Genevieve and the Two Scotties by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 10

Genevieve too, had to settle into a day, soon to become a few, of relative inactivity. Her intention, which some headline readers might incorrectly characterize as selfish lethargy was not the result of the relatively easily accepted excuse of the receipt of a “smart” cancelling phone call; as she was the one who had initiated that whole ringy-dingy affair. It was rather a confluence of personally generated thoughts attendant to that which induced them as well as the inducement itself, and likely the residually derivative arcane interpretation attached to her expectation of a primary signal of light while having received nothing more than mildly annoying precipitation, which would be cured by simple patience. ........ Well, if it wasn’t exactly that, it was that Genevieve felt lazy, had all the time in the world, and her cranky little back leg kept saying ......

That former, prior, or both was and were a sensitive generality disguised as a specificity; under the ostensible impression that the required costumes were not identical. In this case the redundantly, specifically imperfect manifestation, seen clearly as such through its inconsistent drizzle; coupled, tripled, or quadrupled with Genevieve’s basically inconsistent tendencies toward further inconsistency itself, insofar as or further inconsistent with the un-named beast, in its or their

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generally disregarded interpretation which commonly seemed to lean toward a predilection for what is incorrectly and commonly identified as low-level complacency, the accent on the low, or what is incorrectly and commonly identified as the mid-level stage of terminal Babbitism A/K/A reasonable serenity, the accent on the omitted middle, that big deal distinction entirely and tautologically dependent upon the technical appraisal skills and independence of the vocalized viewer in the universe which is called Limited; but rarely is allowed to inhabit the realm of a supposition considered higher level Unlimited, by all those not viewing themselves as members of the high. Well, there are some of those. Most have just learned not to be very vocal about their oddity; not yet aware of its commonality.

Genevieve was somewhat previously experienced in the matter, much in the manner in which those most conscious are acutely aware that their level of consciousness is numerically indeterminable to anyone other than a moron blessed with a slide ruler with nothing to slide upon, and thereby almost relegated to the anecdotal fodder of fleeting, Monday meetings of interest only to other members of the same, similar, or dilettantely predilected-toward-amusingly-absurd-espionological funnies resident in the pretensions of the espionage choir; as opposed to how those pretensions are commonly dismissed; but in her abilities to remain somewhat in contact with earth as it was an

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obvious personal suggestion that the recent flurry of activity on Pacific Lane must have affected her level of adrenalin.

To circle back to an indeterminate point, one might best understand that it was drizzling off and on in the tepid fall, and Genevieve felt no need to rush things. For literary mavens, Genevieve’s thoughts may bear some inconsequential similarity to Hamlet’s “to be or not to be” statement, coupled with his apparent predilection toward rambling a bit.

Of highest personal priority, Genevieve wanted to abide by her long term broken vow not to engage her computer. But, it kept calling to her as she paced the room.

She threw her blanket over it, but then removed it, as she didn’t want to fry the villain over a non-capital offense.

Besides, her pre-occupation and habit was her own fault. The slick, black piece of plastic and flimsy tin couldn’t do a thing without her assistance. Genevieve was amused to entertain the thought that it really couldn’t do anything with her assistance either. It was merely a display of words and images inadvertently put there by nerdish techies, resplendent in their uniforms of zeroes and ones, to be activated by any plugged-in ass capable of touching a keyboard.

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Plugged-in ass touching keyboard or thereabouts; property of the author.

Genevieve was flashed a vision of a possible horrid future.

She put her cover back on the thing and went into the next room.

She continued to circle, here and there her attention drawn to the window’s protective, Hell’s Angels decal she had inexpensively purchased from shy Mackie at the time when the food “theft” investigation raged. Genevieve hoped that he was okay. He seemed so fragile and honest.

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Decal; property of the author.

Looking at it now, Genevieve had thoughts other than those she had at the time of purchase. It may have helped protect her from a threat that didn’t exist. It was pretty ugly, and it was cheap. Most of all she noticed that the lettering was blurred; or perhaps more accurately described as shaky, nervous, and un-nerving.

She continued to pace; wondering what she might do on this rainy day. Recently, her activities had kept her moving more than she wanted them to. “Moving! Moving!” she thought. “Music.

Pandora. That box is good for something.” She went back to her front room, signed onto her laptop, and went to the Pandora site. The new invention of internet enhanced radio allowed her

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to pick her very own channels. Feeling eclectic, childish, and a bit bored rigid, Genevieve blindly pushed many keys at random.

When she stopped she was greeted by a voice which sounded as ripened as the grounded November apple which the pickers had overlooked last month. She picked him up somewhere in the middle of his DJ talk. “ ..... doing the great, great classic; ‘Kind of Blue.’ Trumpeter Miles got a little help from his friends on this masterpiece; including that of John Coltrane. Now, we’re going to hear something even more experimental. This is Jimi Hendrix doing ‘And the Gods Made Love,’ from the last album released prior to his death, Electric Ladyland.”

Genevieve heard the thunder and thought it was coming from the sky, portending a heavier rainfall. She went to her window only to realize that the cacophony emanated from somewhere within; her radio programmed laptop! She intently listened, until all too soon the DJ came back to say; “That was the immortal Jimi Hendrix doing ‘And the Gods Made Love.’ It may require an acquired taste. We’ll continue our eclectic programming with something that will get your feet moving.

Here’s Kool and the Gang with ‘Get Down on It.’ Risin’ out of my seat, I just have to dance. Take it away Kool!”

Genevieve was somewhat reticent at first. But, she was already on her feet, and the infectious rhythm just set in, and the next thing she knew .......

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She danced through a number of songs, not really familiar with the latest “pop” versions; but mentally able to re-conjure the primordial AOR odes which they were derived from. The three minute, Katy Perry version of the Doors’ “Riders on the Storm”

was just too much and induced giggles, which necessitated her lying down on the floor and kicking her paws in nearby space.

Contented and amused, she sleep walked through Hinder’s update of Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild,” awaiting the assumed irony never to come, Buckcherry’s version of Deep Purple’s “Highway Star,” and Godsmack’s “Come Together” improvement of the Beatles. She was thinking; “May not be very inventive, but some can recognize a good song when they hear one.”

Eventually, while being subjected to the Dixie Chick’s cover of Lana del Ray’s “Video Games,” she found the necessary incentive to get up and sign off. She went to her William and Mary chest.

William and Mary chest; modified public domain.

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She carefully pulled the two brass teardrop handles of the top drawer, her gentle precision a necessity if one is not to damage the darkly stained, thin, and brittle, walnut burl veneer. The patina, a poorly or incorrectly defined term, known only to the eyes of the experienced fans of antique furniture is the unduplicatable essence, the visible acquisition of that beauty which can only be naturally produced over time. It seemed to Genevieve that any carelessness, or even time dictated expedience which resulted in any marring of this was an unforgivable crime.

She pushed aside the top layer of junk which hoarders much like herself are prone to, and with a degree of difficulty not worth yet another trite mention, Genevieve retrieved a twenty year old book by David Flatcoat Weimaraner. Her instincts said that today was the wrong day for “Endless Shroud,” but she knew of no right ones.

One might mirthlessly express shoddy and well-played-out humor to infer from the title that “Endless Shroud” was a sizable book. But, after hearing all the re-do music, Genevieve was in the mood for something not cranked off through a photocopy machine. She read for a bit.

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