Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Gobble, Gobble

Rainy Day Women #1 and #2
My Attempt To Return The Bags
After giving the purse which had information about Michelle (to whom I will give a fictitious name, and heretofore refer to as "Liz" (to protect her privacy and save keystrokes) to a cop at the Shell station (which every local calls the BP station, because it once was,) and seeing no signs of enthusiasm in his deportment, and hearing him tell me that I "might as well throw it in the dumpster," I decided to try to find Liz on Facebook.
Finding her was easy, as there was only one person on Facebook with the same first and last names and middle initial, who mentioned "having my pocketbook stolen" as one of her "interests."
I left a message in which I mentioned that I play at a certain time each night, more or less, at a certain spot, which is the acoustically superior spot.
It began to rain profusely, as I left the library and prepared to listen to Monday night football. (I would capitalize all of the preceding, but I think that is no longer the trademark of that particular broadcast. I think now it is called "Football For Those Who Have Digital Televisions, And Who Have Purchased Certain Add-On Packages To Go With Their Basic Cable Subscriptions," but anyways...)
The rainfall kept me confined to sitting on one of the trolleys, under its roof, and listening to the game on my cheap AM radio, for at least an hour, after which I sallied forth and turned my steps towards the bright lights of Downtown Mobile.
It Is I, Come Follow Me To Your Bags
The Story Of How I Returned The Bags
Once upon a time, in a land far away, there were hardly any people out, and I decided to get a beer and continue to listen to the game inside the gazebo in Bienville Park. It was there that I heard a young lady's voice call "Daniel?"
I answered hesitantly, thinking that the owner of the voice probably wanted a cigarette. The fact that she had somehow learned my name was kind of  curious, and the thought ran through my mind that she may have read some book like How To Win Friends And Influence People, and made it a point to know my name and include it in her request for a cigarette, as a means of garnering my favor and making me feel important and flattered, thus putting me in a generous mood. I was on guard against this play upon my ego, when I answered from the bowel of the gazebo, 'Yes?"
"Are you the guy that Facebooked my mother," asked the same voice. "
"About the bags?" I asked, and this had the immediate effect of causing two teen aged girls to materialize and come bounding up the steps and to the gate of the gazebo. They were dressed as some teenage girls do, in short skirts and in tee shirts which  had communications written artistically upon them, affording anyone to look upon their bosoms for an inappropriate amount of time, so long as the gawker speaks the words "What does your shirt say??" while doing so, types of shirts. There hair seemed to be dyed, and they each had a tasteful amount of body piercings and tattoos. Neither one was carrying a handbag.
It was decided, following their suggestion, that we would walk to the place where I had hidden the bags, and we did so, while along the way, I told them the adventure of me finding them. They told me that they already knew that the phone was gone out of one of the bags, because they had called it and it was answered by someone who told them that; No, they couldn't have their phone back.
It began to rain lightly as we were about half way to the spot where I had hidden the bags, and I lamented that this was my third incident of being caught in the rain that day.
We got to the dark road which ran alongside the abandoned building alongside of which I had found the bags. The girls walked with me, and as we distanced ourselves from the neon light of the Shell sign, they stepped up their inquiries, as as to the exact location of the bags. I pointed to the spot, behind the abandoned warehouse; a clump of trees growing up out of a patch of tall grass. The spot was almost occluded entirely by the shadows and the fog. It would have been easier to discern it, had it had some yellow crime-scene tape strung up around it, I wondered if the girls were thinking. 
Ahead, about a quarter mile, glowing eerily in the fog and drizzle was the loading dock, from which emanates the constant hum of machinery (just loud enough to drown out the sound of a young girl's scream).
I stopped short of the spot, and suggested that the girls wait there, by a large puddle in the road, while I went into the stand of trees, which was now just 30 feet away, and retrieved the bags. My boots were waterproof, I said.
I found the bags where I had laid them the day before and, as I pulled them out of the tall grass and into enough light so that the girl and her friend recognised them, I was applauded and thanked, and also got to hear some pretty heartfelt sounding gratitude expressed towards God, by both of them. It seemed like a veil over the road behind the warehouse by the loading dock lifted for a second, and it suddenly seemed less of  "God Forsaken" place.
We then hurriedly got the hell out of there, before someone came along and murdered us.
The girls took inventory of the remains of their once proud handbags, as we walked back towards Bienville Park. There was a general consensus among them that, despite losing cash and a cell phone, the lost thereof was satisfactorily compensated by having present their "make-up."
"Oh, yes, my makeup is still here!!" said the friend, who hadn't spoken much, throughout the frolic.
We got back to Bienville Park, where it was revealed that they had a car parked on Dauphin Street. I told them that they had done a prudent thing, in not offering to let a stranger into their car to ride him to a desolate spot where handbags had purportedly been hidden. They gave me 5 dollars. The friend hugged me. They said that they would have liked to have given me more, but that they had lost cash which had been in the bags.
I said that that was alright, as they had given me a great idea for a story about someone who steals teenage girl's bags and then uses them to lure them to their kidnappings and enslavement in the sex trade.
They expressed that they thought that this was a good premise for a story. They must have suddenly remembered a commitment somewhere else, as they then got into the car and left rather abruptly.
And that is how I returned the bags. THE END
The Garage
After returning the bags, I went to The Garage, thinking that I might have some material to play at their open mic. I wasn't going to spend money on beer there, preferring instead to run to the store and buy it at a discount. I figured that I would offer some music as compensation for sitting and watching the end of the game on their TV. If I could get one or two people to come back to the bar to hear me again, and those people spent money, then I would have paid my way, in my estimation. But, there were a lot of musicians, and they "hogged" the stage playing Blues, after Blues, and I eventually left.
I Play Chess Like A Turkey
There was a Thanksgiving service at Jeff The Potter's church. He came and got me at the library, and we hung out at his house, went to the service after eating turkey and cranberry and pecan pie before hand.
Jeff and I wound up playing chess at his house afterwards and I lost a small advantage that I had in the middle game, by making a move which I had initially thought would lead to his demise, then noticed that it wouldn't (necessarily) but then made anyways, without having analysed it. I wound up losing the game.
I slept until about 10am. this morning. Now I contemplate getting some spring water and raisins and having oatmeal by the railroad tracks with honey, and maybe something else like cinnamon or ginger added, because it is Thanksgiving Day tomorrow, after all.
Lidgley's Parcel
The Lidgleys may send a Christmas parcel from London. It will not have to have any Karrie related items in it this year.

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