July 22: A dream becomes a story, part 1
Belle Isle, the Central Park of Detroit, sometime in the wee hours. I am the driver, there are 3 or 4 in the car, and we are fleeing a crime, blood on our hands.
Feel the nostalgia, from a time when the island and I were sunnier, more innocent. “I’ve never been to Belle Isle” one of our party muses, nose pressed to the glass. I tell her about the white deer, the Boat Club, the Yacht Club, the grand fountain, a more gracious time. Before crack dealers and used condoms. Before we wondered if the deer were radioactive, not just enchanted.
Further down Jefferson, along the old ferry docks; a crumpled paper floats on the black water. Seagulls cry, water slaps against the seawall. The lights of Windsor squiggling overtop the oily dark ripples, rebounding from the slimy pilings lurking below.
A quiet rhythm emerges from the rumbling night, the dip and stroke of a kayak paddle. Not a river that one would choose for canoeing, with the huge freighters, overpowered motorboats churning the river into a sloshing frenzy. But in the calm of the night, here a small paddled craft was approaching the pier. The tall, tar-and algae -covered pilings must have loomed over the approaching paddlers.
Earlier in the evening, our group of travelers was nervously preparing for their task. “What if I can’t do this?” whines Charlotte, fumbling with a rope that is resisting all attempts to be coiled. Song comes to her aide. “Char, let me help you.” He smiles sweetly at her, from under a frond of straight black hair. She is uncharmed, oblivious, consumed by worry. “ I am not at all sure this is the best solution, Carla. Why don’t we just leave town?”
Carla, bent over a steamer trunk of equipment, straightens up to her full height. Always taller than everyone else, she learned long ago not to disguise it by slouching, but elegantly looms over others, using its intimidation value whenever it suits her. She breathes a small sigh of exasperation and reconsiders Char’s roll in the plot. Loyal she was, no doubt, but her constant second-guessing of decisions made Carla concerned. With the wrong timing, such doubt could have very bad results.
Group of 4 standing on a ratty river beach, strewn with trash, driftwood, a tire, a plastic barrel, clamshells. Scrappy weeds crawl over the dirty sand, laden with burrs. The water laps and churls against the stumps of the old dock, nearly worn away. They are all looking down at the waters edge.
Char wished she were anywhere but here. Her mind flits to the pilings, and she is lost in a reverie about a gentler time, wedding cake steamboats arriving with fanfare, and ladies in long lacy dresses and parasols floating across the gangplank in anticipation of a holiday excursion.
She is yanked back in to the present by a conversation she has apparently missed half of. “Well, what do YOU think we should do?” asks Carla venomously. “Just pretend nothing happened? We agreed we were in this together, and would see it through, remember?” She stands taller, glaring at Song and Char. They want to step back, but do not.
The eastern horizon is beginning to show signs of dawn. Soon the morning traffic will begin to growl, and make travel across the city difficult. They need to keep moving. They need sleep, and food. They need to stay calm and united, Carla thinks. (…to be continued…)
Feel the nostalgia, from a time when the island and I were sunnier, more innocent. “I’ve never been to Belle Isle” one of our party muses, nose pressed to the glass. I tell her about the white deer, the Boat Club, the Yacht Club, the grand fountain, a more gracious time. Before crack dealers and used condoms. Before we wondered if the deer were radioactive, not just enchanted.
Further down Jefferson, along the old ferry docks; a crumpled paper floats on the black water. Seagulls cry, water slaps against the seawall. The lights of Windsor squiggling overtop the oily dark ripples, rebounding from the slimy pilings lurking below.
A quiet rhythm emerges from the rumbling night, the dip and stroke of a kayak paddle. Not a river that one would choose for canoeing, with the huge freighters, overpowered motorboats churning the river into a sloshing frenzy. But in the calm of the night, here a small paddled craft was approaching the pier. The tall, tar-and algae -covered pilings must have loomed over the approaching paddlers.
Earlier in the evening, our group of travelers was nervously preparing for their task. “What if I can’t do this?” whines Charlotte, fumbling with a rope that is resisting all attempts to be coiled. Song comes to her aide. “Char, let me help you.” He smiles sweetly at her, from under a frond of straight black hair. She is uncharmed, oblivious, consumed by worry. “ I am not at all sure this is the best solution, Carla. Why don’t we just leave town?”
Carla, bent over a steamer trunk of equipment, straightens up to her full height. Always taller than everyone else, she learned long ago not to disguise it by slouching, but elegantly looms over others, using its intimidation value whenever it suits her. She breathes a small sigh of exasperation and reconsiders Char’s roll in the plot. Loyal she was, no doubt, but her constant second-guessing of decisions made Carla concerned. With the wrong timing, such doubt could have very bad results.
Group of 4 standing on a ratty river beach, strewn with trash, driftwood, a tire, a plastic barrel, clamshells. Scrappy weeds crawl over the dirty sand, laden with burrs. The water laps and churls against the stumps of the old dock, nearly worn away. They are all looking down at the waters edge.
Char wished she were anywhere but here. Her mind flits to the pilings, and she is lost in a reverie about a gentler time, wedding cake steamboats arriving with fanfare, and ladies in long lacy dresses and parasols floating across the gangplank in anticipation of a holiday excursion.
She is yanked back in to the present by a conversation she has apparently missed half of. “Well, what do YOU think we should do?” asks Carla venomously. “Just pretend nothing happened? We agreed we were in this together, and would see it through, remember?” She stands taller, glaring at Song and Char. They want to step back, but do not.
The eastern horizon is beginning to show signs of dawn. Soon the morning traffic will begin to growl, and make travel across the city difficult. They need to keep moving. They need sleep, and food. They need to stay calm and united, Carla thinks. (…to be continued…)
posted by Ven at 2:34 PM
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