(no subject)
Hi, de_nugis!
We haven't had much chance yet to get to know each other, but you seem like a wonderful person who deserves all the gifts in the world. And your friends love you and have organized this nice thing for you! So, here are my two cents. I'm sorry that RL has been so sucky for you! Let it take a turn for the best sometime very soon.
On the first day of December Mr. Phinney comes to an understanding that the winter is going to be long, and cold. The cold has stopped bothering him over a century ago but he’s worried and uncomfortable for those unfortunates stranded without a shelter.
Still, there isn’t much one long-deceased gentleman can do about the weather.
As it is his tradition on the first day of calendar winter, Mr. Phinney makes his rounds of the city. Going too far from his land is difficult but he does his best, making it all the way to the center of a floating bridge over the lake on the east. They built the bridge long after he died, and Mr. Phinney doesn’t know what it’s called. He tries to read city signs sometimes but the letters are blurry to his eyes, and the writings become more and more obscure as the time goes by. For instance, what does “Metallica” mean? Is that a new alloy? Strange.
The sky darkens quickly, before Mr. Phinney has time to finish his rounds. He walks through the evening gloom, taking special notice of vacated buildings, construction sites and discarded food and drink on park benches, in alley ways and on top of garbage cans. He invents clever memory tricks to help him remember and walks on.
Mother Damnable throws rocks at him and swears up a storm when he passes her building. What a disagreeable woman. Still, one can understand her anxiety over losing her land. Mr. Phinney tips his hat to her, ditches a rock and walks on. The young woman on the floating bridge waves to him. The four firemen look slightly confused again, and Mr. Phinney stops to talk to them for a minute before starting back towards his native Woodland Park.
By the time he’s done with the rounds and all the aluminum cans have been noted and counted, it’s past two in the morning. Needless to say, at such an hour Mr. Phinney is surprised to see two boys climbing over the zoo’s wall.
The short one - the shorter one, Mr. Phinney corrects himself, as the boy is still over six feet tall - jumps down first and hold out his arms. His friend drops a large bundle into his arms, and the shorter boy makes an ooph noise and almost drops it. The bundle must be heavy. Mr. Phinney sure does hope that the boys aren’t hurting any animals, for it is the damndest thing to hurt a defenseless beast. He comes a little closer while the taller boy is climbing down the wall, but the thing in the bundle smells so hideous, so unnatural, that Mr. Phinney backs away again.
“Come on, Sam,” says the first one. “This shit is heavy.”
“Yeah.” The other boy - Sam - picks up one end of the bundle, and they shuffle through the park awkwardly, cradling the thing between them. Mr. Phinney follows, out of curiosity.
They make it down several yards before the shorter one groans and scrunches up his face in pain, almost dropping the bundle.
“Dean, what? What is it?”
“Back hurts. Okay, we’re putting it down.”
“Take it easy.”
They dump their load on the ground by a park bench and sit down. The one called Dean squirms and presses a hand to his back while his friend fidgets. “You said it was all better, jerk. Jesus, what are you trying to do?”
“Well, I thought it was better.”
“Great.”
“Yeah, just-“ Dean bats Sam’s hands away and rests his elbows on his knees. “Let’s just sit for a minute, okay?”
Sam sighs but settles down, with his foot on the tarp-wrapped thing on the ground, as if he’s afraid it might escape. Dean lights a cigarette and sits silently, blowing out smoke through his nose. Sam is quiet, too, lost in his thoughts. Mr. Phinney taps into their thoughts gently and tries to follow their trail home and, oh. Oh. They’re homeless.
He retreats to the northern side of the park where someone left an almost full cup of coffee, carries it across the park and gently places it next to Sam’s thigh on the bench.
They both jump a mile. Mr. Phinney gets that a lot. “Gentlemen,” he says, to put them at ease. “Good evening to you both.”
“I don’t have any salt,” Dean says. “Sam, you have any salt?”
“No,” Sam says. “Hi?”
“I am Mr. Phinney. Please, help yourself to this delightful coffee.”
They look at each other, still not touching the cup. Young people are so nervous these days, Mr. Phinney has noticed, and always in such a hurry. No time to stand still and observe the nature and the city on the first day of winter.
“There is no need to be alarmed,” he says, because the young men still haven’t said anything. “I am only an old gentleman. Please. Sit down. Enjoy the moment.”
“Yeah, actually, there is,” Dean says. “You are a freaking-I mean, you are-.” He and Sam look at each other again. Sam shrugs, and they sit down.
“Well,” says Sam. “So, Mr. Phinney. You out for a walk?”
Mr. Phinney smiles at them and positions himself comfortably, seated in midair. It’s a trick he spent years learning, as long as it took them to build the floating bridge. Now that he’s back on his haunting grounds, he feels light and comfortable. “I am keeping an eye on things. Making sure good folk have food to eat, and a place to sleep.”
They look as though they’re humoring him. Mr. Phinney doesn’t hold it against them, though he wonders why it is that young people seem to insist upon treating their elders as children. This holds especially true when the elders concerned are long deceased.
Dean clears his throat. He has stopped rubbing his lower back, which fills Mr. Phinney’s dead heart with joy. Dean says, “That’s nice of you.”
“Say.” Mr. Phinney snaps his fingers, cursing his old memory for its sluggishness. “A new homeless shelter has just opened on the 5th Street. Have you gentlemen been by yet?”
“What do you want with a homeless shelter?” Sam frowns.
“It is warm and very comfortable. I highly recommend it.”
They look at one another again, which they seem to do a lot. They must be brothers.
“What, for us?” Dean says, just as Sam says, “No, no, we’re not homeless.”
Just then, they’re thinking so loud that Mr. Phinney can hear all of it. They think of a big black car, which is somehow more black in Dean’s thoughts and bigger in Sam’s, and of each other in the car, only Dean is larger and Sam is happier, and they think of roads, which look the same for them. Mr. Phinney sees all the roads they’ve seen, and the image fills him with awe and horror for a brief moment, before joy overtakes him. It’s so easy to forget how expansive one’s country is when one is an old spook haunting a city park.
“Not a word more,” he says, putting up a hand to stop whatever Sam has opened his mouth to say. “I see that somebody else might have better use of the homeless shelter. Good night to you, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Nice meeting you, Mr. Phinney,” says Sam. He extends his hand, but catches himself and drops it again.
“You do good work,” Dean says. They stand up together and bend to pick up the foul-smelling wrap from the ground again.
“So do you.”
They aren’t paying attention to him anymore. “Okay,” Dean says, looking at his brother over the wrapped body of the dead monster. “Home?”
Sam nods. “Home.”
(Photo stolen from Komo News)
We haven't had much chance yet to get to know each other, but you seem like a wonderful person who deserves all the gifts in the world. And your friends love you and have organized this nice thing for you! So, here are my two cents. I'm sorry that RL has been so sucky for you! Let it take a turn for the best sometime very soon.
On the first day of December Mr. Phinney comes to an understanding that the winter is going to be long, and cold. The cold has stopped bothering him over a century ago but he’s worried and uncomfortable for those unfortunates stranded without a shelter.
Still, there isn’t much one long-deceased gentleman can do about the weather.
As it is his tradition on the first day of calendar winter, Mr. Phinney makes his rounds of the city. Going too far from his land is difficult but he does his best, making it all the way to the center of a floating bridge over the lake on the east. They built the bridge long after he died, and Mr. Phinney doesn’t know what it’s called. He tries to read city signs sometimes but the letters are blurry to his eyes, and the writings become more and more obscure as the time goes by. For instance, what does “Metallica” mean? Is that a new alloy? Strange.
The sky darkens quickly, before Mr. Phinney has time to finish his rounds. He walks through the evening gloom, taking special notice of vacated buildings, construction sites and discarded food and drink on park benches, in alley ways and on top of garbage cans. He invents clever memory tricks to help him remember and walks on.
Mother Damnable throws rocks at him and swears up a storm when he passes her building. What a disagreeable woman. Still, one can understand her anxiety over losing her land. Mr. Phinney tips his hat to her, ditches a rock and walks on. The young woman on the floating bridge waves to him. The four firemen look slightly confused again, and Mr. Phinney stops to talk to them for a minute before starting back towards his native Woodland Park.
By the time he’s done with the rounds and all the aluminum cans have been noted and counted, it’s past two in the morning. Needless to say, at such an hour Mr. Phinney is surprised to see two boys climbing over the zoo’s wall.
The short one - the shorter one, Mr. Phinney corrects himself, as the boy is still over six feet tall - jumps down first and hold out his arms. His friend drops a large bundle into his arms, and the shorter boy makes an ooph noise and almost drops it. The bundle must be heavy. Mr. Phinney sure does hope that the boys aren’t hurting any animals, for it is the damndest thing to hurt a defenseless beast. He comes a little closer while the taller boy is climbing down the wall, but the thing in the bundle smells so hideous, so unnatural, that Mr. Phinney backs away again.
“Come on, Sam,” says the first one. “This shit is heavy.”
“Yeah.” The other boy - Sam - picks up one end of the bundle, and they shuffle through the park awkwardly, cradling the thing between them. Mr. Phinney follows, out of curiosity.
They make it down several yards before the shorter one groans and scrunches up his face in pain, almost dropping the bundle.
“Dean, what? What is it?”
“Back hurts. Okay, we’re putting it down.”
“Take it easy.”
They dump their load on the ground by a park bench and sit down. The one called Dean squirms and presses a hand to his back while his friend fidgets. “You said it was all better, jerk. Jesus, what are you trying to do?”
“Well, I thought it was better.”
“Great.”
“Yeah, just-“ Dean bats Sam’s hands away and rests his elbows on his knees. “Let’s just sit for a minute, okay?”
Sam sighs but settles down, with his foot on the tarp-wrapped thing on the ground, as if he’s afraid it might escape. Dean lights a cigarette and sits silently, blowing out smoke through his nose. Sam is quiet, too, lost in his thoughts. Mr. Phinney taps into their thoughts gently and tries to follow their trail home and, oh. Oh. They’re homeless.
He retreats to the northern side of the park where someone left an almost full cup of coffee, carries it across the park and gently places it next to Sam’s thigh on the bench.
They both jump a mile. Mr. Phinney gets that a lot. “Gentlemen,” he says, to put them at ease. “Good evening to you both.”
“I don’t have any salt,” Dean says. “Sam, you have any salt?”
“No,” Sam says. “Hi?”
“I am Mr. Phinney. Please, help yourself to this delightful coffee.”
They look at each other, still not touching the cup. Young people are so nervous these days, Mr. Phinney has noticed, and always in such a hurry. No time to stand still and observe the nature and the city on the first day of winter.
“There is no need to be alarmed,” he says, because the young men still haven’t said anything. “I am only an old gentleman. Please. Sit down. Enjoy the moment.”
“Yeah, actually, there is,” Dean says. “You are a freaking-I mean, you are-.” He and Sam look at each other again. Sam shrugs, and they sit down.
“Well,” says Sam. “So, Mr. Phinney. You out for a walk?”
Mr. Phinney smiles at them and positions himself comfortably, seated in midair. It’s a trick he spent years learning, as long as it took them to build the floating bridge. Now that he’s back on his haunting grounds, he feels light and comfortable. “I am keeping an eye on things. Making sure good folk have food to eat, and a place to sleep.”
They look as though they’re humoring him. Mr. Phinney doesn’t hold it against them, though he wonders why it is that young people seem to insist upon treating their elders as children. This holds especially true when the elders concerned are long deceased.
Dean clears his throat. He has stopped rubbing his lower back, which fills Mr. Phinney’s dead heart with joy. Dean says, “That’s nice of you.”
“Say.” Mr. Phinney snaps his fingers, cursing his old memory for its sluggishness. “A new homeless shelter has just opened on the 5th Street. Have you gentlemen been by yet?”
“What do you want with a homeless shelter?” Sam frowns.
“It is warm and very comfortable. I highly recommend it.”
They look at one another again, which they seem to do a lot. They must be brothers.
“What, for us?” Dean says, just as Sam says, “No, no, we’re not homeless.”
Just then, they’re thinking so loud that Mr. Phinney can hear all of it. They think of a big black car, which is somehow more black in Dean’s thoughts and bigger in Sam’s, and of each other in the car, only Dean is larger and Sam is happier, and they think of roads, which look the same for them. Mr. Phinney sees all the roads they’ve seen, and the image fills him with awe and horror for a brief moment, before joy overtakes him. It’s so easy to forget how expansive one’s country is when one is an old spook haunting a city park.
“Not a word more,” he says, putting up a hand to stop whatever Sam has opened his mouth to say. “I see that somebody else might have better use of the homeless shelter. Good night to you, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Nice meeting you, Mr. Phinney,” says Sam. He extends his hand, but catches himself and drops it again.
“You do good work,” Dean says. They stand up together and bend to pick up the foul-smelling wrap from the ground again.
“So do you.”
They aren’t paying attention to him anymore. “Okay,” Dean says, looking at his brother over the wrapped body of the dead monster. “Home?”
Sam nods. “Home.”
(Photo stolen from Komo News)