Because a small town requires gentility, lest those in close quarters step on each other’s toes. Marylin applied the gentle touch to a chance acquaintance as she did to all of this unique place, so that she and it could achieve potential. She went home feeling twitchy and unpacked her gongs then hung them outside her window. They were magic gongs that clanged in the night with a refreshing reminder of life. She got complaints, small ones at first. Doorbells, one man said, doorbells all night long. Interference with the church, a woman feared. A chorus rose in the neighborhood; yes, doorbells, and the church. Marylin explained that her gongs were wind chimes, not doorbells. She explained the magic: Alonzo Brookner, author of Songs the Wind Can Sing to You if Only You Will Hear, designer and chief creative director in the manufacture of the chimes, gave them to her, Marylin Sweeny, as a gift, in person, making them a special treasure of her global travels. Besides that, the Zen temples have wind chimes; “I mean, you know about Zen. Don’t you?” Nobody said nothing, so she explained Zen too: “They’re organic, for chrissake.”
“What is organic?” asked the man who couldn’t sleep with doorbells.
“It’s like … from the planet,” Marylin said.
“You mean like dirt?”
“No, no. Organic.” She flopped her hands in exasperation and took the goddamn gongs down. Third world charm is one thing, but this was stupid. The town folk watched her little fit pass, watched her calm down and find creative tolerance yet again. Their oblivion to the great wide world was hers to cure no less than the burden of accuracy was on the very large men who drive leather balls through steel hoops or across chalked lines. She needed these people as missionaries needed the heathen and the heathen needed the mission and Marylin.
It was another insight, organic and planetary if not churchly. It framed her challenge with consequence greater than points on a Scoreboard. Her smile interfaced with conflict in nature. She wondered who saw it thusly—the smile, the interface, the consequence—and murmured, “Thank you. Thank you all.” The crowd murmured too, dispersing. She felt like a lone metal pipe with no kin to clang. She went inside to write that thought down for sharing with someone in the near future. Elizabeth Staley might be a good one, and you never know what might trigger germination.
The next day over notes at her coffee spot for Mondays, she was miffed again when Tony Drury asked how things were shaping up. He seemed harmless enough, and a woman is responsible for her own actions. So let it go and let it be, bygones be gone. Yet he insisted on a particular vibration that a sensitive woman takes offense to, coming on, as it were, killing time while his dungareed girlfriend was out bronco busting. Well, you couldn’t beat hormones for honesty, but the way of the world was changing, and though a person like Marylin Sweeny liked to keep an open mind, she didn’t need her byways strewn with litter. This man was a litterbug. Rhonda called him a pooch, which was less kind than Marylin’s view and certainly funnier. Didn’t he know it showed?
Nevermind; every challenge is an opportunity. Marylin Sweeny knew what he craved and chose tolerance, even if shamelessness was his strong suit. She’d taken the bait one afternoon in what he called “a pleasant distraction.” It started out pleasant enough, with lunch at La Brigòn with Tomàs and Professor Kathryn. They only met, Tony and Marylin, and walked back together because it was the same direction.
“I’d love to see your place,” he said.
“Why not?” She honestly asked it of herself and the town at large, a town evolved on feeling and knowing the personal print of its people. Yet who knew a man of such innocent expression would seek the hinterland of places? A woman with creative decor likes showing it to those who care. She said yes to another glass, a short one, and read him like a book when he stared and asked what she would look like without these pins, just here, here and here, the ones staying her hair so formally.
His advances were uninvited but pleasant, his arousal accompanied by soft manners. He helped her off with her sweater when she flapped the front of it to cool off. She knew he wanted to see her carriage and stature and frankly didn’t mind the opportunity to see what he would see. Not that it matters in an age like this one and especially in a time and place like this one. What difference can a specific number make, attached to a woman’s years? None, not with dynamic potential in the sensibilities of an entire world. And frankly, the carriage and stature of a woman like Marylin Sweeny in a satin blouse and lovely lace brassiere could scoff at gross chronology. Fifty shmifty; it plain didn’t matter, much less count for currency. But some of the girls can fudge and some cannot, and Marylin Sweeny knew good and well she could sustain her forties as long as she damn well wanted to or at least to sixty-one or so, when she would evolve so far past the gross physical that it really wouldn’t matter.
“This has been a lovely day,” was hardly a sexual encouragement. They drank the wine.
He said she looked like a woman who pursued sexlessness.
“What?”
“The glasses, the pins, the sweater. You cover up.” She turned to set him straight but too late. The masher stepped in, pressing his nodule delicately to the realm of promise.
“You are a nice man. But I …”
“You’re nice too,” he said. Marylin Sweeny had rarely enjoyed kissing, so many people have coated tongues and iffy breath and strange flakes on the edges of their lips. This man, Tony, was better than most but gave off a false sweetness as if physical presentation should not be a hurdle but a welcome, and at his age, which was at least as hard to tell as her own. At least he had the good taste to keep his tongue in his own head. When she thinks about the diseases ravaging the world these days, and not just the media epidemics but the billions of new and insidious microscopies, she shudders; add that to tongue rubbing and disgust is a short order.
Whether he sensed her view of saliva exchange or shared it, he surprised her with his gentle playfulness, merely touching her where a gentleman would not, unless he was a gentlemen in amorous pursuit. An adult female of any species enjoys sexual control. She simply saw no harm in lying down or allowing him inside her blouse, if for nothing else but to see if he would share her appreciation of her breasts, which are lovely as ever, still good to hold, still bountiful and a wonderful thing to share. Next thing you know, the wine, the lazy afternoon, the half-decent kiss, the erogenous stimulation, and she, Marylin Sweeny, was great gobs smarter. Maybe she knew it all along and only fooled herself, but in faith, she welcomed herself inside as well.
Who knew? It could have been good.
But it wasn’t good. Worse yet, it was dangerous. What can you think when a man turns away and fiddles with his ding dong prior to genital contact? Did he not sheath himself? Once engaged she knew it was a ruse, but what could she say in the throes of passion? Whoa, buddy? He conceded later that it was just his luck, to be out of rubbers with a rare bird like Marylin on line. But he did weigh the odds. How likely is it for a woman so prim to carry a common disease much less an exotic one? Besides, who could predict the pay out?
In twenty minutes he had to leave. She asked why the rush. He said he had a date. She asked if a gentleman should be lying with a lady if another lady waited. He said he wasn’t tight with his date because it had only been a few days and might not last, but he was giving it a chance.
“Giving it a chance? What do you call this? Insurance?”
His look of serious consideration showed that he accepted her point. Then he looked foolish and uncertain. “No. I’d call it … Um …”
“Get out,” she said.
“I enjoyed meeting you,” he consoled.
She called him later and told him he shouldn’t have done that.
“Done what?”
“You got laid.”
“What did you get?” he asked.
“You got laid. You subjected me to unprotected sex.”
He said, “You’re right, it was a mistake. Mistakes happen.” She hung up. She avoided him aggressively. He regretted her displa
y. She seemed so open, then as quickly hostile. The little town could fool you.
She approached in a few days when Tony and Heidi sat at the bar. She stared. Heidi looked at her and then at Tony, who said, “Marylin and I had sexual intercourse after a couple bottles of wine one afternoon. She’s very upset with me.” He kept his eyes down. Heidi looked at Marylin and shrugged.
“Unprotected sexual intercourse,” Marylin said, walking away.
“It was a mistake,” he said.
Heidi asked, “Think you can correct it?” He didn’t answer. She asked why he was such a fool. He said it was before they met. She told him foolish boys who get all muddy usually blame it on the mud.
Marylin was still indignant on the Monday morning Tony Drury wanted to know what was up, but she nodded in the general affirmative; she was up; life was up, the whole wide world but you was up. Because breaches in the social edifice are unsightly and inconvenient. Just as the local masons do, she gooped a little stuff on the crack, shmushed it in, feathered it nicely and presto, restoration of sorts.
He sat beside her because that’s the kind of town it is, in which society functions like another public utility that sometimes needs maintenance. He sat because her special glare said they both knew what was up, said that he could go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, and I mean never, ever, never, not ever. He said their afternoon together was an experiment, and that was wrong. “You can’t tamper with someone’s heart.” He said he was sorry.
“You certainly are,” she said, reviewing her notes and her new tickets, pleased that he helped with repair work.
“New tickets,” he said. “They’re perfect.”
“Aren’t they?” She pulled her blouse closed.
“At least.” He said, resentful yet tolerant. He held a ticket up. “You have little film strips and castanets and movie stars. Some burros and sombreros. What, no tamales?” He laughed to assure her he was joking. She took it back. “Marylin. Can I buy three? Please.”
She blushed, only minutes before she wondered when her first ticket would sell, and if. “Thank you.” It was hardly a peace summit, but the white flag flew, and both sides understood the benefits of peace. He read: “The FIRST ANNUAL FILM FESTIVAL of The HIGH PLATEAU.” He stated her dream, voiced her vision. “How much is it? Marylin, you forgot the price. And the time and date.”
What? Forgot what? She scanned the new tickets and stewed. “It’s like you,” she said, “pointing out the negative.” Because this had nothing to do with the peace. This was soft aspersion, a casting of stones. This was public ill will to an innocent for no earthly reason than to keep denominators common. “You know, sometimes I’ve had enough of that sort of thing. I just want people to see movies. Is that okay with you?” No, he could not buy three or one or five, because she stood up and stormed out to get the goddamn tickets reprinted.
He gathered the few loose fliers, receipts, chits, notes, doodles, clips, ribbons and lint balls she overlooked in her huff, and he ordered up. These things would serve as another peace offering, once she calmed down. He would present them with his mouth shut, put his hands together in supplication, bow like a monk and back off. What a wacko. But she was looking good. He looked around. He drank. What in the world would a man have today if he could choose anything?
Hurrying out of Monday’s coffee stop as if Tuesday might as well begin for all the good Monday was turning out to be, Marylin continued her tour de force in one act. It was a grandly produced morality play about women and identity, making progress in Mexico. She knew about movies and the business, or knew enough at any rate. Born and raised in Pasadena, she hitched to Hollywood young enough to learn how to make a script work. You have to see the big picture. You have to believe. You have to lean into it.
With her tickets fixed, she spent the balance of her savings—now called capital—on advertising in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Houston and Dallas. Those people can afford travel and love movies and may be receptive to a wonderful vacation opportunity. They could be waiting en masse just below the surface like the seven tenths of an iceberg that wants to plop up any minute. Or is it eight tenths; yes, I think it is; seven tenths is how much water covers the earth’s surface; well, that too. Because all you need, really, is a few of those stately, poised, exquisitely dressed people down for the dining, the bargains, color, warmth and society of the place before you get the rest of Texas and California, because who wouldn’t love this stuff? If only they knew, and why shouldn’t a film festival tell them? “Wha, thaink you, Ah believe Ah will.” She could practically hear their gratitude.
Marylin contemplated gratitude, running errands and seeking minor fulfillment until early evening, when she sat on a bench in the jardin. The birds chattering madly overhead electrified the air and infused all thought with insane possibility—with psychedelic flavoring perhaps. Because magic was in the air, perhaps for aeons, awaiting energetic synapse to whorl the vortex any time, like now. Marylin didn’t think magic extraordinary but rather as a daily force of nature, accessible to all who properly apply.
The ads, Sunday extravaganzas of film-classic stills in montage, gave the prices, dates, times and a toll-free phone number to Mexico at the bottom. They ran four grand each. The phone line was free—well, free of capitalization. Calls were billed collect, as they came in, which, after all, would be concurrent with interest and moolah. Wouldn’t it? Marylin wanted a personal slogan to capture her daring yet avoid sexual innuendo, nothing like Never up, never in, and certainly no reference to balls and blue chips. She simply needed reaffirmation in times of doubt. Something maybe with butterflies or butterfly wings or the need to flutter for flight; something like that. She wrote a few ideas on her notepad. The screech thickened with auspicious potential.
She got thirty-two calls in a week and was very excited. Then the calls stopped.
She blew her wad and tasted failure, not officially but personally, stepping back and seeing that her vision was sullied as a finger-painting, naïve, marginally foolish. Who was she kidding, anyway? You can’t even get to the airport from downtown in less than an hour plus two more hours for security and delays plus five or seven hours flying time and bus time. And for what? To see a movie in Mexico for a few hun? She moped and mumbled, “No. You wouldn’t. But, I could … No. I couldn’t … I could … Well …”
“It happens,” said Tomàs offering vino rojo and sympathy in a fell swoop, drawn to this pool of thought apparently deep and murky as his own. He sat beside her, stared ahead, sipped his drink and said, “Let it go.”
“Let it go, he says,” she said, head hanging as if by a noose. She accepted his offer by drinking half of it, staring at the other half in glum resignation. A woman like Marylin Sweeny could appreciate a man like Tomàs for his unobtrusive manner, his attentive awareness and soft demeanor. If only he could apply these skills while keeping his mouth shut; but then his febrile brain would have no ventilator. Was that nice? No it wasn’t, not a bit nicer than the whole wide world banging a good woman on the head with its painful reality. And at her age.
They drank in peace in the early afternoon while most of the town slept. Tomàs would recount their exchange later, when it would become prima facie. He sensed her gratitude for solace with silence. She stared at her wine, looked up at him and back to the wine. She raised her palms imploringly. “I lose my money. He says let it go.”
“What else can you do?”
“What else can I do?” She shifted in her seat and stared at him, her face reiterating life’s frequent question.
“It’s not over,” he said.
“It’s not over, he says.”
“It’s a setback, first step of the greatest drives.”
“It’s not over. Only a setback. Please, Tomàs, not now.”
“No, I mean … Who … Who likes films the most?” Tomàs cocked his head and ran a pinkie over an eyebrow—a mannerism for years of a gentle man given to deliberate movement. Tom�
�s meant to suggest a smaller scale, he would later attest. He meant to focus on the hometown crowd with possible test marketing on a regional level, expanding to Mexico City if the indicators warranted. That was all.
But she grabbed a straw on the mud bank and pulled. It held for moment, which was all she needed to rise from the muck and once again rise to the power incoming—“Yes!” She lunged at the reed-thin man beside her. “Oh yes, yes …” She hugged him. He absorbed it, until she squealed, “The gays!”
“What?”
“They love the cinema. They live the cinematic.”
The amazing simple sense of it seemed profound and obvious as blue in the sky, green in the trees. It was there all along awaiting alignment, awaiting Tomàs, her catalyst, who clearly saw human need beyond his own as well as hers. She didn’t think he was gay, not that it mattered, except that most men lean toward masculine certitude. Well, a woman loves a man with a mind so open it accommodates the needs of the gay community, needs that a woman of vision could fill, in part. From setback came the surge.
From within the warmth of her grateful hug, Tomàs chirped, “That’s not what I meant. I mean, I’m not sure about the gays. And film, you know.”
She held him by the shoulders. “Silly boy. Not sure? The gays? And film? You have seen the light.” Tomàs could not help but ponder eventualities. Marylin was sanguine; synchronicity lived, plain as the nose on her face. Tomàs wondered if she was gay and supposed it possible, because she chummed only with women, and if looks could kill, Tony Drury would be last week’s chorizo.
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