Motorcycles, brushstrokes, Bill Evans and pigeons

As Pokey stood on the roof, he felt the wind picking up. It was going to rain again. The pigeons milling around him didn't pay any attention to the clouds hovering over them. Their slick grey, shimmering feathers lifted slightly and then settled. Pokey tossed the crumbs across the roof. He walked over to the edge of the roof. He used to be afraid of the edge, but every time he would come up onto the roof, he would step one step closer to the edge. Now he felt no fear.

Besides, Pokey heard something in the vacant lot. The fellow with the strange accent and who owned the scooter was walking through the lot. Pokey had difficulty understanding him. He seemed patient enough with Pokey, but still Pokey wasn't comfortable around him. He unlocked the cage door and Mr. Eros would say something about "chow," and then drive off. Pokey never saw him in the diner.

Pokey's eyes were caught by a movement. Around the corner of the adjacent shop, Pokey's upstairs neighbor, the man in 211, was watching. He was always watching.

When the Mr. Eros moved in, Pokey had to clear more space in the motorcycle cage. He spent the whole morning cleaning and dumping old car parts, old batteries, strange scraps of metal and old boxes that had long lost their owners. Pokey wondered how people could just abandon their things. Only Mr. Jason's motorcycle had room to sit. Pokey was told to make more room. By the time he was finished moving things around, he was covered in dust.

Mr. Jason kept his motorcycle in the cage. He never let Pokey move, much less touch, the motorcycle. Pokey was relieved about Jason's command. He didn't like the motorcycle. Even when Pokey had on his headphones, he could still hear the motorcycle. Once, when Pokey was going to dinner, Jason almost hit him when he was coming out of the garage. Pokey was listening to a Bill Evans's ballad. He needed to concentrate really hard to hear the piano notes and he forgot to look before he crossed the garage entrance. Jason swerved, then shouted something at Pokey and zoomed away.

As he stood looking over the edge, he saw Ms. Keller walking with Mr. Barnaby toward the old Barnaby house. It seemed as though she was telling him something important. Mr. Barnaby kept nodding his head and Ms. Keller would motion with her arm.

"I should get Artie to come up here sometime," thought Pokey. "He could really draw a whole lot of things from up here. "

Pokey heard the cooing from the pigeons. He turned to see a few flutter into the sky and rest on the empty cages that stood muted in the the grey clouds. Pokey walked to the other side of the building and looked over to the tavern. Mr. Everett was walking leisurely toward the diner with the big brown envelope with the evening paper tuck underneath his arm. He walked along with Mr. Harry. Mr. Harry always had a book with him. Mr. Harry handed Mr. Everett one of the books. Mr. Everett nodded. They seemed casually discussing something. Maybe the weather. Mr. Everett talked with Pokey about the weather almost every day.

"It's going to rain again. Mr. Everett, maybe even snow some." Pokey whispered. The pigeons had finished the crumbs and were now pecking around Pokey's boots. They didn't seem to mind the coming storm.

The soft, paced notes from Bill Evans piano filtered into Pokey's mind. He watched the pigeons for a few more minutes, turned and felt the first few drops hit his ear, his hand and his cheek as he made his way to the roof-top door.

As he went down the stairs, he heard Ms. Keller mumbling as she was coming up. She glanced his way as he paused to speak. She kept walking and mumbling about the birds. Pokey turned to go down the stairs. He thought it strange that she would come up to the roof when only this morning she had given him a bag of crumbs. He turned to ask if she wanted him to spread the crumbs, but the door shut before he had a chance.

Rain, Weather Report, peas and James Gibson

Pokey’s days moved like a jazz song. People weaved in and out of his baseline theme in a seemingly random fashion. As if life moved in a specific pattern, yet each character added their own various ideas of that basic rhythm. The two fellows that ran by the garage entrance every morning as Pokey was arranging his items in their places gave Pokey a start to his day. He would see them briefly sweating in the summer or see the puffs that preceded them in winter. Everyday, they would run. Only the weather was the variation. They seemed as if in a trance. Everyday, the same. The down beat of the day started.

When he worked the Sunday shift, Pokey also witness one of the runners walking into the tavern and staying for hours. Often, if Pokey worked the Sunday shift, the guy would still be in the tavern when Pokey was relieved from his shift. His eyes still held the trance as if he was drawn by something inside the tavern.

Pokey has only been in The Tavern a few times. Each time he goes, he feels a strange, uncomfortable tingling on his skin. He feels dirty and can’t breathe very well. Once Leo made him drink “a beer for Pokey.” Mostly people drag him in so they “can talk.” Pokey can’t concentrate because his skin feels strange. He prefers the diner. The grime isn’t much better but the scent of food is much more comforting than the scent of depression, isolation, mixed with a heady shot of self-absorption.

Pokey was thinking of the tavern as he ate his dinner. Friday: fried fish, onion rings, corn and peas. His coke made him think of the beer. It fizzed that same way—that’s why Pokey was willing to try the beer. Only as he left the tavern, bumping against the chairs and the door, he couldn’t seem to control himself. Like the first time he heard Chick Corea and Weather Report, he felt dizzy. Leo only laughted at Pokey. Mr. Mamet and Harry both swore at Leo and told him to leave Pokey alone. Leo only laughed harder.

Pokey had just finished his peas. His mother always scolded him if he didn’t eat his peas. He reluctantly ate them last. He noticed the rain had started. He buttoned-up his coat and made sure he buckled his galoshes.

He started out the door to see the shadow come around the corner of the block, and stop and start. Pokey knew it was James. Pokey’s mother told him to watch-out for James. She had known his mother. What had happened to James’ mother is the reason she moved from Thallow Flats.

“He’s cursed, Pokey.” She said as she glared over her reading glasses. “Ms. Gibson knew that street like the back of her hand. There’s no reason why she should have fallen.”

Pokey could only listen.

His mom continued. “Everybody said that it’s that Barnaby ghost. That ghost did this, that ghost did that. I never listened to that foolishness until Ms. Gibson died. Now look at that son of hers. Skipping and stuttering around the building, clutching that box. Creepy. Pokey you stay away from him. He’s cursed.”

Pokey’s brows furrow as he watches James jump as if he’s trying to avoid the raindrops.

“He just needs a good raincoat and a pair of galoshes.” Pokey thinks to himself. James sees Pokey and presses himself against the wall.

Pokey pauses in front of James, “Hi James.” Pokey looks down as James seems to fold into the box he is carrying. “ I have an old raincoat in my apartment. I live in 111. If you want it come to my apartment. Apartment 111.” Pokey turns and walks home.

10:10, hot chocolate, Dave Brubeck, and Van Vranken

Pokey met Jimmy the following morning at 10:00 AM. As Pokey stood patting Buck's head, Jimmy came out from under the car. He saw Pokey tapping Buck's head and Jimmy smiled at Pokey. Pokey smiled back.
Jimmy came over and commented, "You've got ah good friend, there. Buck wasn't too friendly to me when I first met him. He hasn't really warmed-up too much to me, to tell you the truth."
Pokey listend to Jimmy's voice. He cocked his head as Jimmy spoke. Some words sounded different, but Pokey just listened. Jimmy sounded like a new album that Pokey hadn't heard before. Jimmy was smiling at him. There was a long pause.
"Ma name's Jimmy." Jimmy extented his hand. Pokey reached out and shook it. He returned Jimmy's smile. Pokey glanced at the grimmy clock and told Jimmy, and Buck,
"It's 10:10. "
Jimmy's brow furrowed. He looked in the direction of Pokey's gaze and smiled. And Pokey walked away.
"Sure, Sure. Nice to meet ya. See ya around."
Pokey checked the lock on his booth door and noticed a movement in the abandoned car two spaces down. Pokey turned and walked to the car. The window was rolled three-quarters of the way up. The window had long lost any transparency. Pokey leaned slightly forward,
"Mr. Van Vranken."
A tuff of hair shifted, and a pair of bright blue eyes widened from behind the soiled glass.
"Mr. Van Vranken. It's very cold in here today. I think you will catch a bad cold if you stay too long in this car. "
"What?"
"It's cold, Mr. Van Vranken. If you will get out of the car, you can come into my booth. I have some hot chocolate."
As Pokey turned the key to the booth door, he heard the rusty moan of the car door.
Mr. Van Vranken took Pokey's plastic cup, lifted it and let the steam cover his face. He closed his eyes. The liquid filled his mouth and the noises subsided.
Pokey turned-on his small, duck-taped cd player. Dave Bruebeck's "Take Five" wafted around the booth, Mr. Van Vranken and out into the swirling leaves caught in the corners of the garage entrance. Pokey looked out into the street. Madame Fouquoi waved to him as she passed by on her way to work.

Buck, Charlie Parker, death and Mamet

As Pokey sat in his ticket booth, taking the last of the park-n-ride tickets for the morning, he recalled how he did not like how the day began. Pokey's apartment was near the atrium and as he ate his morning cereal, he heard the massive truck arrive in front of the building. It settled itself in front of the lobby doors, belching and puffing in the morning air. It was bad enough to awaken in the middle of the night by the familar pacing of the upstairs neighbor. Pokey wasn't really clear who actually lived above him. Pokey really only knows those who either have a car in the garage or make an effort to speak with him.
Pokey couldn't fall back to sleep without listening to his music. The record player was too far away from his bed, so he used his cd player. Yet Pokey did not like wearing his headphone in the dead of night. He had once mentioned to his mother that the only way he could fall back to sleep was to play his music. His mother scolded him.
"Pokey, those cords can wrap around your neck and the next thing you know, I'll be arranging your funeral."
Pokey was frighten by the thought of death. Death seems like the strange brush on his shoulder as he went to the roof to feed scraps to the pigeons. He felt this brush the same day he found a dead pigeon on the roof. He only went to the roof because Ms. Keller, the absent-minded old woman in the building asks him from time to time--when she can remember his name, or where she put the bread crumbs. Mostly, the bread crumbs remain in the hall, down the stairs, and some trail down the street only to be sullied by passers-by.
As he left his apartment, the movers were taking-up the entire lobby with furniture of all shapes and sizes. The comingling of stale cigars, fecund wallpaper and something Pokey couldn't name, confused him as he tried to escape into the street. Instead he was trapped at the hall entrance until the elevator arrived and the movers grunted past.
Pokey dashed out the lobby door only to colllide with the other two movers manipulating an ornate setee toward the door.
He adjusts the last of the tickets, brushes off his thermos, picks up a plastic bag, carefully locks his booth, and quickly walks into the shop to see Buck. Pokey was afraid of Leo, but constant as a bass note, Buck's tail would thump when he saw Pokey approach. Pokey awkwardly taps Buck's large, square, brindled head as Buck pokes his head into the plastic bag.
Leo starts from his fitful sleep, sees Pokey, grunts, and closes his eyes again. Once Buck finishes he sits next to Pokey and patiencely lets him continue to pat his head. Pokey absently hums a Charlie Parker tune. After ten minutes, Pokey tells Buck good-bye and heads back to his booth.
Outside his booth, Mr. Mamet is pacing and talking on his cell phone. When he sees Pokey he impatiently gestures for his keys and points Pokey towards the garage. Pokey quickly finds the keys, put on his car gloves, and jogs off to get Mr. Mamet's car. Pokey always wore his car gloves when getting a car. He only wore these gloves when retrieving cars.
Mr. Mamet waived Pokey out of the car, shoves a five into the glove before Pokey had a chance to remove his glove. Pokey stands and stares down into the ruppled bill in his hand. Mamet absently waves at Pokey as he drives off. Pokey is startled that Mr. Mamet is in such a rush. Usually, he waits patiently for Pokey to either put on his gloves or take them off. Pokey wonders if Mr. Mamet was upset by the morning moving truck as well. He walks out to the front of the garge and notices that the truck is still parked out front.
"That's why he's upset." Pokey mumbles to himself. "That truck is in the way." As Pokey turns, he finds his headphones and Duke Ellington's "Mood Indigo" starts. Pokey settles into his booth, arranges the tickets and checks the keys lined on their hooks, closes it and locks them. He puts the key into his jacket. The music mutes the cars that hiss by his window. He settles to watch the day go by.

Pokey Swain Apt. 111

Pokey Swain was worried about the impending cold weather. He had just left his mother's apartment twenty blocks away; she had given him his bag of early winter clothes. Lined goloshes, a flannel and wool plaid coat, the black stocking cap, multiple pairs of cotton and wool socks that he carefully arranged in the top drawer of his dresser, flannel shirts, and six pairs of lined jeans. His t-shirts and boxers were already in the second drawer. He counted them before he went to see his mother on the second Thursday of every month. If his mother thought it necessary, she would provide him with more, after he had given her the carefully recited inventory of his dresser. She worried about Pokey and checked and doubled checked his bag before he left.
"Don't let this bag out of your hands until you get to your room."
"Okay, Mom."
"Make sure you make it on time to dinner."
"Okay, Mom."
"Don't talk to anyone on the bus ride."
"Okay, Mom."
"Pokey, did you take a shower this morning?"
"Yes, Mom. But only a short one. The water was too cold."
"I'll call the manager. You pay on time and there's no reason why you shouldn't have hot water."
"Okay, Mom. The 4:15 bus will be here in 15 minutes."
"Take this thermos and don't leave it on the bus."
Pokey sits on the first row of seats that faces the opposite window and he watches the city move slowly by. He worries that the traffic will make him miss dinner. If he misses dinner, he knows that in the morning, he will feel foggy. He might forget to eat breakfast and be late for his job as a parking garage attendant.
He had missed dinner once before and was late for work. He didn't want that to happen again. Pokey would only order the early bird special. The diner two blocks away served meatloaf as the special on Thursdays. Meatloaf, greenbeans, potatoes and rolls sprawles across a greasy white board that has long ago lost any semblance of being white. It now hangs precariously on the nail just inside the diner entrance. Years of grease, smoke, as well as the general grime that creeps into the diner every time the door swings open, has coated the daily-special board, the wall and most of the diner. Pokey's stool, the third one from the door, has a similar glaze. The tiled floor which was once white now carries the same nebulous grime. Each tarnished tile is outlined in thick, black lines of unknown density.
His thick brows furrow at the lines of cars trying to escape the city. Pokey reaches inside his coat pocket and unravels his headphones. He carefully places them on over his cap, pulls them into place and hits play. Coltrane, in mid-rift, fills his his ears. Pokey closes his eyes and waits for Miles's trumpet to follow.

It takes a village to write a story...

It takes a village to write a story…

Guidelines:

1) You may not maim, kill-off, or send to another planet, any other character. Bottom line, the other character has as many rights as do you.

2) Your should “look over your shoulder" at the ideas, themes, and characters from the summer reading. Let those authors gently guide your writing, but don’t try to recreate the same plot line.

3) Each week, for the first three weeks, you will draw a number from the “bag o’ fate." That number will match another number in either your class or the other one. You must include that character in your next chapter. Feel free to include other characters or characters outside the domain.

4) As we discuss the summer text, let them slide into your consciousness and guide your writing. Let them influence you in the world in which you create in your reality.

5) This activity’s objective is to engage in how a text takes shape in the artist’s mind and how the reader receives it. You should not be so attached to your end of the story that you cannot let others influence your writing as well.

6) The writing activity will take place over the course of six weeks. Each week, by Tuesday night you should post your blog. Wednesday, we will draw numbers. The last three weeks you are set free to interact with whomever you choose.

7) Ideas to consider:
a.) Setting is as important as character. Do not forget/neglect the world around your character. Setting helps authenticate experience.
b.) Conflict must be present. Internal conflict is more difficult to authenticate than external.
c.) Don’t forget about literary devices.
d.) Each time you write, reread your previous entry. Build on the unknown and the unknowable.
e.) Have fun.

8) Grade is based on your evaluation of your character, your classmates evaluation, and, of course, mine.