red moon over west virginia - 24. the fight

by jeremy witherington

part 24 of 36

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there are three types of people in the world. people who are born believing that life is war, people who come to believe that life is war, and people who never believe that life is war. as the school year dragged on forever, tony grew frustrated by his inability to establish himself as alpha boy over barry. and he had to do it under the eagle eye of old ms wilcox-serafini, who was an enlightened new school educator with zero tolerance for open displays of testosterone. and usually under the soft eye of one of the rotating group of young teaching assistants desperate situations call for desperate measures, and one day, when there was no assistant on duty, and ms wicox-serafini was unaccountably absent for a few minutes, tony took advantage of the situation and went up to barry , who was peacefully perusing a picture book, with one of his female acolytes adoringly watching him turn the pages. tony called barry a name which no well bred gentleman, of any age, should ever use to another. barry stood up. tony knocked him down! the fight was on! joey, as tony’s first lieutenant rushed to the spot, as did a number of other curious children. trixie looked on impassively, and did not move from her spot. suddenly ms wilcox-serafini reappeared, and the conflict was over, with no physical harrm done on either side. it was the first fight in the kindergarten in seven years! the fallout was enormous. barry’s parents, who had thought they were doing the right thing by society by enrolling him in the public school, withdrew him immediately. they angrily demanded to know how the children could have been left unattended, even for a millisecond, allowing such an incident to occur. they contemplated a lawsuit, but were dissuaded by their politically astute lawyer. ms wilcox-serafini was severely reprimanded and the proverbial “note” was “placed her in her file”, but her years of unblemished service saved her from terminaton. tony was removed from school for the remainder of the school year, but allowed to return the next year, for first grade. joey continued to be tony’s faithful lieutenant, but never looked at him in quite the same way again. trixie filed the incident away in her brain. next

red moon over west vrginia - 23. escape

by jeremy witherington

part 23 of 36

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after molotov left lord curzon, he did not go back to his hotel. instead he went to a little diner a few blocks from the hotel, one he had stopped in at several times during his stay. there was a door in the back of the diner, beside the rest room. he had tried the door a couple of times on his previous visits, and found it unlocked. the same sleepy individual was behind the counter as on the previous occasions. just coffee, please. molotov said to the man. he placed a silver dollar on the counter and proceeded to the back of the diner. the door was unlocked, as before. he exited, closed the door carefully behind him, and went down an alley. the alley led to a street of gray buildings which mostly housed auto repair shops and auto parts wholesalers. the street led to the railroad station. a freight train was getting ready to leave the staton. its whistle blew. the railroad police had made a sweep of hoboes just two days previously, and molotov trusted that they would expect the vagabonds to stay away for a couple of more days at least. molotov jumped on to an open boxcar with surprising agility. he found the bocxar cleaner and more comfortable than he had ever found similar facilities in his own country. he rolled his gray overcoat into a pillow and placed it under his hat, careful to keep his pistol in a pocket of the coat that he could reach in one motion upon suddenly awakening, if need be. the train pulled out. he went to sleep. * back in lord curzon’s office, catherine continued looking out the window at the gray sky. she heard the whistle of the freight train. rain began to fall. behind her, lord curzon composed a carefully worded telegram. next

red moon over west virginia - 22. pixie's problem

by jeremy witherington

part 22 of 36

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when pixie got off the phone with gerald, she thought of calling chuck, her real fancy man. she usually called chuck whenever she had a problem, or wanted to talk to somebody about anything. but she decided to wait until she met with gerald. gerald’s call had slightly bewildered her. she had had a hard time understanding what he was saying. he seemed to be saying that his grandmother, or aunt or whatever she was, was … doing what exactly? “cutting him off.” but what did that mean? cutting what off from what? gerald was rich. he had all the money in the world. everybody in the world was either rich, like gerald and his grandmother, or poor, like real people like pixie and chuck. just like animals were either cats or dogs. a rich person could not become a poor person any more than a cat could become a dog. and a poor person, like trixie, could never become rich. well, maybe if they became a movie star or a pop star or something. maybe. but trixie was not going to be a movie star, and neither was chuck. but otherwise, no matter how much money a poor person managed to scam or scheme out of the rich bastards who ruled the world, it would never be enough, never be enough to make up to the poor person for all the grief they had to put up with from the day they were born. so what was stupid gerald whining and whimpering about like a little baby? pixie decided not to keep gerald waiting but just to go and see him and get it over with. she got up off her couch and did a hundred pushups and a hundred situps like she always did before she went out, to keep her girlish figure in fighting trim. then just as she put her hat and coat on, her phone vibrated. it was chuck. next

red moon over west virginia -- 21. the empty shop

by jeremy witherington

part 21 of 36

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don carlos hesitated in front of the coffee shop. had he in fact been there too often, too recently, and would he be in danger of becoming too familiar a face? he glanced into the window of the shop. it seemed empty of customers. and, there seemed to be a hint of rain in the air. he entered the shop. the little gray haired woman who seemed to be the proprietor and sole custodian of the establishment looked up at him with her habitual expression of polite expectation. don carlos immediately perecived that he was not the sole customer in the shop. a woman no longer young but still somewhat attractive and undeniably well groomed, sat alone at a small corner table sipping an espresso. she had avoided his notice by being seated directly beside the window. had he glanced even slightly to his left as he had looked in the window, he would have spotted her. in any case, he did not recognize her. may i help you, sir? the woman behind the counter asked him. if i recall, when you were last here you ordered a pink cake and an espresso. you have an excellent memory, madame, don carlos replied with a smile. this morning i will again have an espresso, but i will complement it with a white cake. don carlos took his espresso and white cake to the table next to the well groomed woman’s and sat down. a bleak morning, he observed to the woman. eva peron, for it was she, looked out the window. so it is. i had not really noticed. ah, you are absorbed in your own affairs, no doubt. no, i take a great interest in the doings of others, and pride myself on my knowledge of world affairs, particularly those involving the markets. i am a stranger here, don carlos smiled. are thre skies always so gray? and are the streets always so empty? perhaps the inhabitants stay up late. eva replied. and will come out and brighten the landscape with their smiling presence as the day gets on. i apologize if i bore you with my small talk. not at all, sir. i find interest in the smallest things. eva took a sip of her espresso. you are a philosopher. i prefer the humble description of observer. and what are you observing now, if i may ask? i observe that, threadbare as your suit is, it is of the finest cut and in the portugese style, perhaps from varino’s, the renowned tailor of lisbon. next

red moon over west virginia - 20. the sandwich

by jeremy witherington

part 20 of 36

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when pixie finished abusing gerald, she agreed to meet him at jenny’s truckstop. gerald made his way immediately to jenny’s, although he knew pixie would keep him waiting - if she showed up at all. gerald did not really care if she showed up or not, he just wanted to get out of his room, and out of the house. when gerald arrived at jenny’s he noticed sheriff jeanie bosworth’s squad car parked outside it. jeanie was inside at a table, talking to a woman gerald had never seen before. the woman looked liked a bum, the kind gerald thought should be run out of town. and she was not that young and had a big rear end that stretched her faded jeans - not gerald’s type at all. there were no other customers in the place. jenny was not behind the counter. a boy who looked about fifteen years old was. gerald suddenly realized he was hungry. so he ordered a sandwich along with his coffee, even though the food at jenny’s was not often up to his standards. he ordered a ham and cheese sandwich, with extra mustard , extra mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, pickles, onions, and cucumbers. he did not really want anything except the ham and cheese and a little mustard, but when he bought something he liked to feel he was getting his money’s worth. also, if the kid missed anything, it would give gerald a good excuse to give him a hard time. gerald sat down with his coffee to wait for his sandwich. he sat as far away from jeanie and her new friend as possible. the place was not that big, only seven tables, and four stools at the small counter. but he could still feel some feeble waves of jeanie’s contempt. gerald looked out at the night. but he could still see jeanie and her friend reflected in the glass. the woman looked like a bum, he thought again. the sheriff should be running such riff raff out of town, not buying them cups of coffee or whatever. she might have bought her a whole plate of ham and eggs! now the bum would move on and tell her friends what a friendly town it was and they should all check it out. he was paying his taxes for that? a new thought flashed through gerald’s head. in a few days, unless pixie could help him out somehow, he might be a bum himself! the thought, unlike any he had ever had before, made his head hurt. it was so unfair! it was enough to make him cry. he actually felt a tear coming on. but a man’s not supposed to cry, and he fought it back. the kid came over with his sandwich. here you are, sir, he said politely. the sandwich was exactly as gerald had requested. and the bread was not even stale, so he had nothing to complain about. gerald felt hatred for the young man welling up in him. so bleeping efficient! he would probably be president of the united states or some trillion dollar corporation when he, gerald, was lying in the street on skid row in san francisco or portland or someplace, with a broken leg from being hit a bus. would you like a refill of your coffee, sir? the kid asked. about fifteen years old, and he did not have a molecule of acne on his punk face. and he was going to be a billionaire. some people… gerald did not finish the thought, as another tear welled up in his eye. no thank you, gerald replied. he just wanted to be rid of the kid, and left alone with his grief. he bit into the sandwich. some of the extra mustard and extra mayonnaise mixed together and spurted out of the sandwich on to his chin. next

red moon over west virginia - 19. a friendly voice

by jeremy witherington

part 19 of 36

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pete pulled his truck up beside trixie. are you lost, miss? pete asked in his friendliest voice. pete had a very friendly voice, which he had worked on and perfected over many years. not at all. sir, trixie replied, waving her phone in the air so that pete could see it. she could hardly see pete’s face, but thought he looked vaguely familiar. but trixie was always thinking people looked familiar. she was paranoid, and had been studied by world class experts on paranoia. would you like a lift somewhere? pete asked her. no thank you, sir. i am staying at that motel - trixie pointed to the dark shadow of the motel with the phone - that motel down there and i just came out to get a little exercise. you looked like you were running away from something. ha ha! no, i was just doing a sprint. sprints are an essential part of my exercise routine. i see. well, in that case i wish you a good evening. a good morning actually as it is well after midnight. good morning to you too, sir, trixie replied in a no nonsense voice. pete drove off. trixie watched his headlights disappear around another bend in the highway, the bend she had chosen not to take. what was that all about? trixie wondered. she remembered the dead animal - had the man in the truck seen the dead animal? - and the voice! she decided to follow the advice of the world famous paranoia expert, who had studied her for a whole year, dr reich, and just forget about it and not look back. she continued walking briskly down the highway until she returned to the motel. somewhat to her surprise, there was a little light on at the front desk, and the little man who had signed her in was back at the desk. the little man - like all motel clerks, he was about five feet two inches tall and had a little mustache - watched trixie without expression as she approached him. excuse me, trixie said. yes? is there someplace around here where i can get a cup of coffee? maybe a donut or a sandwich or some pie? i mean that i could walk to. i walked up the road a way and could not find any. you must have walked right when you reached the road. yes, i did. that was where you made your mistake, the desk clerk replied solemnly. if you take a left, and then another left when you reach the crossroads, you will quickly come to jenny’s truckstop which is open twenty-four hours a day. and do they have good pie? the best in town. or so they tell me. i am not much of a pie person myself. thank you. should i go back out and try to find this place, trixie wondered. or should i just try to get some sleep? next

red moon over west virginia - 18. gerald and pixie

by jeremy witherington

part 18 of 36

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when gerald got back to his tiny room on the top floor (a room which had formerly been part of the servants quarters) the first thing he did was call pixie, the little floozie who was leading him inexorably to his doom. she did not pick up, so he just left a message, call me. he lay back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. the ceiling sloped downward so sharply that it had taken him a long time to master maneuvering around in the little room without constantly banging his head. gerald wondered if he should bother to text pixie. he knew from experience that she almost never read the texts - just noted that he had sent them - so whatever he had written he had to repeat when she called or texted him back. he decided not to text her but to wallow in his misery, and recount to himself, for the thousandth time, the circumstances which had brought him to his present unhappy situation. besides, what could pixie do for him? what would she do for him, if she knew or thought he was broke? so maybe he should not say anything to her about being cut off by aunt agrippina. maybe it was best if she did not know or suspect anything. on the other hand…. pixie was the only “streetwise” person he knew, the only one who might help him navigate his way at all, if he really did find himself “out on the street”… it was a conundrum. and it was something he had to think about too, and gerald did not like to have to think. how unfair it was all was! and it was all terence’s fault ! it was terence, his miserable older brother, and not himself, gerald, or any of the other harcourt siblings or cousins, who had brought the estate so low that aunt agrippina would even think of throwing any of them out in the street. but what did terence care? the “golden boy”, the “twinkly-eyed rascal” that everybody “loved”, was safe and warm in the harcourt family mausoleum, without a care in the world. gerald’s phone vibrated. it was pixie. you called me? yes. about what? um - i was just lonely. lonely? you called me because you were bleeping lonely? i’m sorry. sorry? i will tell you what you can do with your sorry. pixie launched into a stream of vicious vituperative abuse, of the kind that was expected of her, and that gerald loved so much. next