Stirfry Neon

The whistle whipped through the tension like a hurricane wind and filled the clearing like egg whites being beaten into meringue. The car shuddered; I had forgotten I was standing, half out of the car. I remembered when I fell over the side as the car rose, altering itself, panels sliding as my hands hung desperately to the ridge of the window; it lurched downward. I used that opportunity to roll back in, my head banging off a suddenly high tech cockpit of a spaceship dashboard with a glowing graphic of the globe that I was suddenly lifting away from…and where was the seatbelt, the parachute, the stewardess and the I’m going to be sick in it bag and why hadn’t I noticed their absence before…I unstuck my forehead from some kind of twiddling knob thing, took a firm grip on the bottom of my seat with both hands and tried to make some sense of the red and green blinking, swerving, whirling, vibrating, zooming glows before me…I turned to the side; too far down; I’d passed above the treeline. I was also zooming forward at some rate of speed I had never previously achieved or attemped. And still no seatbelt to save me or stewardess to distract me or clue as to how to control this mad ride into a holiday night, holiday nightmare. He should have coughed or done the laugh thing or had the stupid show off flying I can go faster than you and control it reindeer snort. Would have been fair; might have been nice…I don’t think I was anywhere near his do a favor for list…so he and the insanely speedy fauna Just swept in over the windshield and lighter than thistle down, Mr. Holly Jolly Fantastic Folly dropped into the seat next to me…and boomed — was definitely him with the Ho Ho No, might also have been a sonic, breaking the speed barrier for a sort of reverb type effect. Headache, stomachache…now earache as he leaned over and boomed right into mine, “Haven’t we always been friendly?” No good conversations start this way — make a note, I’ll wait — especially with someone you have never actually met. But here I was, having it. He continued, “Haven’t I always done right by you?” there was a wink, not a twinkly merrily kind of wink, but a do me a solid and I might not drop you on your annoying head and have thirty-six reindeer hooves do a Rockettes imitation on your torso kind of wink. I hate those. Now, he continued reciting the I’m not a bully and no one has an jaw unwired enough to say so script, “Aren’t we on the same side?” Well, the only side I was on at the moment was the me staying right side up inside the fantasically flying car until George Jetson swung by to pick me up. I looked at the jolly old potential skyjacker…He tried another wink, and a further lean. The air was suddenly full of warmth and smoke and animal exertion. Wasn’t my type of musk; I would have preferred cookies and peppermint.

And being on the ground…

Then he crossed the line, not only the line between the seats, but the line that forced me to end the conversation, any way I could. Wasn’t looking forward to ending the conversation, but when you only have 3 rules, you have to keep them safe and cozy or there’ll be nobody willing to look you in the eyes when you stare into the mirror in the late afternoon, taking that essential inventory of your actions and the shreds of character and integrity they’ve left you to clothe yourself with. The clothes were threadbare enough, the sneaks worn through, the trench patched, so I needed all the dignity I could knit together underneath…Three rules and now, I was up against the first one, Mr. Laughing List Keeper had bought us to this. I prepared my move, the world’s fate was in my hand, golden whistle loose and ready to fly…He’d done it in the worst way, the conspiratorial whisper, the leaning in, the hot, heavy breath in your ear, the cloying conspiracy you can’t shake out; the spill of oil and the sense of being soiled by the shadow of a betrayal that wasn’t yours. He whispered but only I laughed.

“You know what she’s like.” Worse than the whisper was the wink, the unctuous inclusion in a party of smarm I would have naturally taken a three state detour around…he continued, with another wink and I shudder to tell, the nudge, “The peppery ones liven things up, don’t they?”

We were not, I regret to say, talking about food. We were discussing my client, which brings us back to rules and me back to why I opened the door of a flying car in midair, hoping there was a tree, flying carpet (yes, there is a genie who owes me at least one favor, we don’t get into wishes — that’s too dangerous for me) or reindeer willing to take a lighter load below me. I also leaned into the steering wheel, hoping it would force the nose and the plane lower. I was pretty bouncy, but I had a feeling no extra doses of luck were due in my stocking tonight. I looked over at the soon to be melancholly Mr. Holly Jolly, pushed open the door with a flair braver than me and a phalanx of Spartans and leaned over the line just a bit, “Should have left her out of it, Fat Man, we could have had a deal.” I took my hand off the wheel, whisked the whistle under his bristly mustachioed nose, slammed the brake down with my foot and let myself fall…I’ve looked straight up while falling on a few occasions in my career (you guessed that right) and although it might seem to leave time for philosophical review and a quick pictorial flash of events up to the point of falling, all it really does is give you this incredible rush and the urge and hallucinatory ability to reach your arm through time and space and high five the moon or spin Saturn like a dreidl…it’s a beautiful eternity of a moment and then you thump — I needed a heavier word than land, especially at this speed. Unfortunately, on this night of nights, marvelously cold and clear as it was, all I really got to see was a red faced angry bearded beloved cultural icon shake and gesture. But the thump wasn’t happening either so that was a plus and then something swooped in under me, bristly, nubby, solid so not a carpet. Wide enough to balance me; narrow enough to sicken me so I practiced a yoga move I didn’t know to get at least one of my limbs was wrapped around a nub or at least a bristle. We jostled onto the ground; Jack Frost and the rest of the reindeer had gone, leaving me , midnight, mistletoe and a couple of Vixens. I kissed the one who’d landed me and she melted into the forest with what I will claim was the fond wink of a warm heart. That left me with the original Vixen, still in the ginger and peppermint striped uniform, eyes still ice, heart still cold, effect still dizzying, lips still pursing around words I didn’t particularly want to hear. ”You’re not very good at this.” She might have made mince pies, but never with words.

I gave her the same laugh I’d tossed off before falling and pointed up to where a red convertible circled the clearing, slowly climbing, “Found your husband. Anything else you wanted me to do for you?” I leaned against a tree. I lean against door frames, lamp posts, buildings, bookshelves, pillars (Doric, Ionic, whatever happens to wander in). It’s my best and only still pose. I’m an expert. The whole thing is a shoulder shrug tossed with a glimmer. I have a patent. It, like me, is often found framed.

She stepped back. The sudden confidence sparked by the pose has that effect. I usually take that moment to sidle, mosey or dash, but this time I stayed. She hadn’t been expecting this. We weren’t playing her game anymore. That never happened. I smiled. You save the smiles, the slow confident grins for moments like this, leaning, backlit, hat dropped over the slow eye. Then I added the toss. “You might need this. You know how to whistle?” The gold whistle fell into the snow with a gleam added by magic. She stooped down to pick it up, half starting half a dozen sentences; then her eyes dropped and I veered, with a hint of saunter, stealing into the night, a veil of drifting snow and pine covering my trail. She might have pretended to follow; I didn’t look back. It’d been a long night and I had a cup of hot coffee and a conversation at Mace’s waiting for me. What the Trouble I was leaving behind was waiting for, I could have speculated about, but that was my third rule, you do the job, you close the door, you walk on…there’s always someone else waiting not to tell you everything. That’s the adventure. I wouldn’t be in this business if it weren’t for the adventure and a certain attraction for new problems. Yes, they find me, but my number’s always listed somewhere. It’s an invitation. Take me up on it.  Just don’t plan to linger.

Mace’s counter was empty, just me and a thin cold guy who might have been leaving a trail of frost but I just accepted his nod, tipped my head in his direction and sat down to a bowl…my shoulders dropped, I glanced at Mace, she must have known the kind of night I’d had, it wasn’t a soup night. It wasn’t just the cold I needed to get out of my system, it was some of the heat…But Mace just smiled and I drank. Warm not too gooey depths of hot chocolate charged with a hint of chili pepper. Just the spice I needed on my lips. It’s good to have friends.

I walked home in the brilliant bright and cold Christmas dawn…sleds, cars, elves, reindeer, trouble were all whistling away somewhere else . I was very happy about that. At home, there was the tree. I hadn’t really decorated, just a string of blinky lights to amuse the cat. Who wasn’t on the couch. But someone had left me a present. A pair of stockings, coal black. And a stack of peppermints. My holiday lesson: whatever list you end up on, you’ll probably get what you deserve, reward, penance or perhaps a bit of both, just deserts. And the cat won’t like it.