Allister Cromley's Fairweather Belle (Bedtime Stories For Grownups To Tell)
  • Home
  • Stories To Hear
    • The Tree On His Back
    • A Nosebleed
    • An Abduction (Of The Alien Variety)
    • It Begins And Ends With A Fall
    • Drunken Boxing
    • His Breadbox Mouse
    • New Years Eve In A Cellar (Awaiting The Future)
    • An Explanation Of The Acceptance Of His Name
    • To Fall In Love With A Tomato
    • An Attempt At Ending Fear
    • The Race To Awkward
    • His Shadow/s
    • Candy From Strangers
    • A Lunar Eclipse (And The Man On The Moon)
  • Stories To Read
  • Historical Assumptions
    • An Impossible Conversation With Emily Dickinson
    • Happy Halloween Nevermore
    • The Naming Of Numbers
    • The First Thanksgiving
    • The Recession Of Wild Bill Hickok
    • A Tale Of Two Beginnings
    • A Possible Salem Witch Trial
    • A Royal Courtship
    • A Duel
    • Trouble At The Lincolns
    • Dempsey Vs Willard (A Scholarly Discussion On Violence)
    • The Condensed History Of The Carburetor
  • About The Belle
  • The Book
  • Contact
  • The Book Drop Project
  • Live Performances
  • Cousins, Collaborators & Conspirators
  • The Mailing List
  • Additional Links

Ferguson

6/13/2012

0 Comments

 
Ferguson would put two tacks in his eyes and spit out blood. Ferguson was crazy. And Allister knew that. The whole town knew that. But, he made a mean shepherd's pie. So, they tolerated him.

Ferguson's life was a mystery. All anyone knew of him was:
1. His name was Ferguson.
2. He was crazy.
3. He made good shepherd’s pie.

He arrived in town with nothing. It was a wonder where he got the tacks or the ingredients for shepherd's pie. He was a wonder.

But, they talked of him constantly. At the diner, at children's baseball games, at church. Father Mitchum said Ferguson was a gift sent from God. The bitter old ladies outside the church said he was a gift sent from Satan. But, either way you cut it, he was still, apparently, a gift. And he was still crazy.

He would set up on the corner of the street and launch into song, accompanied by a band made completely of air. People tossed change to him and he would remove a piece of clothing for each coin. So, everyone stopped doing that.

Allister did not know how Ferguson survived. What he ate, what he drank, when he slept. It seemed to Allister that he never did any of those things. Never did anything normal. Ferguson's bony body even looked more abnormal than other abnormally bony bodies. His elbows and knees came together in almost perfect points, like four oddly-placed daggers. Sharp to the touch. So, no one ever touched Ferguson in the elbows or knees. No one really touched Ferguson at all, really. There was not an official rule. Just an unspoken understanding that Ferguson probably would not want that.

But, the understanding was born from never asking.

Oh, some people had tried to help him. Kindly Old Mrs. Saunders had tried. After all, she had experience in that sort of thing. With her help, Drunken Daniel O'Dood became just Mr. Daniel O'Dood and Damn-Near-Demented Dorothy Dunn even entered the Convent of The Saved and became simply Sister Dorothy. But, though she tried her hardest, kindly Old Mrs. Saunders could not convert Allister like she had Drunken Daniel O'Dood and Damn-Near-Demented Dorothy Dunn. And maybe it was the alliterate lacking of Fergson's name that kept kindly Old Mrs. Saunders from completing a triumvarate of sanity.

But, she confided in Allister that, "when you look into the eyes of those that are most lost, you can't see into them. There's a cloudy shallowness where their gaze should be as deep and clear as a well." And she had seen that clowdiness in Ferguson's eyes. So, even kindly Old Mrs. Saunders could not get through the shell that protected Ferguson (and his shepherd's pie recipe) from the world.

And what did Ferguson see? Allister wondered. Was it all darkness? Was it all shadows? Was he always like that? And, if not, how did he get to the point where he left clarity? And, in any event, how was he still able to find other people? 

Everyone watched Ferguson from afar. He was their giraffe. Don't touch the Ferguson. Don't feed the Ferguson. Ferguson, Ferguson, Ferguson, Ferguson. Fer-Guson. Fer. Gus. On. Fe......RGUSON!

They talked of him so much that it was like he was always there, shuffling to inadvertently block your path at the exact moment when you needed to pass. And there'd be a shrug and a sigh of annoyance and, later, there'd be the explanation, "Sorry I'm late. Ferguson." He was an annoyance. But, he was expected and even depended upon to be there.

He became a word. He became a thing. Ferguson was something they were annoyed by, were disgusted by, but that they loved to talk about, that they loved to laugh at. Ferguson was just that. There was no "with" when it came to him. There was only "at."

And Allister knew that everyone knew Ferguson was being laughed at. But, it was hard to stop. There was a feeling that he was doing this. That Ferguson was fergusoning on purpose.

And, although Ferguson was not the most socially open of characters, you could not say that he had brought that upon himself. He did, after all, try. Remember all the shepherd's pies? Remember the silent music? He had tried to reach out. Something in him just did not know how. Or did not know our way how.

And, when the day finally came when Ferguson was no longer there, the absence of Ferguson was more awkward than his presence could ever have been. He had gone the same way that he came-without a trace.

And, from that day onward, Allister made a point to make eye contact with everyone he passed, even the ones who seemed clowdy-eyed and unable to communicate. He made a point to look deep into their eyes and smile-even for a moment. And he would see them breathe even if they did not speak.

And Allister would say, "Good morning," "good afternoon," or "good night." And he would nod to them in acknowledgement. And maybe they would nod back or maybe they would remove a piece of clothing or maybe they would do nothing.

But, Allister would look at them fully and think "this is the piece of clay they were given and this is the way the wind sounds when it moves through it."
0 Comments

Pitter Patter

6/4/2012

0 Comments

 
There is something about the nectar of the coffee bean that leaves a happy man even happier and a thirsty man still thirsty (perhaps even more so).

There has been much written and much research done on the topic of that bean. Some posed negative points and some swung towards the positive-which, in Allister's honest and humblest of opinions, was where the reality of it all lies. One sip from ye old ceramic mug and he could feel himself being lifted by some other-worldly force. And he was not so proud that he couldn't drink from other containers. Oh, no. Give him ye old tin cup, ye old canteen, or ye old bucket and he would prove to you that it's not what's outside, but the caffeinated goodness inside that matters.

With every new sip, he would feel his heart beat faster. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter. Then, pitter, patter, pitter, patter. The world would split down the middle and he would find himself engulfed in the warmth of the magma spewing out of its crevice. And it was not burning magma. It was soothing magma. Pitter, patter.

Without any real reason and beyond his control, his smile would stretch to either ear and threaten to go further-stopping only because of the limitations of his face's skin. His speech became rapid-fire. He spewed forth words like a machine gun, but with the supreme accuracy of a sniper's rifle. Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter. He would find he had no idea what he was saying, but the enunciation seemed perfect.

His conversation was not without its merits, either. Intricate theories would pour from somewhere in him that he never knew existed-awakened by that illustrious liquid. Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter. His vocabulary would upgrade and he found his sentences caked in words foreign to him.
(Words like 'spewing','enunciation', and 'caked,' for example.)

There was the danger of saying so much that I could not go back and retrace his thoughts. But, it sure beat saying very little with absolutely no mention of intricate theories. And the steady onslaught of words and ideas kept his partner-in-conversation on their toes at all times and unable to question one theory before another slammed into them. Pitter, patter.

His mind would wrestle with past memories devoid of coffee. Times of first steps, backyards, and other people's birthday parties. And he could not help but wonder what that empty world would have been like if he had only sipped that nectar much earlier in life. Would his growth have been stunted? Perhaps. But, would his memories have been filled with giggles and insightfulness? Most certainly. The possibilities were endless with coffee. Just think about what it would have been like if General Washington's men were given their stomach's worth of coffee every day at Valley Forge. Pitter patter. "Of course, they did fine anyway," he would say. "But, l'm just saying think about it."-Pitter patter, pitter, patter, pitter, patter.

And, quite suddenly, his heart would just patter. Patter, patter. It was like some huge roller coaster. Patter, patter. He inched his way to the top, every inch bringing forth a harder pounding in his chest. Patter, patter. His partner-in-conversation would certainly have by that point and Allister would get nervous. Patter, patter.He would try to focus. And, when that did not work, he would try to distract himself. "Words that rhyme. Words that rhyme'-with PATTER! Patter, scatter. Patter, ladder. Patter, chair. It doesn't rhyme, I know. I'm just saying could you imagine if it did?"

Patter, patter. Patter, patter. The top would draw near. Patter, patter. Allister could see the drop-off. Patter, patter, patter. There was the momentary pause, patter, attempting to convince him, patter, that it was all over now, patter, so that he would, patter, be offguard, patter, when the wheels, patter, unlock, patter patter, and he was shot, patter patter down the hill. Patterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatterpatter... He would close his eyes and lurch forward. And he would pull back. His eyes would open and reveal the glow of his lamp. He had passed out. And this was quite often the case (though, not always).

And Allister would pull himself back up into his wicker chair and stare blankly at the typewriter. A little tired, yes. But-WHEW, what a rush!! He would wait a while for the next cup. Maybe, after he eat something.
0 Comments

    More Stories
    ​To Read   
    ​

    Picture

    Archives

    October 2016
    March 2016
    January 2016
    May 2013
    December 2012
    September 2012
    August 2012
    June 2012
    April 2012
    March 2012
    January 2012
    December 2011
    November 2011
    October 2011
    September 2011
    August 2011
    July 2011
    June 2011
    May 2011
    April 2011
    March 2011
    February 2011
    November 2010
    October 2010
    August 2010
    March 2010
    December 2009
    October 2009
    September 2009
    August 2009
    July 2009
    June 2009
    May 2009
    April 2009
    March 2009
    February 2009
    January 2009
    December 2008
    November 2008

    Categories

    All
    About Dreaming
    About Drinking
    A Memory Or Two
    Battle Scars
    Bits Of History
    Family History
    Famous People & Their Footwear
    Holiday Stories
    Human Feelings
    In The Toybox
    Kids These Days
    Learning Of Lessons
    Lost Objects
    Musical Tunes
    Mysterious Beginnings
    Old People These Days
    Plants & Animals
    Riding On A Train
    Sandwiches & Things
    Smells Nostalgic
    Some Art
    Some Friends He Had
    Some People He Met
    Some Rights For All
    The Scent Of Cave People
    The Weather
    To Technology Or Not To Technology

    RSS Feed