Well, I'm sure he would have-
-if he had gotten the letter.
See, I had some important things to tell Mr. Clinton back in '94 or '95 (I'm not sure - I just know it has to be some time between the 29-cent stamp and my handwriting). I snuck a stamp out of someone's purse, put it on my envelope with my very important letter, went down the hill to the mailbox, stuck it in, and raised the flag. Thirteen or fourteen years later, my grandmother finds it while cleaning the house.
This was my very important message:
It's fascinating to me now to look back and see how my little mind grasped the world. I knew the president had money, and I knew, if he really wanted to and I could show him that we weren't completely without (the penny taped to the page), he could help us out, even a little.
Bill Clinton was a bad word in my house, and I never really understood why. I had an inkling it was because he was a Democrat (though Arkansas has elected all of seven Republican governors in its history, and four were during Reconstruction). The hatred of Bill mostly came from my grandfather, who could hold grudges for very small things. Maybe Bill made one too many jokes about watermelons, or perhaps he gave the cold shoulder to one of our cousins ten times removed. For the life of me, I don't know. But it was a cornerstone in the politics of our house that, whatever you did, you didn't say, "Well, I like Bill."
I believe I was in the second grade when we held mock elections for the next president. In a combination of peer pressure and rebellious determination, I voted for Bill Clinton. I remember my face growing hot and my heart racing as I marked his name. When I went home, I told my family that I had voted for Bob Dole. Lies. All lies. Even though I had enjoyed voting for Bill, I knew I couldn't hide my dark secret forever.
One day I went up to my grandfather, my head hung low. Papa asked me what was the matter, and I finally blurted it out.
"Papa, I didn't vote for Bob Dole!"
"Why, who'd you vote for?"
"Bill Clinton! I'm sorry!"
And I remember the look on Papa's face as he sighed so deeply that his chest rose and nearly touched his chin.
"It's alright, Honey. That's what we died for."
I felt my heart sink really low, but he patted his lap, and I dutifully crawled up and laid my head on his shoulder.
I don't know why my grandfather, war veteran and farmer, hated politicians so vehemently. But that day, I realized that he had put all of that aside for me, at least for a little while.
Looking back, I'm sure beyond a doubt that my grandfather took the letter out of the mailbox. I really don't know why, but I don't think it matters anymore. It's now an artifact and a conduit that makes the memories easier to recall. I'm almost positive that's not what he had in mind when he took out of the mailbox (and read it, no less). Whatever reason he had, I'm glad he did so.
Besides, it's not like Bill would have come down for supper anyway.
Posted by
Unknown
12:22 PM
You may remember that I'm looking at grad schools. Well, the search goes on. Here's the checklist for my search:
- Take the GRE.
- Figure out subjects that I'm interested in and that will be worth five cents in five years (when I get out of my long-term imprisonment - hopefully).
- Figure out schools I want to go to that offer said subjects.
- Email professors at said schools who teach said subjects.
- Figure out if I really want to work with those professors at said schools who teach said subjects.
- Apply to chosen school(s).
- Cross fingers.
I'm planning on taking the GRE soon after I get back from D.C. in early June. I don't know when it's offered yet (add that before #1, I guess), but I do know that I have to do it soon. Things are starting to get hectic, and it's not even really summer yet. My summer checklist is far longer than this grad school excerpt, and I'm working full days at my job, so my days are shorter at home - when I am home. I just happen to be home at night all this week because my car is in the shop and it was too expensive to rent a car.
This field stuff is getting to me, though. I know that those wiser than I have told me (
warned me, even) that sometimes it takes a while for field interests to gel. As good of advice as that is, I know I've still got to figure out the general vicinity of my focus. You don't go to seminary to get a physics degree, and, while not as drastic, I'm not that far away from being
completely clueless as to what I want to do.
Don't get me wrong - the
Pickelhaube of Professorship has settled upon my brow and I think it fits rather well. However, my
accoutrement, such as the Sword of Specialty, or even the
Faulds of Forte, have yet to come into my possession. I am a little worse for the wear worrying about it, and I haven't figured out how to overcome this.
In the meantime, while my brain is whirring and ticking and spontaneously combusting, I have begun the slow and oh-so-envious! task of emailing professor after professor after professor. So far, I have been very daring and emailed professors and grad secretaries and grad recruiters at Princeton, Harvard, Yale, Cornell, Berkley, University of Oklahoma, and the University of Texas at Austin, all of whom I'm sure are now regretting putting their email addresses online. So far, only those at Austin have gotten back to me and been very helpful at all. Unfortunately, I contacted them about American or International diplomatic history, which I was promptly told by a professor who's helping me that that field was, and I quote, "as dead as Vanilla Ice's career."
Ah well. The search continues.
I wrote this as a gift for a friend who has the same birthday as me. This is about five months late. His last name is the same as the main character, as are some of his mannerisms. This is the first chapter of a longer story that I will post during the coming weeks. Click the tag "Mr. Simmons" in tag list on the right to see the rest of the story as it's posted. This is my first try at noir, so let me know what you all think.
The CC license is posted at the bottom.
___________________________________________
It’s midnight, but it feels like 10:00 in the morning, around the time I start having my first drink anyway – though I sometimes don’t get up until noon. Even though it’s nearly morning, I’m feeling wide awake and needing another glass of gin. It’s too goddamn hot to sleep anyway. It’s a record 102 degrees in the city, and it’s already September. They say it’s going to be a hard winter. As long as the gin’s harder, I’m fine.
I’m just about to push back from the desk and prop up my feet when she walks in, paying no mind to my closed door. I can barely tell it’s a woman without my glasses, so I put them on to see who I was about to tell to go to hell. Then I see her. She’s tall. Her hair’s the fire red that all the boys whistle about. Her coat’s black and covers the clothes she’s wearing underneath. Her black hat is one of those long-brimmed affairs, with a red band around the middle – something real high class alright. It’s hiding her eyes, and I know that she meant for it to be that way. I can tell she’s smart and calculating. She’s the kind of girl that would be just thrilled to run a skewer through my crotch if I cross her.
Though I ain’t ever shown any respect for anyone besides my mother, something kicks me in the ass and forces me to stand up. I wondered to myself if I had had my hat on, if I would have taken it off and placed it against my heart like she was the goddamn American flag. But wasn’t she something.
“Are you Detective Simmons?” she asks, and I try my best to keep my face stony as my heart jams up my throat like a car stuck in rush hour traffic.
“Yeah. Name’s on the door, Sweetheart.” She laughs, but it’s cruel.
“Yeah? Well, you don’t look like any detective I ever saw. Country’s full of bums since the war. Men don’t think they need to work anymore because they did a year or two of hard labor in the military.” I come back down from Cloud 9 with a thud. This broad is poison.
“Come back in the morning. I don’t work at night.”
“If that was true, doll, I wouldn’t have found you here.” I feel my mouth turn into a sneer and I pour another glass of hot gin.
“That don’t mean I take cases at night. Get out and come back tomorrow. How the hell did you get in here anyway?”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she says, ignoring my question like women do. I turn the glass of gin up and toss it back with the practice of a thousand other glasses. I pour another glass.
“Yeah.” I manage to say, caught in my own drunken stupidity. Before I can get the next glass up to my mouth, she’s lightning quick with her leather gloved hand around my wrist. She makes me drop the glass and it shatters on the floor. I’m so angry that I’m seeing red, but she doesn’t flinch.
“This is important, or I wouldn’t be here, you drunk bastard.” I laugh at her audacity.
“Buy me more gin.”
“In addition to your fee?” I squint at her.
“If I take your case now, you owe me twice my fee.” She sits in the chair across from my desk and smiles.
“Alright. And I’ll throw in a bottle of gin.” I watch her as she crosses her legs and I can’t keep my eyes from flicking to them, gorgeous as they are as they go on for miles, leading to a place where I’d like to be, drunk or sober. She catches my eyes. I sit down. Some of the gin spilled on the way down, and my tie lands in a puddle of it on my desk. It’s too late to care. I prop my legs up in it anyway. She’s disgusted.
“What’s the case?” She takes off her gloves as she talks.
“My jewelry has been stolen.” I can’t help but laugh.
“You come walkin in here at midnight to tell me to find your damn jewelry? Who the hell do you think I am? I investigate murders, lady, not cat burglaries.” She glares at me like she wants me to die, and I can’t blame her. I haven’t been looked at any differently than that in a long time.
“I’m aware of that or I wouldn’t have come in here looking for you.” I sit back in my seat again, waiting for the punchline to this joke she’s playing on me. She holds her gloves in one hand and folds her arms. “My jewelry has been stolen, and I know who did it.” I start to interrupt her, but she beats me to it. “I also know that the man who stole them worked for somebody a lot bigger than a two-bit jewelry theft. But he’s dead. I need to know why.” She stops here, and I’m looking at her like she just told me that I’m investigating a unicorn incident involving a banana and a bicycle.
“Listen, I’m not in any mood to chase rainbows and-“
“I’ll triple your fee.” I stand up slowly and run a hand through my hair. I haven’t washed in days. I’ve got a soft beard growing, and I know that she still finds me as disgusting as the moment she walked in. I look out my 12th floor office window and watch a sole car creep down 6th Street and take a left at Martin. I’m trying to figure her out.
“Why right now?” She rejects this question.
“You’ll understand why. But that’s not important at the moment. I need to know if you’ll take the case.” When the gin is long, my temper’s short, and her games aren’t helping my patience. I turn on her like a dog that’s had hot air blown in his ear.
“Then you’ll answer my questions! This isn’t a game, lady. I’ll investigate a murder, but I gotta know what I’m in for.” She groans at my hesitation and calls me a coward with her eyes. Goddamn, she’s got beautiful eyes. She looks down, the brim of her hat hiding her face. As mad as I am, I’m ready to leap across the desk and show her that I’m a real man. One she can respect. I’m not a romantic, but I love a good fuck every once in a while. I think she reads this in me, and this unhinges my resolve. She knows men. Even though I should be in control, I’m not. She’s made it clear. I didn’t even get her to offer me the real dealmaker. I’ve lost my touch.
Without my acceptance, she slowly smiles and nods.
“I’m glad you’re in then.” I look back out the window and shake my head. Something’s really off about this. I’m listening, but I keep my back to her, keeping our eyes apart. I don’t like it when I’m easy to figure out. She proceeds to give me the details of the case, without my questions, and I know that she’s got me where she wants me. She lights up a cigarette and seems to enjoy it more than a good girl should.
“The jewelry belongs to me. The thief is William Langley. He works, or I should say worked, with Jasper Tisdale, a favorite of J. Edgar’s men. Actually, they both were. But Langley was dirty and Tisdale knew it. Billy was three-timing Hoover, Tisdale, and me. It got dangerous when he started doing work on the side for Benny Villa-“ I had to stop her.
“Benny Villa? The racketeer? This mess just got too deep, Miss-“
“Call me Nancy. And yes, the Benny Villa, though that name is as phony as he is.” She takes a long drag on her cigarette. I cross my arms and keep listening, though I can already tell this will be more dangerous that I could have imagined. She continues. “I have it on good authority that Benny Villa is trying to go solo – get out from under the umbrella of the Mob. He won’t go clean. He’s doesn’t know how to be legit. But I think this has something to do with why Villa was killed. I need you to find out why he was killed, where Langley is, and if more people are in danger. Namely me.” She’s clearly finished telling me what she felt was necessary, but I need more. I face her and see that she has taken off her hat. Her hair frames her face, and I feel tempted to touch her. I have never seen another human being look so impossibly and completely the ideal of beauty.
“Why don’t you work with the police? You seem to know a lot.” She nods and takes a finishing drag on her cigarette so long that it makes me want to cough.
“Yeah, but that would mark me. Especially if it has something to do with the Mob. Half of the cops in this town are dirty. That’s why I had to come to you. I could do an investigation myself, but I would look suspicious combing for clues.” It made sense, and I was angry that it did. I didn’t want anything more than to shove her out of my office and tell her to never come back. But she was offering a lot, and the rent was up on the apartment and the office. More importantly, I only had a little gin left. I sat down at the desk and looked at her evenly.
“Why do you need to know so badly who did it? Why not just move out of town without dragging me into it? It’d be a lot easier on paperwork that way, and Benny or whoever might be looking for you.” I pause. “But wait. How are you wrapped up in any of this anyway?” She laughs.
“Isn’t it obvious? I know too much. And I know a lot more that I haven’t told you.” I shake my head.
“That still doesn’t tell me how you know so much in the first place.”
“That part isn’t hard, but we’ll see how fast you figure it out.” I want to pursue it further, but I know she won’t budge. What a hell of a girl.
“Why did you come in tonight? What’s so urgent that couldn’t wait until Monday?” She sighs with something other than impatience.
“The police are going to find Langley’s body tomorrow.” I blink.
“He hasn’t been reported yet? He hasn’t even been found yet?” She says nothing, but I can’t keep quiet. “This is too deep, Nancy. You’re trying to get me involved with the F.B.I. and the Mob? What the hell is wrong with you? I should have shoved you out of this office the first few minutes you were in here.” Her gaze chills me.
“I need to know who killed him, and I need to know now. If you hurry, you can find the body before anybody else.”
“Where is it?”
“In a dumpster behind Katz Grocery on Putnam Street.” I laugh. Even though I didn’t expect to, it doesn’t faze her. Nothing does.
“That bastard was murdered in the Jewish district?” She cracks a smile, and it’s like seeing the moon on a rainy night.
“That’s why you can find it before anybody else. It’s-“
“The Sabbath.” I laugh, and it’s fuller this time. “Thank God for the Jews, eh?”
To be continued...
This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Picture from briantmurphy.
