Chapter 11: In Its Moon Net
By Allen Frost
Night fell on the city early. With the lightship out of the way the harbor let a blanket of thick fog pile in. It came steadily over the waves, shored stone beaches, rolled up into the leaning red armed madrona hills, crawled down and followed the roads leading to town. Cars stopped on the street, their amber lamps were no use. Something with a life of its own had invaded.
So it was a ghostly walk that Frances took to get to the Lucky Note. The fog was thick enough she could lift her feet off the ground and float for a moment. Air thick enough to swim in. She could wave her arms like a windmill and make snow-angel shapes follow in her wake. Everything was captured in its moon net. Shapes loomed and gloomed and vanished, paging in and out of the white. She heard a trolley that wasn’t there, it could have been a mile away, but the sound carried to her. Other sounds, all kinds of sounds, echoed and wandered became memories that caught and couldn’t get out. The whole haunted town had been absorbed and embalmed by a hungry creature sent from the Sargasso, the Sea of Lost Ships.
Whatever dangers of whirlpools, shark dead ends, or broken rocks may have stopped others, Frances made it through to the fragile melody of a trumpet coming from an orange window pumpkin eye cut glowing in the dark. A Cornelius Barter ballad reeled out like a blind flower seller feeling from curb to corner. He was in there spinning and she was pulled to the door of the Lucky Note.
She had not been gone for more than ten seconds when loose chips of brick shook on the road. A cobblestone rat fled behind a garbage can and soon a noise transformed into the sight of Sam Samsara’s monsooning car. It submarined to a halt in the alley. Slain fog streaked and beaded off its silver aerodynamic hull. When it shut down there was a groan of engine death, silence, then a deep breath later the sound turned up again. Cornelius Barter was singing, “Oh you crazy moon, you broke my heart.”
Sam left the car carried by the swirls of roiling cloud. George watched him go propelled and buoyed gently to the club. The door opened, a blast of jazz, then closed and George was left alone.
The open cab bristled with the atmosphere. Fog sparked on his face like some watery form of electricity. George was finally coming out of a long day’s dream and he needed a minute to gather himself. He lifted an arm, poked the radio button, focused on the little green glow of the dial.
“—broadcasting to all the ships at sea and our armed forces everywhere. Folks, before I sign off our Dos Pedros program this evening, may I remind you of this. The used fats that you’re saving up, while it’s swell that you are saving them, but remember they won’t do anybody a speck of good as long as you keep them in your icebox. Please turn them in. As soon as you have a can that’s full. Not in a glass container please. Any tin can will do. You’ll be paid in cash and receive two red points for each pound of used fats that you turn in. Thank you. And goodnight!” An orchestra swelled up into the mariachi theme song. George turned the radio off. The first clear thought he had all day bloomed in his head. A picture of a can with Green 17.
Night fell on the city early. With the lightship out of the way the harbor let a blanket of thick fog pile in. It came steadily over the waves, shored stone beaches, rolled up into the leaning red armed madrona hills, crawled down and followed the roads leading to town. Cars stopped on the street, their amber lamps were no use. Something with a life of its own had invaded.
So it was a ghostly walk that Frances took to get to the Lucky Note. The fog was thick enough she could lift her feet off the ground and float for a moment. Air thick enough to swim in. She could wave her arms like a windmill and make snow-angel shapes follow in her wake. Everything was captured in its moon net. Shapes loomed and gloomed and vanished, paging in and out of the white. She heard a trolley that wasn’t there, it could have been a mile away, but the sound carried to her. Other sounds, all kinds of sounds, echoed and wandered became memories that caught and couldn’t get out. The whole haunted town had been absorbed and embalmed by a hungry creature sent from the Sargasso, the Sea of Lost Ships.
Whatever dangers of whirlpools, shark dead ends, or broken rocks may have stopped others, Frances made it through to the fragile melody of a trumpet coming from an orange window pumpkin eye cut glowing in the dark. A Cornelius Barter ballad reeled out like a blind flower seller feeling from curb to corner. He was in there spinning and she was pulled to the door of the Lucky Note.
She had not been gone for more than ten seconds when loose chips of brick shook on the road. A cobblestone rat fled behind a garbage can and soon a noise transformed into the sight of Sam Samsara’s monsooning car. It submarined to a halt in the alley. Slain fog streaked and beaded off its silver aerodynamic hull. When it shut down there was a groan of engine death, silence, then a deep breath later the sound turned up again. Cornelius Barter was singing, “Oh you crazy moon, you broke my heart.”
Sam left the car carried by the swirls of roiling cloud. George watched him go propelled and buoyed gently to the club. The door opened, a blast of jazz, then closed and George was left alone.
The open cab bristled with the atmosphere. Fog sparked on his face like some watery form of electricity. George was finally coming out of a long day’s dream and he needed a minute to gather himself. He lifted an arm, poked the radio button, focused on the little green glow of the dial.
“—broadcasting to all the ships at sea and our armed forces everywhere. Folks, before I sign off our Dos Pedros program this evening, may I remind you of this. The used fats that you’re saving up, while it’s swell that you are saving them, but remember they won’t do anybody a speck of good as long as you keep them in your icebox. Please turn them in. As soon as you have a can that’s full. Not in a glass container please. Any tin can will do. You’ll be paid in cash and receive two red points for each pound of used fats that you turn in. Thank you. And goodnight!” An orchestra swelled up into the mariachi theme song. George turned the radio off. The first clear thought he had all day bloomed in his head. A picture of a can with Green 17.
posted by Miguel at 1:39 PM
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