MOON OVER A BRICK HOUSE

The throw of the dice falls this week falls on a full paper white  moon shimmering  behind a few sketchy clouds. A few million miles away, a wedding party is thumping to the music of the eighties, I think it is Lionel Richie they are playing.  A man from the party has wandered off and is stumbling down the street, waving his hands to the music. I look down from my window, and five young adults, are leaning up against the wall to the front garden, and staring up at the house. Mark, the restaurant manager is pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette, his head bent to the ground, thinking of things that matter at that moment.  The television is on, only to obstruct the music, You’re a brick house.

 The Letter, with Bette Davis plays on the old 21” fat screen, that we put in the closet, and I can refer to it, a satisfying intermission to modern living. The convergence of events, under this full moon, of discordant sounds, activity, and physical sensations, has not  shattered my composure. Just minutes before the music started, I was musing notes about my column. It is about this full moon, and how it resembles at this moment, a kinship to a full life.

It began a month ago when I decided to rearrange my life style, the abject attitude and waking to the hymn of self-defeat.  Now, sunlight spreads shadows of light across the lime green leaves and adobe walls of the neighbor. Sage Bakery has dropped off trays of flaky warm croissants to the hotel, and former body building champion, Deneilo is pushing his garden cart and planters around the corner.  He waves, “Go morning,” and I wave back. His gestures are Americanized but he does not speak English. He gestures with fingers spread wide apart, and grins as if he is about to be photographed. I am across the street, drinking my coffee, wondering how the day will unfold, as I direct it’s flow, or think I do.

That evening I was seated at a bistro bar, about to order and the woman next to me turned to me, “ Haven’t we met?”

“Yes, at La Posada. I remember.” I answered.

“I’m Kathy.”

“I’m LouLou, well, really Luellen. Taos named me LouLou.”

“I love that name, it’s so cheerful, makes you want to laugh,”

“I know. No one takes you seriously when you say, I’m LouLou.”

She laughs. “That’s good, it’s give you an edge.”

“Maybe.”

She then recalled a past evening at La Posada. One of Santa Fe’s most haughty and entertaining locals, who some know as St. Francis, started to shout at Kathy, and told her to shut up. He pounded the bar with both fists, and Kathy recoiled under the pressure of good breeding. Raul, the bartender, who had already warned St. Francis to drink his scotch not use it as artillery, raised his arms, and shouted, “OUT, AND DON’T COME BACK.YOU ARE NOT WELCOME IN MY BAR.”

I was not surprised. In a small city as Santa Fe, the watering holes are numbered, and all the horse-asses’ are talked about, even though we try not to be village idiots.

“I’m so relieved he’s not coming back. He was always groping me at the bar, using his thick tongued European poetry.” I said.

“ I know! He was such an arrogant guy.”

“ I think he was worse than what we imagined.”

“ What do you mean?”

“ Well, he said he was Swiss, and his father fought the Nazi’s, and they lost everything. I think his father was a Nazi, and they never had anything to start with.”

“ OH so do I!”

Kathy had traveled the world, and was married to a diplomat. She met the jugglers, jack-asses, and honored government officials.

We found common ground right under our fingernails. Kathy is a composer, and she likes night life as much as I do.

“ Have you been to Curazon?” I asked.

“ No.  I haven’t even heard of it. Do you want to go?”

“ Now?”

“Yes, why not? It’s still early.” 

“ Right toe.” I agreed.

We met at the entrance of the club, crammed in a body sandwich,  of what I later found out was the film group. Two men intercepted us, “Hi where are you from”? She said to the long haired European.

“Switzverland.”

“Oh, I’ve been there, I loved it,” she said.

“ I’ve been there too.” I added. Never mind that it was twenty-five years ago. 

Tied together by limited space and a slow crawl to the bar, we both hopped up on bar stools.  It was old school, old bar, old everything, except that I banished my inhibitions, and made a lot of fuss on the dance floor. 

Turned out Mr. Dave-the director-is working on a documentary  about Murder, Inc, and has a distant relative that was in the mob-or is in the mob, or something. I have a story about that, and when I opened my mouth, he turned to greet a low-cut blonde in high heels. 

I stumbled out of the party around one in the morning. The next day Kathy and I emailed. She mentioned her deceased husband, something about New Jersey, his family’s bakery, and I thought of Uncle Myron.

I  emailed Myron, and asked him if he had heard of Schachtel’s Bakery. He replied.

“ONE OF MY OLDEST AND STILL
VERY CLOSE FRIENDS IS BOB SCHACHTEL, HE IS ABE SCHACHTEL´S SON AND HIS FATHER WAS VERY CLOSE TO ABE ZWILLMAN.”  Bob is her deceased husband’s brother. Abe Zwillman was the honored leader of the New Jersey Jewish population.

You can read about him in  “Nazis of Newark,” among other history books. Kathy came by the next day with a bottle of Champagne and we talked for several hours. The next few weeks, turned around more unprecedented encounters and emancipated me from destructive mumbo-jumbo.

Last night around midnight, I picked up a black clog and tossed it down the stairs. Then I opened the window and yelled, “Shut-Up,” to the hollow vacant space between me and the rappin DJ.

The full moon is kin to my life; it is bright, and shaded by sketchy clouds of uncertainty. One day, I too shall be a million lights years from the rhapsody of rap, gangsters, fresh baked croissants, and maybe Bette Davis will be my friend. 

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com     

 

    It began a month ago when I decided to rearrange my life style, the abject attitude and waking to the hymn of self-defeat.

Now, sunlight spreads shadows of light across the lime green leaves and adobe walls of the neighbor. Sage Bakery has dropped off trays of flaky warm croissants to the hotel, and former body building champion, Deneilo is pushing his garden cart and planters around the corner.  He waves, “Go morning,” and I wave back. His gestures are Americanized but he does not speak English. He gestures with fingers spread wide apart, and grins as if he is about to be photographed. I am across the street, drinking my coffee, wondering how the day will unfold, as I direct it’s flow, or think I do.

 

That evening I was seated at a bistro bar, about to order and the woman next to me turned to me, “ Haven’t we met?”

 

“Yes, at La Posada. I remember.” I answered.

“I’m Kathy.”

“I’m LouLou, well, really Luellen. Taos named me LouLou.”

“I love that name, it’s so cheerful, makes you want to laugh,”

“I know. No one takes you seriously when you say, I’m LouLou.”

She laughs. “That’s good, it’s give you an edge.”

“Maybe.”

She then recalled a past evening at La Posada. One of Santa Fe’s most haughty and entertaining locals, who some know as St. Francis, started to shout at Kathy, and told her to shut up. He pounded the bar with both fists, and Kathy recoiled under the pressure of good breeding. Raul, the bartender, who had already warned St. Francis to drink his scotch not use it as artillery, raised his arms, and shouted, “OUT, AND DON’T COME BACK.YOU ARE NOT WELCOME IN MY BAR.”

I was not surprised. In a small city as Santa Fe, the watering holes are numbered, and all the horse-asses’ are talked about, even though we try not to be village idiots.

“I’m so relieved he’s not coming back. He was always groping me at the bar, using his thick tongued European poetry.” I said.

“ I know! He was such an arrogant guy.”

“ I think he was worse than what we imagined.”

“ What do you mean?”

“ Well, he said he was Swiss, and his father fought the Nazi’s, and they lost everything. I think his father was a Nazi, and they never had anything to start with.”

“ OH so do I!”

Kathy had traveled the world, and was married to a diplomat. She met the jugglers, jack-asses, and honored government officials.

We found common ground right under our fingernails. Kathy is a composer, and she likes night life as much as I do.

“ Have you been to Curazon?” I asked.

“ No.  I haven’t even heard of it. Do you want to go?”

“ Now?”

“Yes, why not? It’s still early.” 

“ Right toe.” I agreed.

We met at the entrance of the club, crammed in a body sandwich,  of what I later found out was the film group. Two men intercepted us, “Hi where are you from”? She said to the long haired European.

“Switzverland.”

“Oh, I’ve been there, I loved it,” she said.

“ I’ve been there too.” I added. Never mind that it was twenty-five years ago. 

Tied together by limited space and a slow crawl to the bar, we both hopped up on bar stools.  It was old school, old bar, old everything, except that I banished my inhibitions, and made a lot of fuss on the dance floor. 

Turned out Mr. Dave-the director-is working on a documentary  about Murder, Inc, and has a distant relative that was in the mob-or is in the mob, or something. I have a story about that, and when I opened my mouth, he turned to greet a low-cut blonde in high heels. 

I stumbled out of the party around one in the morning. The next day Kathy and I emailed. She mentioned her deceased husband, something about New Jersey, his family’s bakery, and I thought of Uncle Myron.

I  emailed Myron, and asked him if he had heard of Schachtel’s Bakery. He replied.

“ONE OF MY OLDEST AND STILL
VERY CLOSE FRIENDS IS BOB SCHACHTEL, HE IS ABE SCHACHTEL´S SON AND HIS FATHER WAS VERY CLOSE TO ABE ZWILLMAN.”  Bob is her deceased husband’s brother. Abe Zwillman was the honored leader of the New Jersey Jewish population.

You can read about him in  “Nazis of Newark,” among other history books. Kathy came by the next day with a bottle of Champagne and we talked for several hours. The next few weeks, turned around more unprecedented encounters and emancipated me from destructive mumbo-jumbo.

Last night around midnight, I picked up a black clog and tossed it down the stairs. Then I opened the window and yelled, “Shut-Up,” to the hollow vacant space between me and the rappin DJ.

The full moon is kin to my life; it is bright, and shaded by sketchy clouds of uncertainty. One day, I too shall be a million lights years from the rhapsody of rap, gangsters, fresh baked croissants, and maybe Bette Davis will be my friend. 

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com