Iron of the Sky

by Ryan Downey

  Riddle’s taste wasn’t all that much more distinguished than his own, though he did seem to have a nose for hints and a taste bud for characters. Their excitement and Riddle’s palate inevitably led to their separation, a trial that would provide just enough time for his mission. A half dozen 2 oz. pours later, he stopped dead in his tracks.

  Babble faded into background as his vision deblurred. A significant change in skin tone withstanding, she looked just like her. It was uncanny. Whatever deep, unresolved psychological issues were at the root of his overwhelming attraction remained inconsequential. She saw him. He saw her. They both smiled anticipatorily. Their plan had worked perfectly.

  A Prayer In Memphis

  His love of history and her love of all things old brought them there. The fact that ducks ran the lobby certainly didn’t keep him away either. He pulled up a seat at the bar in the center of the historic Peabody Hotel and ordered himself an Old Fashioned. No brainer. She was already seated two stools down. The bartender was the only other person to be found, sitting any closer would have wreaked of presumption. The trickle of the fountain the ducks called home worked well to intensify thirst. She was busy writing something, dressed in handsome business attire and so consumed in her work that she’d yet to touch her clean martini. They were out of olive juice.

  Deciding for her that her break could use a break, he snatched the opportunity. New York’s overdrive, meet Philadelphia’s struggle to relax. “Do you like quotes?” he beckoned. With the bartender to his left and around the corner and he clearly speaking to his right, she knew she must be the target. “Not stupid ones,” she responded most curtly. He laughed, taken rather off-guard. “Well this one’s not. I’m not big on platitudes myself. Have you been to the Lorraine Motel yet?” He lifted his drink as she shook her head. “What’s there?” she ventured politely. “It’s where Dr. King was shot.”

  Her face took on humbled expression. Not quite embarrassed by her ignorance. By that point, it could fall into the category of obscure trivial knowledge.

  The moment and her expression were briefly disrupted as two mallards casually waddled by. The importance of colors in mating told them the one with the green head was the male. He followed the female at a steady pace, quacking with each step. Not sure what she did, but he had reason to gripe and she was going to hear it all the way to the fountain. After green quacked by, he took no place above her for not knowing and nodded to her drink in a prompt to raise it as well, as he prepared to deliver the contextomy engraved outside the Lorraine’s front door.

  “I’d been there before, went again today after I saw W.C. Handy’s house.” A day of respects. “If you have the means while you’re in town, you should go. Anyway, there’s a plaque out front with an inscription from Genesis. It goes-” he cleared his throat abruptly as he wound up. He also leaned back a little too far, forgetting these stools bore no back. A drop from his seat would have surely compromised the solemnity of the commencement. “… And I’m probably paraphrasing a bit here, ‘They saw him coming from a great distance. And they said one to another “Behold, here cometh the dreamer. Let us slay him. And we shall see what becomes of his dreams…”’” Even the ducks muttered not a quack as a relatively heavy silence loomed. Then, as she gave a slight nod of approval, glasses clinked breaking silence. Turns out the quote wasn’t stupid afterall. Matching pair. She had a history and he was old. They drank and before long were at work scheming their next rendezvous. It would have to be somewhere between their respective homes. And it would have to be soon. She wasn’t going to be interested forever.

  Inner Harbor

  The bump jolted him awake. Big as it was, the Megabus was not impervious to infrastructural imperfections. He glanced down to see his book on space study and exploration had not fallen from his grasp, in spite of questionable wake. Substantial time had passed since their meeting, since the adventure that was so good she invited him back to her room at the Sheraton without reservation. Time since he’d forgotten himself and forgotten her, now allowing himself to engage she that was from New York. The Megabus charged through Delaware, whose greatest contribution to the contiguous forty-eight was allowing access to better places. At least it wasn’t New Jersey. He hated New Jersey, the annoying high-pitched neighbor. He had been there many times. More times than he would like to count with more friends than he would like to remember. He always sucked it up. At the very least, he would leave drunk. At most, in love. He had left somewhere in between.

  He also left his car at home. Traffic would be heavy closer to town, tribe was doing battle with congress. She was driving so there was no sense burying it in a parking lot graveyard when he could just leave it in his personal garage and get there and back for under twenty bucks. A town known for destroying pretty much anything it could get its hands on, he wasn’t about to leave a newish beamer on the mean streets of Baltimore.

  Headlights shined back at him. It was the middle of the day, but before he had drifted off he turned to a page with Alpha Centauri A and B, quiet neighbors to Earth’s own and relative neighbors to each other. The book went away and the magazine came out. Celebrity trash and wardrobe malfunctions would get those eyes open. He unscrewed the cap on his Lipton Brisk and took a swig. Sleep had left a bad taste in his mouth. He put the cap back on even though he planned to continue drinking, a strange compulsive habit he developed in his youth. A youth that grew dimmer and more distant by the day in a continually expanding universe.

  She hadn’t left yet. The drive seemed daunting. Heading southwest on deasil track. Their plans were to meet for dinner. Not much of it, but there was still time. Parked as tight as one could fit it between a sedan and minivan that morning, her car now sat unaccompanied and ready for takeoff. The mirrors didn’t need adjusting. The air in the car was a perfect 78° Fahrenheit. Seat belt on, coffee in holder, granola bar in glove compartment next to extra napkins in case she spilled. But she wasn’t moving. She had lost momentum. A trip planned for two weeks and for a very special occasion. An occasion she didn’t want to celebrate. And she knew he would be perfect to celebrate it with. She hated that. Why couldn’t he leave her alone. Why couldn’t he leave it alone. Why was he so… nice. He didn’t even seem like the type.

  She didn’t mean to be contrarian. Everything she hated about herself, he liked. Leaving them with little in common. Their long phone conversations had cured his adronitis, but left her feeling vulnerable. Still, the moment passed. She convinced herself once more that they were going to have a good time and started the car.

  Dinner was divine. Typical Maryland fare - good to the last morsel. Several cocktails had ensured no Old Bay remained between their teeth and no sense remained in their heads. It was a whirlwind of colors and music and lights reflected on the waterfront. Good vibrations echoed at every turn to keep them dancing and the spirit she instilled in him kept his feet from the ground. They wouldn’t touch down again ‘til dawn. A perfect concoction for dancing among stringed lights.

  One bar led to another until they had run out of corners to drink in. All that was left was to take her by the hand and walk her to the dock out on the pier so they could truly play among the sparkles in the wake. A considerable distance from the action now, the songs played were muffled and indistinguishable against the riotous cacophony. So he stepped in with two right feet and a few favorites of his own. Her ear provided the ideal soundstage and her heart the most captive audience. Brisk spring breeze blew beneath a blue moon waiting to be flown to. He sang every song he could think of, even those that, for him at least, didn’t quite fit. Even a blossom falling in a small café sounded well when sang with the proper intent. Besides, she was half listening and whole drunk. Singing turned to kissing and back again. The pattern continued until their feet, his still hovering safely above the ground, were too worn to go on. He had just finished listing sentimental reasons when they turned to walk back to their temporary residence. Moonlight becam
e her as they retraced their steps, far less gracefully than they’d made them. Their day ahead would be crammed beginning to end with nonstop sights and thrills, but at least for now they were cradled in the dwindling spirit of some enchanted eve. She stopped him at one point, not blocks from their destination to hug him. She held tight, burying her face into his dress shirt, tie shoved recklessly aside. Had he stopped a couple Dark and Stormy’s short, he may have noticed the small wet spots on his shirt. But alas. The moment was credited to impulsive drunkenness and they were twirling each other once more not a moment later.

  Before they could reach the front, she stopped. Gazing up at him with glistening eyes, she told him she loved him. And he was nearly fooled. But he knew Tito, Jim and Jack do more talking than anyone in any given bar on any given night and this was simply drunken words arbitrarily aligning. “Ok hunny,” was all he offered in response and she forgot so quickly she didn’t have time to be offended by lack of reciprocity. The doorman thought nothing of it, given the hour, when they both bowed to him on their way through sliding doors. He even tipped his hat to these fanciful sprites and sent them on their very, merry way. They would go to two wrong floors before coming back down to the lobby, asking for directions, receiving a much-needed push. Then with a friendly concierge lighting the correct elevator button, headed to bed.

  Ma Nishtana

  The gleam was right in his eyes. Her bedroom faced a courtyard akin to the one in Rear Window. He may not have witnessed a murder as he woke, but he sure looked like one. He cringed as he moved out of the sunbeam’s beaten path. It was glaring off of a large glass patio door striking a bull’s eye between his. A few blinks later and a deep breath or two and he remembered his place. Back in town on what had to be his dozenth trip up. Her hair had somehow managed to maintain its volume in spite of their nocturnal escapades and it was the first thing he noticed. Next was the long sleeve, V-neck, sequin mini dress, split down both sides and tossed carelessly over her repurposed antique side chair with Victorian parlor game upholstery, which made him the envy of every single guy in the clubs.

  A wicked smirk tore across his right cheek. A light blue, silk sheet hugged the curve of her hip as she lay perfectly still facing the opposite way. White wine and vanilla imbibed him and put the kibitz on any chance of a hangover. He felt too good to be hungover. Maybe it was she. Maybe he was still a little drunk. Lips recoiled beneath his teeth when she moved ever so slightly, enough to reveal the top of her butt. He breathed again, eyes closed. And lay a hand softly on her hip. With a touch like a paralytic, she would stir no more.

  The antique clock ticked steadily upon the dresser near the door. Its sound only carried through the one bed, one bath in the dead of night and wake of morn. Otherwise it was stifled by a city on the go. The sound was as soft and even as a mother’s voice. Apparently it was equally as commanding as he was soon back to sleep. An hour or two more he slept. He failed to note the time as the clock lulled. A thoughtless dream played out in vague detail and ended in completely wonderful absurdity. Why would he be driving a school bus while simultaneously part of a class trip? And why would he have to jump off mid trip to descend into the sewers to fight alongside the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Nuts to anyone who believed that dreams bore the weight of meaning. They were always just a bunch of crazy stuff that happened. No deeper meaning. No purpose. No psyche. All hogwash. And besides, if there were ever a time to play around in the recesses of his subconscious, it was now.

  In spite of his best efforts, Jedi style telekinesis eluded him and he was left to the mercy of his extensive wingspan to retrieve the remote control. More restless than bored, he figured a morning talk show would keep him underwhelmed enough not to wake her. Shifting ever so slightly with his right arm trapped beneath her neck, his left stretched for dear life. Using friction created between button and finger, he managed to slide it close enough to grab. Now came the really tricky part. They had been watching late night syndicated sitcom lineups and the volume was still at 14. To succeed, he’d have to be able to turn the TV on, then mute it fast enough so no sound could escape. Dexterity was key as he placed the remote on the comforter hovering his index finger over the power button while simultaneously bending back his pinky finger to hover over the mute button. Quick clicking proved a riveting success and he was a little too proud of himself for it. His familiarity with local New York television was limited and he inevitably settled on Good Morning America. Someone was onstage outside the studio, singing to a huge crowd. He didn’t recognize her. And of course he couldn’t hear her. Not being able to figure out who she was would drive him nuts. The new anchor mouthed her name when they cut back into the studio, but his lip reading skills failed him. He repeated the movement over and over but nothing was coming to him. T something. Tracy? Trish? Tr… he had nothing. Definitely didn’t catch the last name. Now he was bored. Also a little frustrated. The TV went off. The coffee maker was triggered and the antique clock chimed. She’d be up in a minute anyway.

  L’Chaim

  Sails cast, they pulled out of port at dusk with a route charted in the form of a giant circle. His inhalation of sweet sea air was interrupted for but a moment as a nearby smoker puffed his last before callously tossing his cigarette butt to the fish. The motor puttered gently, pushing them further and further from the restaurant wake free. It only had to take them so far before the captain could kill it and let the ocean gusts do their job.

  Their meal had been sublime. Coconut shrimp and seared scallops. Fruit relish. Vegetable medley. Key lime pie and coffee. The only thing that could top it off was a sunset cruise on the S.S. Pleiades, free with dinner. And here they were.

  The inlet split in two as they passed. The cocktail bar near the center of the deck provided libations to toast a safe voyage. More apt drinks they could not have chosen, she clanked her Sex On The Beach against his Pain In De Ass and they cheersed to better days. Though to his current recollection no such thing existed.

  In conjunction with the sea, she cast a mighty spell. Bewitched and beguiled, he absorbed her words like a sponge on the ocean floor. She was tall, flirty, and irresistible. Their eyes remained locked as they sunk round for round. Swell and swill made staying grounded a challenge, but he managed.

  A seagull yelled to them, begging their pardon for the interruption before taking his leave and disappearing in the opposite direction. It seems the beckon of spilled boardwalk fries was too much for his little heart to ignore. Once gone, splash and old time music were all that could be heard. Block after city block, condo building after condo building passed as what possibilities the future could hold were discussed. No mention of children or wedding bells were made as they each offered the other vocational options to further careers. He longed desperately to suggest his indifference in the matter so long as she stood by his side, but something told him it would spoil the moment. Intimacy through apathy was the name of the game. And he was going head to head with the reigning champ.

  Like it was tripped, night was falling fast. Those condo buildings lit up one by one, with the individual lights twinkling on in nonsequential order. They could only resist each other for so long. The atmosphere was too romantic and they were too attractive. Far from tranquil sea, it was getting choppy and they made a game out of going limp when the boat would ride the growing swells. Closer and closer they were drawn until it was awkward not to kiss. Maybe it wasn’t awkward for them, but it certainly became so for anyone near them and before long they had the entire stern to themselves. It was Baltimore all over again. He didn’t need to sing this time; there was a speaker right behind them playing everything they could want to hear. Didn’t stop him. The accompaniment merely ensured his lips were free when needed. A strong dip into a large swell made for a close call and the recoil splashed them something fierce. Soaked hat to socks, not a step was missed and they danced, dripping and shivering, ‘til they met port once more. By the time they walked back onto pave
ment they had almost completely dried off. He wanted ice cream. It was the only thing he wanted since he got there. Well. It was one of two things he wanted since he got there. He managed to convince her to go, though she feared the damaging effects it would have on her waistline. They walked toward a boardwalk whose stores were few and far between, boards warped and worn. An ice cream parlor sat blocks away nestled between a hot dog stand and a t-shirt store that went out of business two seasons prior and her attention span would hinder any progress in reaching it. A wide-brimmed beach hat caught her eye in one of the few remaining stores, which of course led to all other hats and footwear requiring inspection. Their buzz was wearing thin and soon the need to refuel outweighed the need to satisfy a sweet tooth. Onward they would go in the opposite direction towards the nearest bar and the ice cream parlor would have two fewer patrons in an already struggling business. Back to it, shooting cheap liquor joined PDAs as causes of extreme nausea and the two would close the place down closer than ever. Seems he’d get his sugar fix after all as they headed back to the hotel for the other thing for which he had come to town.

  The Lost Weekend

  Still no word. He was certain this time he hadn’t mixed up the dates. They had plans. That was beyond question. What really bugged him was never cancellations. He knew well she was busy, scattered and distant. He was busy too. Common courtesy lost in that excuse, however, was another matter entirely. At least let him know.

  Dragging her to the City Of Brotherly Love was always more difficult than it needed to be. A major city like any other. One of a kind art museum. World class dining. Celebrated orchestra. Sports fans who were… passionate for teams who on occasion figured out a way to win. And quid pro quo. If it meant something to him, by all rights it should mean something to her. But still no word.