Club 747, the Big Twenty, and "Special Shoes"...

In the early eighties, when Jane Fonda was at her fitness guru height, and the twenty minute workout reigned at afterwork breaktime, and in the twenty minutes we somehow found before getting ready for work in the morning, dancing was actually a fashionable, and social, activity. Not satisfied to just stand and down as many alcoholic drinks as possible, part of the challenge of fashion choices involved picking something that would actually absorb the amount of perspiration which you were sure to excrete, during an evening of "shaking it".

While attending Brock University, in St. Catharines, Ontario, Canada, my man and I were wont to haunt a favourite dancing venue called "Club 747", located across the river in Buffalo, U.S.A.: a unique disco club which was shaped like an airplane inside - complete with seats and tables reminiscent of same, except for the huge dance floor in the middle of the "plane".

One weekend, exhausted from gruelling schedules and an inordinate amount of stress and tests, we decided to jump in the Forest green Honda hatchback, with the second of two blown-out engines in it, and head off to the "dream of flying"....two steps, and a few romantic shimmies closer, to somewhere warm and wonderful. My man, however, red headeded, red bearded, and delightfully scatterbrainedly, in his usual long-distance-runner fashion, had forgotten that the dress code was semi formal, and, as we entered the lobby of the hotel, and headed towards the entrance to the dance club, the bouncer - a huge man named, appropriately, "Tiny", looked balefully at my guy's running shoes, squinted painfully, and shook his head. We backed away from the entrance, with Blue Beard looking rather sheepishly at me, and apologizing profusely for forgetting to change his shoes.

"What in the world are we doing to do?" I said, out loud, shaking my head. This was long before Walmart and 24 hour available malls boasting both dance shoes and endless open hours of shopping convenience. Retail, and the world, shut down at six, and the doors clicked shut firmly until Monday morning. We were doomed.

"I could borrow someone's shoes", said Mur, suddenly, his eyes brightening, and a smile lighting up his face. He grinned. "I mean, I could rent them. We're in a hotel! Surely someone will lend me their shoes for four hours."

I looked at his face, laughing. This was not the first time he had come up with an unusual solution to a would-be mishap. I liked the idea on principle: no one would probably believe it, if we actually succeeded.

The first would-be person entering the hotel lobby looked at us ruefully, raising his head slightlly to catch what he was sure would be the overpowering smell of alcohol. When he realized we were serious about paying him twenty dollars to borrow his shoes for the night, and sober, he stared at us oddly, his head in a kind of slow swizzle, which caused him to almost bang into a pole, as he walked confusedly towards the checkin area of the hotel. I doubt anyone had ever asked him anything unusual at all, judging from the response we got.

The second man looked at his shoes, looked at Mur, looked at me, rolled his eyes, and said, "Are you nuts?"....and walked STRAIGHT into the pole. I felt rather bad at this, and said so to him. He shuffled quickly towards the desk, nursing his head, where he'd bashed it on the pole. There was a huge red mark, like a thumb print, in the middle of his forehead, as if he'd been stamped like a passport. The desk clerk looked at him oddly, as he sidled up with his baggage, casting furtive glances at us over his shoulder. We thought we were goners, when a whispered conversation with the clerk had him peering suspiciously at us, squinting myopically from the desk, in case we were trying to mug guests entering the lobby.

Finally, number three brought a sense of humour, if a somewhat testy size match. Mur looked balefully at me, while he chewed on his lip, as he sized up the man's feet, and we approached like Hari Krishnas on a gentle mission of peace, waving the twenty dollar bill like a flag of possibility between friends.

"Hi there!" said Mur brightly. "How'd you like to make twenty bucks?". I winced at the open joviality. The man looked at me strangely, and Mur cleared his throat.

"ER....um...it's not what you think." He looked at me, apologetically. "Could I, um, rent your shoes for the night? My girl and I drove all the way from Canada to come dancing at the 747, and I, um...wore running shoes accidentally. They won't let us in the club."

The man, a somewhat portly gentleman with feet approximately a half size smaller than Mur's, smiled, finally, sizing me up, and looked at us affectionately.

"Rent my shoes, eh?" He chuckled. "Well, now, that's about the strangest thing anyone's ever asked me." He looked at both of us. "Pretty damned funny, you crazy Canadian kids. You could probably buy a new pair for that much money, son." He looked at Mur kindly, reached into his carryon luggage, and pulled out a shoe bag. Opening it, Mur pulled out one plain, shiny, lace up black Oxford.

"Think mebbe they'll be a bit tight, but loosen up the laces a bit, and you'll be alright. You can hang the shoe bag on Room 48." He turned to go, stopped, and then took a step towards us. "And I'll leave YOUR shoes outside my door after twelve, just so's I know I'll get mine back, if you don't mind." He held out his hand for them. Mur grinned. He'd never had his shoes taken hostage before. It was kind of unique.

He sat down in the middle of the lobby, put the man's shoes on, and handed his over, along with the twenty dollar bill. The man headed towards his hotel room, whistling and tucking the twenty dollar bill in his pocket. He swung the running shoes from his hand, which he had tied together, like a cradle. The desk clerk, surveying the scene, waved and grinned.

"Found some!" he called from the desk. He gave a thumbs up, and winked. Mur laughed out loud, as he stood up, tucked my hand under his arm, and headed towards the club entrance.

"How are they?" I said, worriedly. He sighed, looked at me, and kissed my cheek.

"They're too tight", he said, cheerfully. "I'll have blisters tomorrow for sure." He grinned. "Let's go, baby."

Tiny looked at us oddly, as we appeared at the door again, looked at Mur's feet, and waved us in, smiling.

Approximately an hour later, when the pain of a half size had begun to shred the skin on the outside of his toes, Tiny also said nothing when we spent the rest of the evening with me dancing with a sock-footed partner. Apparently, the desk clerk had told him the whole thing, because he pointed at the shoes, held up his wallet, and smiled, when we both looked worried that we might get kicked out.

The socks were never the same again, having cut a rug for four solid hours, but as the last dance sounded, we swayed our last slow groove, and then tiptoed down the hallway towards the room where Mur's running shoes had been taken hostage, we arrived to find the following note hung on the doorknob:

"Happy Valentine's Day. I hope I get invited to the wedding." The twenty dollar bill was taped to the "Do Not Disturb" sign, and the running shoes were placed neatly, toes outward, waiting for their owner. Laughing quietly, we hung the bag with the dress shoes on the doorknob, tucked the sign, and the twenty back into the shoe, as promised, and wrote two x's, and two o's underneath with a pencil I fished out of my purse.

"Way better than bowling", said Mur, dryly, as we headed towards the parking lot, hugging me. I laughed, and hugged him back.

Bear Jest...A Story in Parts Several by Dawn M. Nevills Part 1 The Meeting.

Scene: Shrouded highway, amidst overhanging trees, precarious turns, and the swirling winds of autumn. It will shortly be evening, and the gloom, and the impending chill of night, is palpable, as the man bending over the steaming engine disgustedly rubs his hands together, sighs quietly, slams down the hood, looks around for an oncoming vehicle, and then stares at his shoes for a moment, resigned to a rather chilly walk in the darkness. Struggling, he opens the trunk, instead, pulls out a blanket, radio, and flashlight, crawls into the backseat, and settles in for an impromptu, if somewhat cramped, night's sleep. 

The tiny transistor he has propped up on the headrest of the seat in front of him, passenger side, rather naturally mists into a memory too soon, the forlorn wail of Chet Baker and Angel Eyes fading into crackle, static, and omnipresent conscience.


-----------------------------------------------

He watched her face for a moment, holding his finger to his mouth, perplexed. He was uncomfortable, in control of himself, as usual.....and.....not, suddenly. He rubbed the back of his neck. The hairs had begun to stand on end.

She was not terribly attractive, he decided, but ....interesting, to him: stimulating. When she turned, suddenly, to reveal a surprising swell of breast, he felt a surprise surge, and cleared his throat. Suddenly, she looked up - and straight into his face, enquiringly, the spectacles framing an amused and twinkling gaze. It was a rather unusual first connection between eyes. He knew, with complete certainty, that she knew he had an erection. She smiled at that exact instant.

She blew on her tea, comfortably, leaning back in her chair. She was tired - and completely at ease. He was not. He wanted to grab her tea, suddenly, and throw it out the window.

"Why me?", he said, at last, quietly.

"You required me", she said, softly, without a beat. Then she resumed drinking her tea, nonplussed. He didn't know what to say, next. He hadn't expected her to answer. He was still hung over.

"You're very odd", he said, relenting.

"No", she said, gently, "I just don't need anything from you. That's probably something which you are distinctly unused to, in a woman, I expect." She looked at him kindly - not patronizingly - and cocked her head slightly to one side.

"Hung over?" His face went slightly warm, and it made him annoyed. She continued.

"..."besides"....she looked at him, appraisingly, and her voice was a little softer, now..."you're very sweet."

"How do you know?" He was embarassed at blurting out something at her. He never did things like that. His cheeks were flaming, and his head began to pound out a two step.

"I"....I have no idea why I just blurted that out. I don't even know you."

She was totally unfazed. Her smile was enigmatic. Her eyes had a green glint to them, suddenly, and flashed in the afternoon sunlight of the dingy little cafe like a mild tornado warning. He felt rather lightheaded, looking at them.

"You obviously needed a response, that's all. We used to do that all the time for each other, as human beings, before the stifling constraints of social habit intruded rudely into our natural inclination to communicate." She stopped speaking, abruptly, and sipped at her tea, the statement at an end. 

He felt less uncomfortable, strangely, although he wasn't sure if he was awake, suddenly. He yanked at his arm, pinching himself, hard. She watched him, curiously, raising her eyebrows as he winced at the self inflicted reality check.

"....before it became an oddity of mechanics, devoid of purpose, art, love, question, or conceit."

She paused, as he stared at her, wide awake, now. She continued.

"There is, after all, more art to medicine, than the pure science we are told results in healing. It is in the art that the healing comes. It connects to itself, in another human being: the mechanics merely provide the vehicle by which we follow instructions to proceed. We respond to that, as we allow the other "mechanics", and tools of purpose, to work on our ills, you know......" She clamped her mouth shut, sitting back, mildly, and took a long swallow of liquid, holding the cup firmly, and staring at him, interestedly, over the top of it, through her spectacles.

His mouth was slightly ajar, and his hair was sticking up, where he had run his hands through it. His headache had begun to recede. A little sound of air escaped him; a kind of laugh/breath/gush of air, as if he wasn't aggravated, wasn't disgusted - only completely unknowing, as to what to do next, rather like an apologetic fart: unnecessary, and explanatory.

"Have we met?" he blurted out, suddenly, again. "I mean..of course we've met. I just remet you. I mean...Geez, it's like Spock, or something...I ..find you...I ...don't know what I find you. Do you always speak in paragraphs, like that?"

Suddenly he turned, to find the waitress standing openmouthed behind the counter, coffee pot in mid-pour. She looked at him, earnestly, pouring his coffee carefully, in direct opposition to her hasty, urgent whisper, audible within a twenty foot range.

"Mister, she's been coming in here for months. She doesn't say a damned thing. All she does is read." She looked at the bespectacled one, apologetically. "Sorry ma'am; didn't mean to be rude." She slammed the coffee pot back on the burner, and scurried into the back of the diner. The woman with the spectacles laughed softly.

"Well, I did order." 

He smiled at her brevity. A little grin was playing about the corner of her mouth, now. He thought she had enjoyed shocking the waitress, apparently, after all the time of being silent. He chuckled at the thought, then cleared his throat at the oddness of the moment. How the hell did he know what she thought? She was staring at the book in his hand.

"Bataille, is it? A somewhat....determined choice, if a little overt, in mixed company." 

He coughed, not realizing he had brought it in with him. Grabbing it, he started trying to shove it into his sweater - which worked out badly, unless he somehow could wedge it into his pants...and the whole gesture suddenly seemed somewhat obscene, like he had been caught masturbating in public. He yanked the book out of his pants, and his shirt pulled out. He stood up, knocked over the chair, dropped the book, bent over to pick it up, banged his head on the table, swore, tried to tuck his shirt in, and then just stood in front of her: shirt hanging out, holding his head, swearing, having ripped a hole in his favourite pullover with the staple sticking out of the frayed front cover on the book, completely aggravated, hung over, speechless, and smarting.

She began to giggle, uncharacteristically, got up from her chair, walked towards him, picked up the book, gently moved his hand from his head, kissed his face beside his left eye, where he had bashed himself, pulled up his sweater unceremoniously, stuck his shirt in his pants with her hand, pulled the sweater back down, as he stood there, shocked, smiled at him, and swung out of the cafe in a slightly halting, but determined, stride, as if she was fighting off an old injury.

He was still standing there, when the waitress walked back in.

"What's her name?" he said, finally, clearing his throat, as the waitress moved to the table where she had been sitting to clear the cup.

"I got no idea", she sighed, chomping at her gum. "Pays in cash. 'Cept she always leaves a tip, though." She winked at him, while he smoothed his hair back, and touched his hand beside his eye, suddenly.

"She'll be back next Saturday morning, for breakfast, 'bout nine".

He blew her a kiss, as he walked out the door, whistling. He'd never gone out for breakfast before; he was looking forward to it.

-----------------------------------------

......."Don't worry; be happy." The whistle was what he heard first, as he bashed his head against the door, waking to rub the side of head, the glowing green lights of the radio the only reminder of company, in the damp of the night.

"Shit", he said, softly, and laid back on the back seat, holding his head with both hands. He could still feel her lips on his face.

The Spoils of War

 True it is, that Rage feeds Evil, 

And all the appetites that urge a man to live are twisted into darkness, in the doing, 

Till even hunger, mined into a Pit of Wound, and tossed a weapon maggot into the seething chasm, feeds upon Itself, 

While the gold of busy Death is smelted with Men's bones. 

No light enters here; no blinking morning birds; no misted hills awash with greyed and tremulous dew,

Cooling the molten shrieks of maw and groan. 

The dry and rock-strewn ground is churned with builder's dust, 

And Men's "blood of endless new bloodings" stirs a grim and writhing mix of fluid and stone. 

 No corner anchor here,

Fulcrum-rich with echoed song, and storied awe,

Only grinding steel, and teeth, and flash, and shriek, silent in the ink, 'till even the canopy of Heaven

Would hide its True Star from Death's Jealous Touch, 

And Shroud the exploding fingers of steel with 

Omnipotent, Relentless, Defiant Tears of 

Tumult's Absence, in 

Mute, "Scream painted transmit", Celestial chiding, at the 

Doings of Men.      

The Nature and Reason of Commandment by Dawn M. Nevills

 I want to talk, today, about what it is like to be without those you love, and how this affects any community, no matter who it is, what they wear, what prayers they say, or who they say they hate. 

It might surprise you to know that those you have painted as worthy of a hate brush - your hate brush - do not hate you, wish you harm, wish you death, or wish you anything harmful at all: just freedom, safety, and mutual respect. 

I want to talk about thinking for yourself, apart from the fashionable, the misunderstood, the misinformed, and the misrepresented in society. 

I want to talk about how real political representation recognizes goodness no matter where it is, hatred of the innocent for what it is - abusive and exploitative, even when someone is doing this to YOU (and it is always made easy, like many defenseless targets caught in the grip and fervour and rage of war) - and the idea of Love and Hope amidst conflict.

I want to talk about possibility, and the Angels of our better natures, and the light and dreams and hopes of our youths, undiminished and shining brightly in our hearts, even now. 

I want to talk about Belief.

I want to talk about what envy does to a life of hard work and struggle, crushed in a moment of rage and jealousy, theft and destruction. I want to talk calmly, about the ten commandments:

1. You shalt have NO OTHER GODS before Me.

2. You shalt NOT worship an idol.

3. Do not take the Lord's name in vain.

4. Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it Holy.

5. Honour thy father and thy mother.

6. Thou shalt not commit murder.

7. Thou shalt not commit adultery.

8. Thou shalt not STEAL.

9. Thou shalt NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS. (LIE OR MISREPRESENT ANOTHER PERSON, OR FALSE TESTIMONY ABOUT THEM, THEIR CHARACTER, OR THEIR PERSON)

10. Thou shalt not COVET.

(COVET - one of the most difficult of the commandments during difficult times, and requiring tremendous self restraint, selflessness, and thought for others - is what one does when one is jealous of another's life, home, wealth, goods, family, children, wife, husband, income, life, country, perceived prosperity, and way of life, especially to the extent that you commit a sin against #8. In rage, when venting against another, and against perceived injustice, regarding the goods and property, life and prosperity of another that you feel YOU should have, COVETOUSNESS is used by all that is evil to convince you that your NOT having something is justification for you to destroy, steal, ruin, or deny access to someone else's. 

It is pervasive in society today, along with a sense of entitlement, a lack of respect for other human beings, and a lack of understanding about what someone has gone through, in their lives, to achieve even a modest measure of success and comfort for themselves and their families. 

We may never know what someone else has gone through, but victimizing and revictimizing people, even as they receive some measure of comfort from the first victimization, is spiritually excruciating, and not only repeats the offense, but mocks the idea that even some small comfort to help the person victimized should be free from those who prey upon the grieving, the damaged, the injured, the afflicted, and the anguished in what can only be described as a deeply savage attitude towards grief and loss. 

Revictimizing people is simply soul destroying, and justifying further exploitation of those already damaged can only be characterized as a breach of trust in everything that is decent and good about Men, when they attempt to offer at least a semblance of compassion and comfort after loss. This is particularly terrible when it occurs towards the aging, the widowed, the injured, and children in society, and indicates a deep sickness towards the helpless and in need of support and safety in a decent and civil society. This avarice, lack of caring and concern, and disdain for those perceived to be "weaker and open to be exploited" speaks volumes about a perverted, decaying, and immoral society, and its effects upon the moral character of its members. 

Hitler's government used jealousy of the goods and perceived prosperity of the industrious Jewish population to fuel rage, theft, destruction and confiscation of their goods, property, and very lives, instead of correcting the government's incompetence in providing programs, services, and incentives to promote industriousness, growth, and prosperity in society, choosing instead to direct their dissatisfaction, rage and anger at government incompetence and unconcern with the plight of the people at a targeted group of people whose work ethic, prosperity, and opportunity provided a convenient diversionary target.

After some quiet thought....how many of you have actually learned the TEN COMMANDMENTS for the very first time, understood the challenge and impact of them on your own lives, and with that understanding, how a personal decision to incorporate them in one's own life changes it, instantly, along with the lives of those around you? 

Who reading this has wished joy for another person, celebrated another's accomplishment, wished unrestrained joy to another human being, and felt joy at another's happiness, totally apart from any effect or gain to one's own life, other than this sense of happiness? Can you remember what that felt like, and how it awakened hope in you for a better world, and a better way of life for all?

How many clearly understand the impact, helplessness, and frustration which is exploited by terrorists, in order to do further damage to the people they say they represent - while killing them, instead of "representing and giving determined voice" to them? It is terrible enough to be betrayed, but to betrayed by one's Savior is to be crucified without Hope, eternally. Terrorism is truly Satanic darkness, realized.

Queen of Soil

 The Queen of Soil

I've not yet met The Queen of Soil, Peculiar that she is,

(I understand she had a mole, that had its own weird frizz.)

In layered terms, no one is sure, just where the orb sprang forth,

But "Sure as Hell", my neighbour says, he's "damned sure they're up North."

Dawn M. Nevills

Consumed as Foundation Written Awkwardly  

Whist wind, thou dost deceive.

Green shield groves smite the carte blanche sereptitude, servitude, slander, slavery.

Drop the tears of God into the parched and vapid, moaning in repressed cages, 

Offered and offering solutions of finality, brutish and braying,

The leap and twirl glow in their eyes surgically removed 

With precision and respect for demand, which 

is a yawing chew of 

Bones, 

Unsatiable, like a 

National Treasure of Death.  

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Random equations. Dawn M. Nevills

 Surely, think I, this insidious, creeping malady cannot make us turn on ourselves, reawaken old hatreds, ignite old fears, stoke mistrusts, feed blind greed....salve nothing but disregard in moments still so possible with potential.

Surely, think I, this being called Man, this shell, this thing that is me, too - with all of these tools - cannot forget the Breath on Clay that made him Whirlwind, realized: miraculous Accident of the Ages, exploded and knit together, over millenia, like molded rocks, shocked back to life, and fulcrum wiser.  

Surety: the thing of children, comforted. The Mirror of the Ages, held. Time, still, for Patience, achieved.

Agony, that it has taken so many patients. The Lesson learned, again.