents in the open air classroom of George’s existence.

            George was a people watcher, yes. But he was also a people listener. He listened and understood and learned.

            Sometimes George would be invited into the old blue house. There he’d usually be welcomed, till some harried resident would breeze through with a disconcerting attitude and what’s he doing here gaze. Then George would be politely but stiffly shown the door.

            Often the girl who lived in the tiny second floor rear apartment would offer George food and some delicious ice cold milk. She was young, maybe twenty-two, plain and shy. George thought her attractive, with simple smooth features; a slightly turned, kittenish nose; long, straight honey blonde hair, and clear, telling blue eyes. Or perhaps it was her unassuming looks and the unpretentiousness of her body language that he found so appealing. If George had learned one thing from a life on the streets it was to recognize and accept the inner beauty – as well as the hidden ugliness – of those he met.

            But George understood the comely occupant of the second floor was lonely. He could see it in those same twinkling azure eyes; feel it in the fluid movements of her delicate body; hear it in the timbre of her soft voice. She was one of the good ones, George decided. She slipped effortlessly into one of the categories George had fashioned to understand those around him. He didn’t necessarily approve of this human filing system he unwittingly devised, and chided himself on the matter often. But the system was nothing in not efficient, and, George found, remarkably accurate. The lonely girl on the second floor fell right at the top of George’s favorite people. And it wasn’t merely for the tuna and milk lunches they sometimes shared in the small, fenced rear yard of the old blue house. Her stories were real and touching and meaningful, resonating of minor victories and not so minor tragedies. The kind of life molding events George loved to hear about.

            “We are,” she once said, “the sum total of our experiences. Those experiences – be they positive or negative – make us the person we are, at any given point in our lives. And, like a flowing river, those same experiences, and those yet to come, continue to influence and reshape the person we are, and the person we become. None of us are the same as we were yesterday, nor will be tomorrow.”

            It was right then, as they sat in the cool Seattle sunshine, that George knew he was in love. He loved the pretty, plain, lonely, enigmatic girl from the second floor of the old blue house.

                       

                                                                                                Seattle, WA

                                                                                                July, 2009

Soundtrack Of Our Lives: Memories Or Misconceptions?

Soundtrack Of Our Lives: Memories Or Misconceptions by BJ Neblett

             Music has always been a major part of my life. From my earliest recollections of blues, pop and jazz to my corybantic years as a radio DJ, my life, loves and writings have been shaped and influenced by the music around me. Like most of us, music for me is a reference marker, how I attach a date, a place and a face to a memory. Music is the voice of yesterday; it truly is the soundtrack of our lives. Think about it: the car radio; the transistor at the beach; the jukebox; the tiny walkman and MP3s; school dances to concerts to movie soundtracks to a song played by your favorite band in a local night spot. You will probably find you can associate a favorite tune with every important event, every milestone in your life. Music is what helps us to remember the good times; and to deal with the bad times.

            An old DJ friend of mine once said that there is a song for every aspect of the human experience. And so it is with my experiences. When I wish to recall a memory, a person, a place or a time, I simply recall a song. Music is the basis for the memories that pervade what I write. So, enjoy the pictures played in your mind by the music you hear, know and love. And stop and call to mind your past: your trials and triumphs, and your own romantic adventures. But keep in mind:

                                    Memories may be beautiful and yet

                                    What’s too painful to remember we simply chose to forget

                                    So it’s the laughter we will remember

                                    Whenever we remember the way we were

                                                                                                The Way We Were

                                                                                                Barbara Stresiand

Peace,

BJ