Rewriting Stella

Home > Other > Rewriting Stella > Page 31
Rewriting Stella Page 31

by Tuttle, Dan;


  what might become were Al to ruminate…

  219.

  “Hey Stel, wake up.” “Wake up, sis.” “Sleepyhead!

  You missed my fave important magic parts.”

  “Oh, sorry. Oof. I guess I’m needing bed,

  I drifted off when Robin Williams starts

  to act out swank false dreams Al’d realize,”

  said Stella, rising up from off the couch.

  “Oh yeah, once cave betrayed reseals.” “Ugh. Guys,

  I’m pooped. I gotta sleep.” Cade’s cushion slouch

  suggested he and Mo would stay downstairs,

  so Stella trudged up happily alone.

  She liked to see them having good times. Pairs

  in Stella’s view turned life from steady drone

  to melody complex as Brahms or Liszt.

  Plus, she now knew how her duo’d exist.

  220.

  Abu, a bit like ghost, swayed to and fro

  atop his lanky legs as if the wind

  could flip him either way, as it does clothes,

  considering while Stella, hopeful, grinned.

  This boy could have been raised where cuneiform

  was not an ancient, dead, forgotten script,

  and yet his look at school was uniform,

  normalcy’s carbon copy: backpack zipped,

  a woolen sweater frayed below his neck

  its navy blue to contrast khaki shorts,

  on which were several daubs of muddy fleck

  from football falls. Stel thought she glimpsed a quartz

  or milky pendant hung beneath his maw,

  a necklace carved as crescent moon and claw.

  221.

  “Another post, Stel? You said you were tired,”

  said Cade in morning coffee line down Haight,

  at thin, long shop named Stanza. “I’m rewired

  sometimes when night drags on and it gets late…

  I’m sheets to wind in body, but my heart

  can’t seem to slow down, I’ve no hope of sleep.”

  “That’s when you gotta pull Top 40s chart,

  pop records on, lay back, and chill, and steep.”

  “We’re different, Cade. I used to read in bed

  to calm myself and seed some better dreams.

  But being here is jarring. Routines fed

  my past life. Writing here’s a new regime

  to clear my mind and conscience at day’s end.

  Plus hey, it’s fun to play god with the pen.”

  222.

  “Cortado, please.” “And one quick brew for me.”

  “Are these all pastries from that Mission Beach

  Café? Hot damn! I’ll take croissants. Um… three?

  You know, Stel, royal living’s within reach

  when shiz French bakers worked for centuries

  perfecting’s what’s mere add-on at the till.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s good. My mouth’s adventuring

  from here to Paris in that bite.” Life’s ill

  was wholly remedied for seconds as

  her inner epicurean took hold

  and fixated on almond razzmatazz

  that baker’d brewed with butter, sugars bold.

  She’d once heard Chengdu jiānbing chef voice wish

  to travel world. Too poor, he did in dish.

  223.

  They sat at coffee bar between those who

  showed up with laptops to scroll Facebook feeds

  (subconscious addict’s act one falls into,

  distracting from want to accomplish deeds).

  The art on wall reminded Cade of this:

  “It’s all in Pressfield’s book, The War of Art,

  the ways we try take our aim, and miss,

  self-undermining of creative starts.”

  “Hold on—you read?” asked Stel, who’d seen him just

  use leisure time to study Busta Rhymes.

  “Ha. Yes. We’ve all got many sides. We must,

  to face the day, no? Single paradigms

  make Jack the dullest boy. Well, ’cept Jack White.”

  Stel found it pleasant man so quite forthright

  224.

  could harbor alter ego life to boot.

  He took a moment to wax lyrical

  on how the book explains all acts are moot

  except The Work. What’s stratospherical

  is only the result of clocking time,

  of casting self as true professional

  whose livelihood is squarely on the line

  and therefore acts somewhat obsessional

  to get The Work completed. Substitutes

  do not exist but Working. Facebook and

  email replies, and tweeting, phone, and news,

  and cleaning, it’s like never-never land

  escaping mandate set for self. You choose

  to actively engage, or else you lose.

  225.

  “So why’d you get drip coffee, black? They’ve got

  baristas with the talent of Mos Def.

  Espresso? Fine. A capp? Great. But brewed pot…?

  If coffee used the term I’d call them chefs!”

  “Brew’s mostly for the moment I look down,

  from charcoal surface back reflects my face.

  In liquid mirror, everyone looks brown

  regardless of their color, origin, race.

  There’s something grounding in that image, it

  transports me back through places where I’ve gone.

  It gets me thinking.” “But it tastes like shit,

  go Jay-Z cappuccino style!” “Ha. Wrong,”

  said Stella, sipping, “mere acquired taste.”

  “You cray. That acquisition effort’s waste.”

  226.

  They drank their chosen beverages a bit,

  attentive to the funny swirling steams

  that rose up mathematically to knit

  the solid, fleeting plush forms of daydreams.

  “You know, if you were small enough, this mug,

  this tiny cup of hotness, would create

  your local weather patterns. Thermal slug

  sheds heat to air and porcelain at rates

  so different so to make a tiny wind

  among the closest molecules.” “You wack?”

  asked Cade. “No, I’m just thinking. Disciplined

  reflection can be better than Prozac.”

  “But you don’t pop SSRIs.” “No inked

  prescription keeps my coffee black,” Stel winked.

  227.

  “Whatevs. I haven’t thought ’bout beverage norms

  in rap. Bacardi, Hennessey, and shots

  are standards. Cristal clearly outperforms

  Courvoisier… what do folks drink on yachts?”

  Stel smiled, and didn’t know. Cade pivoted,

  “Back on that thermal thing, the place that Joe

  suggested’s snuggle-cold. I’m riveted

  to see if something sparks with Tee.” “I know!”

  “Those coasts in Mendocino he suggests

  are likely covered up, inbound fogs stay

  around there.” “No fun. Think he’ll take requests

  to change it up?” “He might.” “When’s Groundhog Day?”

  “Last month. Why, Stel?” “I heard there might be snow,

  which I’ve not seen, if cold hangs in Tahoe.”

  228.

  Stel pulled her cell phone out for blizzard of

  her own devising, starting campaign to

  pump up a Tahoe winter trip and shove

  the coast aside. Highlighting plan’s gains through

  a quick-recorded Snapchat snap and chat

  on group thread on WhatsApp, she waited for

  her audience feedback. A thermostat

  in screenshot weather forecast she’d sent bore

  a ‘forty-five but sunny’ near the lake,


  compared to ‘fifty-one but rainy’ in

  Gualala, Jenner, and Fort Bragg. “Let’s take

  a chance of sunburn over raisin skin!”

  she wrote as caption. Answers came back quick:

  group trusted Stel that mountains made best pick.

  CHAPTER 25

  229.

  At crack of dawn, assembled via Lyft,

  the Opposition and its caravan

  met near Patricia’s Green to stow and shift

  its baggage and its riders. Spared a van’s

  unnecessary rental by enough

  new members interested and bringing cars,

  they got a mole instead: Darla had bluffed

  way in with pseudonym, and drove. “If ours

  is first to get there, we’ll leave front door cracked

  for you, with key back in the lockbox, ’cause

  the hot tub’s where it’s at, and that’s a fact.”

  The thing Joe hinted is that grocery was

  a run for someone else to do for brews.

  He’d picked up house, so others split the booze.

  230.

  The drive bore Stel through California’s heart,

  north of the city m.A.A.d and suburbs Bay,

  and skirted edge of vineyard-lord ramparts,

  where royalty in Napa’s DNA

  fuels wino feudalism, workers picked

  the grapes that Parker’d rate once barreled oak

  turned taste just so, their wages capped quite strict:

  their retail price Baroque, the workers broke.

  That land passed quickly, bypassed to the east

  with climb to delta region levees saved.

  Like Dujiangyan, to tame aquatic beast

  of local nature, infrastructure slaved.

  Past Sac-town rose the foothills of the chain,

  Sierras of Nevada mountain skein.

  231.

  The highway climbed toward something called ‘the pass’,

  that sounded like a hassle if it snowed.

  They got there uneventfully, Stel asked

  what hubbub was, why place was so forebode.

  “When storms whip through, they’ll dump both snow and ice

  right here, and cops will check you’ve put on chains

  if you’re not four-wheel drive. It’s rolling dice

  if so much falls they close it till it drains.

  And even when it’s fine there’s vehicles

  out in the shoulders messing with a tire:

  they’ve not used slip-on chains. It’s miracles

  and puppy dogs today that none require

  that extra grip. Look right, there’s Donner Pass—”

  Stel gazed at snowed-in cannibals’ crevasse.

  232.

  The highway wound both up and down, they’d moved

  from altitudes where oaks and buckeyes shined

  then cedars, firs, and dogwoods. Pines had proved

  superiority at timberline.

  Then all the sudden, as with peaks, road fell

  below the isoclines that oxygen

  decided were too high to really fill—

  in ways, the highway had outfoxed the hen,

  allowing human passengers with ease

  to cross a mountain pass that, times past, killed.

  “It’s this geography that guarantees

  you’ll lose the game,” said Darla who’d distilled

  decision points on Oregon’s long Trail,

  (the game) that always made her players fail.

  233.

  Descent from mountains’ heights down toward the lake

  for which ‘Tahoe’ was shorthand was a ride

  that took good choice of gear for engine brake

  and showed why California’s countryside

  inspired some enlightened greats like Muir

  and Ansel Adams and Chouinard. When they

  got through the valley corridor and steered

  right to encircle lake, Stel could survey

  sheer beauty stretched before her: everywhere

  surrounding water body was some peak

  in snowcap hat, alone and solitaire,

  its guarding only due to its physique.

  Volcano’s buckling yielded sentry range,

  a circumstance that none could prearrange.

  234.

  Stel wondered how long such a gorgeous source

  of water’d pooled here for the ponderings

  of wily engineers who’d quick endorse

  a plan to make electrons, somber things

  with hydropower. Here, capacity

  would hardly be constraint, the snowpack melt

  each year renewed supplies. Rapacity

  was not her normal lens, and so she felt

  a little guilty jumping to the thought.

  Experience in China’d left a scar,

  ex post blame for precluded gigawatts

  made Stel police her voice, lest chance words mar.

  She breathed, and witnessed lovely nature for

  intrinsic value held, and poise restored.

  235.

  In dream she woke to sunlight, ventured out

  to see the road trip canyon. Bounded rise

  of mountain arc ’round basin awed, the route

  escaping farmland valley hid from eyes.

  From stance on bound’ry crest she watched the flood

  turn tawny cut-straw plains to inland sea.

  Her feet gave way as nude cliff made from mud

  eroded, void of roots’ fast guarantee

  that ground stay grounded. Somehow currents swept

  her quick from shore. At sea, her panic swelled:

  She’d grown up thinking water’s to be schlepped,

  not massive ’nough to buoy bodies. Held

  by crushing, clashing currents, flailing for

  her life, she sank beneath the rapids’ roar.

  236.

  The verse took partial shape in mind before

  it curled to letters pencil lead could etch.

  It started as an image that implored

  its audience to savor grandeur’s sketch.

  With regal air of old daguerreotype,

  the panorama seared on mind’s eye screen.

  True sunshine there had no compare on Skype

  or Shutterstock-like versions of the scene.

  Such things were seen by human eyes alone,

  experiences photographs kept boxed.

  Stel knew that digital had stolen throne,

  through IG feeds as fake as views Xeroxed.

  In person, optic treasures were hers, seen

  indelibly as light prints mercury.

  237.

  That pencil, too, was still a few hours hence.

  She’d reach for it in rented bedside drawer

  in use of literature for self-defense

  and coup d’etat both. Followers would store

  her stories’ words alongside own lived views.

  Life outlook stems from miscellany kept.

  And so to be creator of new news

  neared Stella to a childhood refund meant

  to soothe regretful soul she’d studied so.

  The goblins on her shoulders, on her back

  kept her at books until eyes bloodied. Throw

  all youth toward cramming, spawn amnesiac.

  Like canvas or a page, it left a space

  imagined better lives could go replace.

  238.

  Between the riding and the writing, Stel

  accompanied the troops to grocery store

  where she avoided overwhelming tell

  that she was overwhelmed. Coterie’s chore

  to think through food and beverage kind of fit

  the fact that rich man in the hot tub soaked.

  She so remarked to Cade. “He’s blind to it?”

  “Yeah, probably. When you’re in bath suds cloaked
>
  it’s elementary to think of next

  big business venture capitalists fund.”

  “No joke.” It seemed apparent how wealth flexed

  to multiply itself while system dunned

  remaining have-nots, telling them they ought

  to save more of the cash they’d never got.

  239.

  With Flying Dog, Rogue, Sudwerk, Twenty-First

  Amendment in possession, they arrived.

  In kitchen where they stored it, Fendi purse

  lay there in place conspicuous, contrived.

  Cade translated for Stel, “That bag right there

  with taxes costs ’bout ten weeks minimum

  wage if you’re working full-time.” “Tee is heir

  apparent to Joe’s fortunes?” “Winnin’ some

  already, far as I can tell.” He placed

  the precious object elsewhere, cracked a beer,

  explained, “So it won’t accidentally baste

  in cocktail juice and lose its value here.”

  “Oh, hey Stel!” shouted voice from outside, “Be

  a dear and mix me something for the heat!”

  240.

  “Mimosa or Paloma, Vieux Carré,

  a Rob Roy, Aviation, Daiquiri,

  Old Fashioned, Gimlet, Boulevardier

  Negroni, Sazerac, or Dark Stormy,

  Mint Julep, Margarita, Martini,

  a Moscow Mule, Manhattan, Mojito,

  a Bloody Mary, Gibson, G&T,

  White Russian, Rusty Nail, or Sour Pisco?

  Perhaps Hot Toddy, Vesper, Whiskey Smash,

  a Clover Club or Scofflaw, Sidecar, Pimm’s

  Cup, Cosmopolitan, or shall I mash

  them all together following my whims?”

  Bar speech she’d hoped would tease was dry. Blandly

  oblivious reply: “Long Island Tea!”

  241.

  Stel flipped to page in barman’s book on shelf

  describing how to balance sours and sweets

  to so mixologize. “Whew! I myself

  would never drink this.” “Yeah, it overheats

  the liver and the brain right proper quick,”

  said Benny, putting beers up in the fridge,

  “it’s yoozh a well drink with a whopper kick,

  like nectar to fraternity swarms’ midge.”

  Stel followed recipe, resisted her

  desire to strike back at the demanding

  yet clueless benefactor. “It occur

  to you as Oppo we should be ranting

  about the supposition that we do

  the chores, as poor folks?” “Yes, and clearly to

  242.

  you, too, Benita.” “Yet, you make his drink.”

  “I won’t blame him for rudeness he can’t know.”

  “Can’t know? You’re joking.” “Do you ever think

 

‹ Prev