Molly Goatwax

Fiction

This is just a made-up, make belive day. It never happened. I'm going back to bed.

Sussin'

Sale meats, clearance cans, discounted pasta. No hair cuts, dry cleaning or nights out at the opera...hey, we don't do those things, any way. I still have a vacant apartment upstairs and one in Las Vegas, and no one's bought a painting in a while... I wish I had five dollars for every chair I found by the side of the road, because the other day I found seven and had room for only two in my van. This afternoon my friend the master upholsterer stopped by the studio and I showed him my latest chair. He admired its springed needlepoint seat. Even with evidence of numerous repairs on its burled back, he told me it might be worth some money and asked me where I found it. "Roland Park",  I replied. "Figures.",  he said. The name of a famous 18th century furniture maker hung in the air. While it is a handsome chair, I gotta find something else for the family, like a show or a gig or a grant or a job. But, wait. I may start teaching next week.

Attrition and an abiding mystery

I went to pay some of the younger daughter's school fees and to shuffle on the carpet in the waiting room as they prepared our re-enrollment packet behind the scrim. In the reception area stood an exquisite antique desk with an intricate inlaid diamond patterned design and elegantly curved legs...oooh. If this desk was a lady, she would still be beautiful at 245 years old. While no one was looking (I also peek under the plates and spoons while the hostess's back is turned) I opened a dainty drawer to find the usual sharpened pencils and embossed stationary. But I also found a small button from Texas. The size of a nickle, it featured a tiny picture of Joolie's succulent, Pointy. I wondered how on earth this artifact landed in the drawer of this fancy desk in this corner of the universe. Even though Joolie had mailed me an envelope full of them, I only pinned them on drunks with whom I exchanged potted plants. To ask after it would admit to snooping. I am just going to have to wonder. Whomever it was that found it and stuck it in that drawer, though, obviously treasures it. I left it mostly undisturbed.

Celebration

Today is my birthday. What did I get? Umm, to start out with, I got an expired driver's permit and a comedian at the Department of Motor Vehicles. "Well, aren't we all done up like a Christmas package!", the examiner exclaimed as he saw me take the position for the photograph. I got defensive. My first thought was that the mask of make-up that I applied may have been a bit heavy...really, it would have made a mortician blush. But no. As it was dawning on me that he was referring to the ribbons in my hair, I was wondering if the harassment might be deemed actionable, especially coming close after the teasing tone he affected when he questioned whether my reported height and weight were correct. I was annoyed, but not yet humiliated, when he commented on my change of address. "Moved on to greener pastures, I see...." AAAAK! As long as he lives far, far away, I thought as the crawling sensation rippled up my back. I was about to summon first his manager, then a lawyer. Then I remembered that he had just prompted me through the eye exam to make sure my lack of depth perception was just between me n him. Right. That's how he gets away with this act. I got a new driver's license for my birthday! And some lovely flowers. Yay!

the epicure

I went to pick up a case of Yuengling Black and Tan cans, which is as cheap as palatable gets, or is it the other way around? Representatives from the Saranac Brewery were holding a tasting at the store and I told the lady strait up, that I've never favored a single brew from their marque. She earnestly wanted to know why I don't like their wares as I sampled my way through each and every variety. I told her that the hops were bitter, bitter, bitter without benefit of any taste other than that. Yuck. Even the Bock was bitter and after that, the raspberry wheat didn't taste like anything at all because my mouth was coated with a clinging nastiness...they didn't even have the decency to offer me a cracker to cleanse my pallate.  Back to the malted Minnesota corn grits, or what ever it is they are cooking in Pottsville.

speaking of railroad spikes...

So, intrigued, I packed up a few buckets full of railroad spikes from a large pile near the studio. I was all excited until I saw that I could probably get 79 dollars a ton for them, followed by close questions about their origins. There is another market for them, certain practitioners of Caribbean religions might pay five dollars each for them, but I'm not interested in dealing with those who dabble in those arts. Some forgers have turned them into high carbon knives, but again, they don't seem to lack for supply. So, hummmmm....maybe I'll put them one by one into the backyard of my friend whose property has already suffered seperate attacks of tomatos and chairs by my hand...or create a pile in the median of Roland Avenue, far from the tracks, or...what?

freezing fog

How dreary the weather has been! The greyness continues as if an occult hand the fates had decided to run this part of the year in scratched up old black and white film through a lens filmed with dust. After a liberal helping of wintery mix again compacted itself into a glossy shell on the pavements, I followed some rabbit tracks high on a snowy ridge between old stone houses. A fine mist iced the steps and rails and the black lace of bare branches against the sky. In this dim and dismal fog I saw the letter carrier pick his way, cat like, across the paths. I fell only once, regretting that my cork soled sandals have no tread and all my tweeds crusted with ice when I came back indoors. No wonder melancholy has been going around. I think we all need thick soup and warm crusty bread!

More multiples

Long before the arsenal of bowling balls quickened my interest, this pile of fire hydrants plied my fancy. Where did they come from? They look as if an occult hand had plucked them all from pavements across town and tossed them into this former churchyard. Hoarded near my studio by the subcontractors who fouled our water in Charles Village, these ancient hydrants make me want this collection and also make me wonder what I'd do with them if I got them, like the geese who landed in the farmer's fields when I worked in Monkton made me want one stuffed with apples.

Perhaps I would stick them all over with the railroad spikes I've been collecting.

Hard bitten in Bolton Hill

With a crayon in one hand and a can of cheap beer in the other, I was standing in front of a waist high ornamental cast iron fence I had wrapped in orange seaweed paper and duct tape when a man laden with groceries and three daughters approached me, irate. He wanted to know what I was doing with his fence. I told him I was not harming it by taking its impression. He told me I should ask first, eyeing his 130 year old ironwork for damage. I eyeballed his groceries in return and reminded him he hadn't been home when I set up. Mostly though, I wasn't counting on anyone noticing, yet alone complaining, I muttered to his receding back and vanishing daughters... whaddayou expect living hard by the art school, anyway? Hadn't anyone appropriated it before? And why do I take up cast iron rubbings in the cold damp? As I was packing my baskets into the car, I noticed the eldest daughter writing down my license plate number. I hope nothing happens to their precious fence in these litigeous times.

collection

We have neighbors who stockpile bowling balls in their backyard, duckpin and standard.

I hope the Civic Association leaves them alone.