The Quiet Place and The Thinking Room

the quiet place

the thinking room

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Glamorous

You would never guess. Never ponder. Never suspect for a second. His hands a calloused and masculine form. Soft lips of jagged edges. Short and tousled dark locks with a matching five-o’clock shadow. Plain - yet exceptionally coordinated – green Old Navy tee, worn Levis, and scuffed Vans. His leather wristband a simple accent. No piercings or makeup. Antonio was your average Boston shop owner. From a glance, the only oddity being a rich Italian accent woven in his low and gentile voice.

            Antonio owned a café on the corner of Park and Beacon named Firenze, after his birthplace. From five am to four pm he greeted his costumers with a smile and the softest, “Benvenuto amico mio.” Young women found him a dream. The married found him a pleasent beginning to the morning. And boyfriends  found him to be out-of-league competition. None of them would ever find his secret; few ever had.

            Early Friday morning Antonio sets off from home to Firenze. Every passerby gives a smile, a wave, a quick hello, to the man they will ultimately visit for lunch or coffee. He spots Mrs. Renolds and stops – as always – to bid her good morning. Three blocks more and the shop is in reach, his coworkers, and best friends, standing in wait.

            Beth, Tony, James, Zack, and Antonio. The band of college outsiders.

            “Always! Always-always-always five-ten.” spat Tony, in his best Italian accent.

“Oh leave him alone.” said Beth.

            “Come on now-“ began Zack.

            “let’s just go in.” finished James. The twins.

 “You guys kill me. Ok, here we go.” With a slip of the key and a jerk left to the handle, the cultured Italian cafe greeted them soflty. Its weathered countertops and tables, a gentle contrast to the newly painted walls. Wide cutrained windows forever giving imapassioned light, and the sounds of Italian lutes perpetually strumming from the speakers. By six the cafe’s charm was readily at work on its first customer.

            “Benvenuto amico mio. What may I get you?” greeted Antonio. A smile dancing sweetly accross his lips.

            “Oh, um yes. Good morning. A double caramel frappacino please.” said the woman.

            “Certainly. One moment.”

            She stared, as was usual for a twenty-year-old in Antonio’s presence. His eyes a piercing green against his dark, slim body.

            “Here you are. Anything else signora?”

            “What? Oh, no that’ll do. Here’s a five! Keep the change.”

            “Gratzi.” Antonio smiled at her akwardness, “Have a wonderful day.” And with that, she was out the door.

            “Awkward.” sang the twins, who swept in time whith eachother to the beat of the radio.

            “Just keep sweeping you two. Antonio knows he’s sexy.” said Tony.

             “Really Tony? Really?” Antonio raised his brow in defense.

            “Oh she wanted you. Dont even kid yourself!” Beth yelled from the kitchen.

            “Whatever” sighed Antonio, “Hey, what are you all doing tonight?” Two of four

confessed to a night of absent plans.

“Our sister has a piano recitle-“ began Zack.

“It’s from seven to eight.” James finished.

            “Bene! Then you can all make it.” said Antonio with the clap of his hands.

            “Ooh! Got another pagent tonight?” Beth inquired.

            “Si! Tonight is the finale. They pick the queen.”

A queen. Thats what Antonio, or as his drag friends know him, Antionette, was. He got a kick out of cross dressing. It had been a dare in bestowed upon his in college to cross dress for a month, and he fell in love with the act. Since Halloween never came often enough, he became a drag queen. Antonio had a knack for making spectacularly ungaudy outfits, and knew how to pull them off. He had won eight of the ten pagents, and was one of the five in the finale. Tonight was his night, and Antonio had every intention of winning.

            Buisness had been slow so Antonio decided to close the shop early. By two-thirty, Antonio and his friends were back at his apartment to help get ready.

            “Purple sequins?” said Antonio.

            “No, I’m bored with that one.” Beth distressed with a hum, “Try the green one I like! Your eyes really pop!”

            “Ok, ok.” After years of preactice, Antonio had gotten clothes changing down to an art. Thirty seconds was all it took from one outfit to the next.

            “His eyes really do pop. Damn girl, you sexy!” said Tony whistling playfully.

            “Oh yes, I know.” giggled Antonio. “It’s because I’m Italian. We’re born sexy.” A round of laughter from the merry men and the green dress was decided on. Hours flew by and seven came around. The twins left for the recital with the promise of meeting again at the pagent.

 “So the pagent starts at nine. And I kind of take a while to get ready. Could we leave now? And could you guys help me?” said Antonio.

            “Yes! Of course. Here grab your bags,” said Beth, “We can take Tony’s car.”

            “Wow guys thanks!” said Tony.

            “Oh gratzi amico mio!” said Antonio, “Lets go! I’m getting so excited!”

            Friday night was the start of the club days, making traffic unbearable. With luck, Tony found a spot just a block from the pagent, allowing Anonio an hour to prepare. Shimmering green gown and sleek, black stellettos to start, Antonio began on his makeup.

            “Beth! Help! My eyebrows are being difficult” Anonio whined, his glamour girl beginning to show.

            “Ok princess, calm down, wheres the glue?”

            “Over there, quickly!”

            “Here we go, perfect!”

            “You two kill me.” said Tony rolling his eyes.

            “Hey guys! said Zack.

            “We’re here!” said James, “Antonio, you’re-“

            “Antionette! Antionette! I have to get into character.” said Antonio.

            “Yes, sorry. Antionette. You only have ten minutes ‘til show time.”

             “Ah! Mio Dio!” said Antonio, “Beth help!”

            “Hold still, I’m almost done, there!”

            “Bene! Gratzi, gratzi! See you all soon!” Over his shoulder Antonio saw his friends taking their seats. He felt the tension closing in on him; now the competition truly mattered.

“Ooh! I’m nervous!” squeeked Beth.

“Just wait. He’ll pull something out of his wig.” Tony reasured with a wink.

“Guys shut up! said James, “Here she is!” Antonio had gone all-out diva. Bangles halfway to his elbows. A golden tiara. The long curled wig with sparkles throughout. Eyebrows arched and lips pursed. His dress the trophy-winner. An emerald green ballgown laiden with glitter; crisp golden trim along seven swimming laers of fabric; and the tie-breaker, a sheer purple shaul pinned at the shoulder with a perfect white rose.

Antonio was exstatic. Relif ran down his face in waves at the sight of his trophy.
His friends gathered ‘round him; hugs and kisses to share as the cameras flashed on. Anionette; Antonio was the queen. “Those girls dont have a thing on my glitter!” he sang, “I am glamorous!”

The Raggland from Raglan

The girl with hair of fire and moonlight eyes. Her skin so pale and diseased with freckles. She is most obviously Scottish, likely Irish, and says she is Dutch while her brother obsesses over their German heritage. Yet most interesting are her Welsh and Gaelic highlights. She once told me of her grandfather; Great-great grandfather that is. She had an old picture of a young woman set on her desk; her great-great grandmother. Gladys E. Florland Raggland. On the back was a recorded lineage from different pens in different hands.

“’Gladys E. Florland Raggland – Ellis –‘“ she said “Grandma and grandpa Raggland arrived here at Ellis Island. ‘Mother of Beryl Jeon Raggland – who is the mother of Dana M O’Connor’, that’s grandma Coffee. ‘- who is the mother of Leslie Rene Donaldson’, that’s my mom, ‘ – and Bruce Erick Donaldson’, that’s Uncle Bud. ‘Savanna and Grace’s Great-Great Grandmother’, those are my little cousins.” She had guessed the list strayed to her cousins because they were Donaldons’, remarking that her mothers’ side of the family had an odd way of determining bloodlines. She stared deep into her young grandmother’s smile and began reciting the tale as she knew it.

Grandpa Raggland had immigrated to America from the Netherlands. He was one of the first to enter the Land of Opportunities and in turn his name is cast in the placard at Ellis Island. From that day to the present she knows only the names. Names of the children, and of the mothers and fathers down to her own. The true sparkle is what lies within the names. Especially Raggland; formerly Raglan, just like the medieval castle of Monmouthshire.

                Though she dreams of the flag and candlelight laden haven it once was, she knows only of its war-worn state. Her mother had traveled to Wales and stood before its gates. She had crossed the moat to enter its keep. Three stories. Fire-places two men high and six men wide. Grand terraces and gardens. Gaping windows in tremendous towers, adorned with gargoyles to scout. Half its whole withered with civil rivalry.

                She started to laugh as she described the Raglan Emblem, “If I remember correctly, it’s a shield, with crossed swords, and, oh-my-gosh, this is so embarrassing. Unicorns. Freaking unicorns on each side. Sounds like something out of Monty Python right?” And with that, she began to ponder her own words. She stopped her excitement to look again at her grandmother. “Right out of Monty Python. Wouldn’t even surprise me if it actually was. My mother was the first to tell me about Grandpa Raggland. And she’s not one to lie. But I really don’t know. I’ve done light research. Very light. Raglan is the village in the county of Monmouthshire, it’s never mentioned as the name of any descendants or anything else for that matter.” Her eyes began to sadden and with a heavy sigh she flipped the picture back over. “Raggland, O’Connor, and Donaldson. And I’m Berkenpas. With a spread like that, who knows; maybe I have ten family castles.”

Nothing

As I walk through the door, plans for the rest of my day begin to form. I have homework; two and a half hours. I’ll probably want a snack, and then end up providing for everyone else; half an hour.  I make dinner; two hours, then one and a half more to eat. Laundry needs to be done, Easton’s too; maybe a half hour. So that’s seven hours in total. Ok, I’ll give myself one hour. Just one, all for me.

“Whatcha makin’?” says Easton, already implying he wants a snack.

“I don’t know…maybe grapes,” I say, “but I think I might make-“

“Me too!” yells dad. “And could you make some drinks? Like a mocha frappe!” Half an hour.

“I’m going to my room!” I announce. My nothing time is usually far from a marginal mean. Drawing. Singing. Gaming. Napping with my dog. Pondering life. I gather my school supplies and haul off to my sanctuary. Sloughing my book bag from my shoulders I toss myself on my bed. At the sound of my brother’s radio I trudge back to close the door, but not before Dewey prances through. I shut us in and spin around with a heavy sigh. It’s been five minutes and I’m not about to waste the remaining fifty-five.

I flip open my computer and make iTunes sing. As I practice my harmony I activate the Intuos, to turn a digital canvas into the outline of my favorite characters. But these tasks so often described as productive, calming, or leisurely, are relabeled when my dad busts in with the simplest question: “What are you doing?” Forty-five minutes remaining.

If we – those of us performing said task – find our doings to be of value, then we will reply with the name of the task at hand; “Cooking” “Homework”. But on those occasions when

we find our current obsession marginal, we give it up. We let it die and surrender ourselves to our interrogators with one simple word: “Nothing”

“Nothing” I say.

“Ok, I need you to help make dinner please.”

“Ok, what should I cook?” We begin to make our way to the kitchen, the dog at our heels.

“I bought steaks. Oh, that means mom would need chicken. Beans. Corn maybe? I’ll cut asparagus. That should be good.” Three and a half hours.

I run back to my haven. Music blaring, and the clock telling me to start my homework. History. English. Creative writing. Two and a half hours. I need a break. Surf the web. Play with Dewey. Tidy my room. Draw? No, not in the mood. Then I hear a knock. Its only been twenty  minutes.

“Yes?” I still have twenty-five left.

“Can I come in?” Its Grandma Coffee. Say no. Just finish your time. Its your time.

“Yes, whatcha need?”

“Can you help me with something? It’ll only take a minute.” No. It’ll be more, you know it will.

“Sure thing.” I smile. Forty-five minutes.

Passing the laundry room on the way in, I remember I need to put a load in the wash. I saunter to my room and trudge back with the moderate basket.

“Hey! What color are those? Red? I need stuff washed!” calls Easton.

“Yah, grab your stuff and bring it to the washer.” And again I’m stopped.

“Hey Babe! Can you wash my pajamas with those?” my mother chimes in.

“Yup. No prob.” Half an hour.

I still have twenty-five minutes, but its eleven. Ok so I'll surf Deviantart, that should take up just enough time. Ten minutes later, and I’m asleep at the mouse. I guess I'll just use those fifteen minutes tomorrow.

Our Vacation After The Holidays

In the winter, we take a time to escape the leaf ridden city so washed of color. When Santa has taken with him the lights of the season, and the night. After the new-born year has grown tired of its celebration.

If Jack Frost allows, we run before candy swoons our hearts, but not until our mentors worn our minds. He gives toddler high snow, and roads for skating in relentless spirits.

“If this continues we might not get into Tahoe. If it dies then revives we may get snowed in.”

Few days and no change, but with a new week comes hope. The sun bathes the trail and Old Frost leaves to rest. Two nights gave their time – to our preparation – save those hours we dwindled and wondered in anticipation.

The third we settle in- a familiar haven – we escaped.

Reese's Pieces

My father appears before me - hands behind his back - with that adventurous smirk, " I have a surprise for you! Close your eyes and open your mouth."

"What?! Wait, why?"

"Because i said so. Don't ask me why." Rolling my eyes I reluctantly obey with a sigh, and a small candy is introduced to my tongue.

Toss it. A hard and sugary shell dissolves into a thin barrier of caocao cream. Lasting but for an instant, my mind is filled with thoughts of an Mn’M. But this sugar coating is too hard, and chocolate lacking in quantity. So what is this?

Mush it. It soon reveals its core of packed peanut-mash. This fills in for the chocolate it lacks. Becoming smoother with time I worry it will vanish. This euphoria of taste is far too short lived. What was that?

“May I have another?” Eyes open I notice the candy is orange.

Bite it. Salty collides with fragments of sugar. Such a contrast met in perfect harmony. The peanut and chocolate diminish swiftly and I am left to picking shell shards from my molars. I know what this is.

Something of Reece’s peanut-butter cup discovered a time ago. But these alterations have taken it from the ever-meting treat I knew it to be. This is a new breed. Compact and portable, this is only but a bite of its fore father. It’s just a piece. A piece of a Reese’s.

These are Reese’s Pieces.