Sunday, at the Front Desk, I was asking my Fiber Art questions when Coral answered one with, "It's my birthday next week, so I want to . . ."
No, Coral's next art project didn't interest me--but her birthday sure did. Let's see, where in the month were we? What sign is she?
Coral shoved a book in my face. "This is what inspired it; this novel written way back in the '80's. My dad gave it to me. My dad likes fishing. He thinks I like fishing. But it's not about fishing. Have you read it?"
No, I hadn't read The River Why. And, no, I didn't have the heart to tell the fisherman's daughter the only novels I'd read since the '80's were written prior to the '20's.
"Well, you should read it, Anton." She handed me the book. "I think you'd find it interesting."
I didn't have the heart to tell the fisherman's daughter the only thing I found interesting was the fisherman's daughter. But I gave the novel's jacket my literary eye anyway.
The imagery on the cover hit me square in my youth. Yes, I too had made the mistake of standing up in a canoe. "I don't know, Coral." I handed her the book. "I liked fishing as a kid, but then, I don't know, I just kind of fell out of it."
"Anton! I just said, it's not about fishing. You--you're just like my dad; he doesn't listen either."
I didn't say anything.
"You men, why can't you listen?"
In my case the answer was: Ears don't work when eyes are working to catch a peak of the tongue the woman is working. Of course, the answer I gave was: "Coral, there's listening and then there's practicing the lively art of conversation. I was attempting the latter."
Coral's eyes darkened. "I don't like fishing either. But I can't tell my dad that. You don't know what it's like being the kid of a dad who has no sons. Things get . . . Take the Oregon Trail. My dad thinks I love The Oregon Trail. True, I read a lot about it as a kid. But only because I'd wanted to run away."
Perhaps this explained Coral's heavy nature. "My, what a heavy childhood you must have had."
"It wasn't heavy at all--nothing traumatic, anyway. It's just that . . . Anton, do you have kids?"
I wanted to say, 'Why don't you listen; I've already told you I don't have kids.' Instead I said, "Kids? Hell, I don't even have a girlfriend, ha, ha."
"Well, if you ever have a daughter, do her a favor: don't try to make a son out of her."
"OK. But, see, I'm not here on earth to make kids. I'm here to make bigger stuff."
Coral didn't say anything.
Eyeing Coral dog-earing The River Why, a flash of intuition hit me. I leaned heavily on the Desk. "I'm going to get heavy on you here, Coral." I paused for effect. "There's another reason why you liked reading about The Oregon Trail." I paused for more effect. "In a past life you came over on The Oregon Trail."
Coral's eyes and mouth opened as she came out from behind the Desk. She didn't say anything, just stood in front of me, looking up into my eyes. Again, I couldn't read her eyes--couldn't get past the beauty.
Not knowing if she thought past lives were bullshit or not, I said, "Hey, I want to show you some Fiber Art over here I like." I stepped over to the bulletin board, pointed to a postcard of a wire woman wearing see-through fabric.
"I like that too," Coral said. "But this one's kind of gross." She pointed to a photograph of a woman getting clothed in raw beef steaks. "But I like this one." She pointed to a postcard of a reclining dog. "But it makes me sad. Reminds me of my dog back in Anchorage. I sure miss old Soot."
Listening to Coral going on about old Soot was a real tester. Yes, I bet old Soot was the best dog ever--everyones dog was. No, that's what tested me; people making confrontational statements like that. Hell, for all Coral knew, I had a dog myself. Wouldn't that make my dog the best dog ever?
"Anton, do you have a dog?"
"No. But every girlfriend I ever had had a dog, and every dog they ever had was the best dog ever, so I have an intimate understanding of the untoward love a dog gets over there on the warm end of a sofa."
Coral tried to say something here, but I wasn't done. "You're wrong," I interrupted. "I'll tell you what love of a dog is: It's Leave-it-to-Beaver love."
Young Coral, of course, didn't understand.
"Sorry, Coral, we elders keep forgetting the TV that shaped us don't mean nothing to you twenty-somethings. What I'm trying to say is--"
"I'm not--"
"Hey," I interrupted, "don't interrupt your elders. What I'm trying to say is this: Love of a dog is taking the easy road. The mature thing to do is to take the difficult road, the road that involves the love of a human. Sure, that road looks impossible. Sure it's full up with potholes, washouts, say nothing of those sheer cliffs with no guard rails you're sure to take a nose dive off of. So you hit rock bottom. So there you sit, cursing the fall for not killing you. But do you put your tail between your legs, go out and get a dog to lose yourself in? No, you pick yourself up, climb up that sheer cliff, hitch your love to a fellow human again. Why? Because love of a . . . because impossible love is the only love in town."
Coral, threw me the look that said, "You are sick." Then, out of the blue, started talking Christmas.
And here's your impossible love in a nutshell: A guy bucks up, spills his guts, and how does his girl respond? She takes to talking Christmas.
Christmas reminded me of peace, of course, so I took to meeting my impossible love halfway. "Boy, Coral, you must have a tight family if going home for Christmas is all you look forward to."
"Tight? I don't don't know; my family's my family. No, I look forward to going home for Christmas because walking Soot in the snow and ice are my best memories ever."
"They say a man's best friend is a dog. Must be a girl's too."
"Old Soot is my best friend. Well, best male friend--the only male I've ever known who really listens."
A good way to get a girl off her old Soot is to serve up a soot substitute.
"Say," I said, turning my back on impossible love, "this student show over here sure is something." No, I hadn't checked out the show yet, but I walked up to the nearest photograph as if I had. "Ya, this photo here is the one I keep coming back to. I guess because it speaks to me. Ya, speaks to me and then some."
"Interesting," Coral said, joining me. "How does it speak to you?"
"Well, it . . . Hard to put into words, really. Here, let me think."
"I ask, because seeing me in this photo pisses me off."
"You?"
"This is Trent's work." Coral pointed to the tag below the work. "A photograph he took of me last summer in Arizona."
I wouldn't call it shock, exactly. And, as for coincidence--there was no such word in The Old Soul Book. But I was confused; why did this photo piss Coral off? I could only hope it had to do with her boyfriend.
No, Coral's next art project didn't interest me--but her birthday sure did. Let's see, where in the month were we? What sign is she?
Coral shoved a book in my face. "This is what inspired it; this novel written way back in the '80's. My dad gave it to me. My dad likes fishing. He thinks I like fishing. But it's not about fishing. Have you read it?"
No, I hadn't read The River Why. And, no, I didn't have the heart to tell the fisherman's daughter the only novels I'd read since the '80's were written prior to the '20's.
"Well, you should read it, Anton." She handed me the book. "I think you'd find it interesting."
I didn't have the heart to tell the fisherman's daughter the only thing I found interesting was the fisherman's daughter. But I gave the novel's jacket my literary eye anyway.
The imagery on the cover hit me square in my youth. Yes, I too had made the mistake of standing up in a canoe. "I don't know, Coral." I handed her the book. "I liked fishing as a kid, but then, I don't know, I just kind of fell out of it."
I didn't say anything.
"You men, why can't you listen?"
In my case the answer was: Ears don't work when eyes are working to catch a peak of the tongue the woman is working. Of course, the answer I gave was: "Coral, there's listening and then there's practicing the lively art of conversation. I was attempting the latter."
Coral's eyes darkened. "I don't like fishing either. But I can't tell my dad that. You don't know what it's like being the kid of a dad who has no sons. Things get . . . Take the Oregon Trail. My dad thinks I love The Oregon Trail. True, I read a lot about it as a kid. But only because I'd wanted to run away."
Perhaps this explained Coral's heavy nature. "My, what a heavy childhood you must have had."
"It wasn't heavy at all--nothing traumatic, anyway. It's just that . . . Anton, do you have kids?"
I wanted to say, 'Why don't you listen; I've already told you I don't have kids.' Instead I said, "Kids? Hell, I don't even have a girlfriend, ha, ha."
"Well, if you ever have a daughter, do her a favor: don't try to make a son out of her."
"OK. But, see, I'm not here on earth to make kids. I'm here to make bigger stuff."
Coral didn't say anything.
Eyeing Coral dog-earing The River Why, a flash of intuition hit me. I leaned heavily on the Desk. "I'm going to get heavy on you here, Coral." I paused for effect. "There's another reason why you liked reading about The Oregon Trail." I paused for more effect. "In a past life you came over on The Oregon Trail."
Coral's eyes and mouth opened as she came out from behind the Desk. She didn't say anything, just stood in front of me, looking up into my eyes. Again, I couldn't read her eyes--couldn't get past the beauty.
Not knowing if she thought past lives were bullshit or not, I said, "Hey, I want to show you some Fiber Art over here I like." I stepped over to the bulletin board, pointed to a postcard of a wire woman wearing see-through fabric.
"I like that too," Coral said. "But this one's kind of gross." She pointed to a photograph of a woman getting clothed in raw beef steaks. "But I like this one." She pointed to a postcard of a reclining dog. "But it makes me sad. Reminds me of my dog back in Anchorage. I sure miss old Soot."
Listening to Coral going on about old Soot was a real tester. Yes, I bet old Soot was the best dog ever--everyones dog was. No, that's what tested me; people making confrontational statements like that. Hell, for all Coral knew, I had a dog myself. Wouldn't that make my dog the best dog ever?
"Anton, do you have a dog?"
"No. But every girlfriend I ever had had a dog, and every dog they ever had was the best dog ever, so I have an intimate understanding of the untoward love a dog gets over there on the warm end of a sofa."
Coral tried to say something here, but I wasn't done. "You're wrong," I interrupted. "I'll tell you what love of a dog is: It's Leave-it-to-Beaver love."
Young Coral, of course, didn't understand.
"Sorry, Coral, we elders keep forgetting the TV that shaped us don't mean nothing to you twenty-somethings. What I'm trying to say is--"
"I'm not--"
"Hey," I interrupted, "don't interrupt your elders. What I'm trying to say is this: Love of a dog is taking the easy road. The mature thing to do is to take the difficult road, the road that involves the love of a human. Sure, that road looks impossible. Sure it's full up with potholes, washouts, say nothing of those sheer cliffs with no guard rails you're sure to take a nose dive off of. So you hit rock bottom. So there you sit, cursing the fall for not killing you. But do you put your tail between your legs, go out and get a dog to lose yourself in? No, you pick yourself up, climb up that sheer cliff, hitch your love to a fellow human again. Why? Because love of a . . . because impossible love is the only love in town."
Coral, threw me the look that said, "You are sick." Then, out of the blue, started talking Christmas.
And here's your impossible love in a nutshell: A guy bucks up, spills his guts, and how does his girl respond? She takes to talking Christmas.
Christmas reminded me of peace, of course, so I took to meeting my impossible love halfway. "Boy, Coral, you must have a tight family if going home for Christmas is all you look forward to."
"Tight? I don't don't know; my family's my family. No, I look forward to going home for Christmas because walking Soot in the snow and ice are my best memories ever."
"They say a man's best friend is a dog. Must be a girl's too."
"Old Soot is my best friend. Well, best male friend--the only male I've ever known who really listens."
A good way to get a girl off her old Soot is to serve up a soot substitute.
"Say," I said, turning my back on impossible love, "this student show over here sure is something." No, I hadn't checked out the show yet, but I walked up to the nearest photograph as if I had. "Ya, this photo here is the one I keep coming back to. I guess because it speaks to me. Ya, speaks to me and then some."
"Interesting," Coral said, joining me. "How does it speak to you?"
"Well, it . . . Hard to put into words, really. Here, let me think."
"I ask, because seeing me in this photo pisses me off."
"You?"
"This is Trent's work." Coral pointed to the tag below the work. "A photograph he took of me last summer in Arizona."
I wouldn't call it shock, exactly. And, as for coincidence--there was no such word in The Old Soul Book. But I was confused; why did this photo piss Coral off? I could only hope it had to do with her boyfriend.
"Huh," I said, making as if I could actually see the tiny figure without my reading glasses. "I must have looked at this woman a hundred times and never saw you in her."
Coral didn't say anything, just stood beside me, fuming.
I could make out the rocks. "Must have been the rocks. Ya, I'm so used to seeing you in my neck of Eden--up against the green--you don't look like yourself up against the rocks." OK, time to work my way around to the boyfriend she's pissed off at. "Huh, it just came to me; why this photo speaks to me. It captures the spirit of nature. Ya, what you got here is nature girl springing out of the temple that is nature. Boy, who knew that skinny boyfriend of yours could take a picture as heavy as all this."
Coral didn't say anything, just stood beside me, fuming.
I could make out the rocks. "Must have been the rocks. Ya, I'm so used to seeing you in my neck of Eden--up against the green--you don't look like yourself up against the rocks." OK, time to work my way around to the boyfriend she's pissed off at. "Huh, it just came to me; why this photo speaks to me. It captures the spirit of nature. Ya, what you got here is nature girl springing out of the temple that is nature. Boy, who knew that skinny boyfriend of yours could take a picture as heavy as all this."
"I'm still mad at him," Coral said. "The entire hike that day he was so controlling. 'I'm into Nature Photography,' he kept saying. 'Nature Photography is about nature, not domesticated dogs.' Can you believe the jerk? Anyway, now we have no pictures of old Soot in the Chiricahua's."
****
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