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THE WRITERS POST (ISSN: 1527-5467) VOLUME 5 DOUBLE ISSUE WINTER 2003 SPRING 2004
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ZAAK FRESH ___________________________ THE DIRECTOR My God, it
was hot. It hadn't rained around here since it last snowed around
here. By local standards of intolerance that fact was
exceptionally disquieting. Well beyond most in recent memory the end of that
particular week had unforgettable written all over it. Courtroom testimony
would later expose how every man has a breaking point. But does every
woman? Thunder banged from a cloudless sky. The
local newspaper tumbled until finally coming to rest against a chipped stop
sign. The day’s headline displayed a blistering, region wide, drought
that was getting worse by the millisecond with no end in sight. Many
yards away, late afternoon traffic inched along Southwest Vibe Street out of
town to the highway. The cars crept past a coffee shop that had a poster
of the movie Casablanca in the window. At the end of the block were two joined
buildings. As one got closer it was easy to see WET PAINT lettering
hanging from the side doorknob of the taller of the two buildings. Those
words of caution failed to cover a more distinguished sign: High
Plains Theater. The building was in good overall repair.
The tastefully appointed hall was dotted with the professional directorial
drama achievements of Jack Lace. There was also a photograph of Jack
shaking hands with the governor. Behind the first door on the left came the
muffled sound of a man and woman arguing. "I hate being trapped in that
small town factory. I can't live like this!" she screamed. "Its your choice!" Jack ranted. Out of sight the enraged woman broke a
glass. Montgomery (Monty) Styles stood behind a
door that had many locks on it, watching Jack unlatch each one. Sorry
about so many locks. The people across the street were robbed last week. One
can't be too careful letting strangers in." "I
came at a bad time." From afar the woman peeked out. Jack glanced at the simmering pizza box.
"How much is it?" Monty handed the box to Jack.
"Seven o-nine." Jack opened his wallet.
"How's the job?" "The pay is bad, but the hours are
awful." Monty jested in an uncomfortable, choppy, language style;
seizing that moment to slyly glance at his wristwatch. Jack walked with the
pizza box deeper into the home. Next to where he placed the box was a static
filled police scanner. "Darn thing. I can’t get it to work." "I used to work for a company that
made scanners for the police. Maybe I can do something," Monty offered
politely. "You're sure, your boss isn't
expecting you back at work?" Jack opened the box and grabbed a slice of
pizza and begun swallowing it. "This wont take long," Monty said. From the other side of the room came
television news about the drought. Both Monty and Jack paused to listen to
the dismal prognostication. "We're all going to wither and
tumble away with the rest of the bad memories," Jack mumbled, motioning
to the bedroom. "God'll
get you for that!" the woman shouted. Jack extended a can of beer to Monty. "No thanks. I need a clear head
tonight." Jack gulped the beer. "A
little buzz helps the atmosphere." After setting the empty can
down Jack finished another piece of pizza, then handed Monty a single
bill. "I have to go out to the Jeep. I'll
be right back with your change." "I'm not going anywhere." Jack
continued to try to get clearer reception from the scanner. Monty walked onto the front of the
building looking inside at Jack. His expensive hiking boots made their
impression in the dirt. He saw Jack seated. His head wavered before falling
into unconsciousness. The beer can Jack held had fallen to the floor.
Monty cupped the sides of his head with both hands. God'll
get you for that, he remembered the woman say. Many yards away Detective Thorne rode
past in a family car unaware that Jack was standing nearby. Nine months earlier: The building attached to the High Plains
Theater was called The Sugar Factory. It resembled a gingerbread house. After
chipping away at thin, jagged, ice sickles that hung from a thermometer
registering five degrees, an energetic rooster proudly stuck out its chest
and beckoned the rural community that a new day was upon them. Heather
squinted from the snows glare. She was a plain, naturally pretty, woman
in middle years, hair highlighted with infrequent streaks of wisdom inspired
gray. She extended her arm to pick up a full bottle of milk, replacing
an empty one in its place. She walked briskly to the stores entrance,
stopping to grab a bite of toast. Once at the door she ruffled her plaid
apron free of sugar, flour, and wrinkles; taking a deep breath before
addressing the patient faithful whose numbers steadily grew outside; those
waiting their chance to get inside the store. "There's plenty of food
for everybody," Heather announced with a slightly southern accent that
did not seem all that abnormal coming from such a perfect mouth. "Easy for you to say, you're
warm," countered a face masked by a thick scarf, exposing the tip of a
red nose, with breath that dissipated in the winters ridged air "You'll be soon enough,"
Heather replied with that unmistakable smile. Inside the store Monty saw Heather.
"Is that true what you said about the food" he asked. "Of course, not."
Heather mouthed back, causing him to feel graced by the older woman's
seasoning and motherly warmth. "I tell-em that
because that's what they want to believe." "Lies?" Monty frowned. "In sweets and lust lies are called
promises." "Is that a fact?" His
eyes graced her face; wishing to be granted one wish to touch it. "I promise," she winked,
whisking her dress to ride high against her thigh. Monty began to walk
before she touched his sleeve. "I want to apologize for the other
night. I can be awful." "We all can," Monty said, with eyes that followed the gentle sway
of her hips as she left, before having his thoughts distracted by the cashier
asked, "Will that be all, Sir?" "No." Monty was dazed. Monty trudged through knee level
snowdrifts before he reached a stone and mortar lighthouse recessed from the
road. Inside the dark circular entranceway his fingers searched for the light
switch then started walking upwardly. The door opened to his apartment.
To one side Dirk was urinating in the kitchen sink. Beyond his unkempt
appearance he is Monty's twin. The curved room was filled with Monty's
low-level achievements for acting. Monty walked to the bed where he
dropped a book on Beginning Acting on the bed. Jack's face was on that
book. "Your parole officer called here
looking for you," Monty complained. "And?" Dirk seemed totally
unconcerned. "What are you doing giving out this
number?" "I had an attack of civic
responsibility." "That makes it ok," Monty said
sarcastically. "The lights out in the hall,"
Dirk offered. "Thank you for telling me what I
already know." Dirk sat and placed his feet on the
coffee table. "I finally struck pay dirt." "Don’t tell me, you stopped
bouncing checks, and found a faster get-rich-quick scheme," Monty
surmised. Dirk's hand covered his heart. "I'm
offended you think so lowly of me." "What are you going to do sue me
for definition of character?" "I'm in love." Dirk's grin
suggested there was more to the disclosure.
"She's a lucky girl." "She’s also married," Dirk
admitted. Outside the school of acting the
afternoon air was clear. Thousands walked the university's spacious grounds
along many plowed snow trails. Monty strutted across the street without looking.
A horn blasted. Monty was across the street in route to the building
ahead. That building was the school of acting. Among many shoe prints in the
snow was the Timberland insignia. Monty sat in the rear of the classroom
doodling on a notepad. Class. We are blessed to have as this
week’s guest lecturer a local hero to many of us who
have followed his fine drama career. Please give a warm round of
applause to Jack Lace. Jack entered from the side. Monty watched
with facial surprise. "Why do you students want to
act?" Jack exalted. "It's a chance to be someone
else," Monty offered. Dirk's head snapped with an eyebrow that
fluttered. "That's one reason." Jack
acknowledged. "What are some of the others? Dirk raised his hand. "It's
an easy grade." Some of the others chuckled, and that
raised the ire of Jack. "That will prove not to be the case in this
class. I'll tell you that." Jack walked
around the stage. Taylor raised her hand. "Role
playing. "Why would a person want to be
someone else?" Jack asked. "Because they hate who they
are." Dirk said. Everyone stared at Dirk. Later, Monty stood beside a pizza
delivery truck. "To be. Or, not to be. That is the question." Two-ton Tony approached with hands on
hips smoking a cigar. "I'd like to see my pizza get to the paying
customers why I'm still young enough to remember why I told you to do it in
the first place!" "Right
away, Boss." Monty agreed. He hopped in the Jeep and shifted
it into gear, and away he drove. En route Monty saw Heather locking the
entrance to The Sugar Factory. At that moment he saw Dirk approach
her. The two began talking, with her repeatedly shaking her head.
He reached for her and she pushed away his advance. Meanwhile, the night wind had picked up
considerably. Inside the lighthouse a woman's moaning pulsated; while two
erotic silhouettes grappled behind the curtain drawn window. Monty was
nude and on top of Taylor in sexual play. They were wildly going at it. "What are you trying to do, kill
me?" she panted holding her throat, rolling onto her back.
"You're not the same. I may be next to you physically, but you're
a thousand miles away. A girl likes to feel her man is paying attention to
her. The problem is you could never love anything past yourself." "I have to go back to work
tonight. Dirk quit at the pizza parlor today, and I have to work longer
hours until they hire someone else." "Liar." She rolled over in
bed, closed her eyes and cried. Present day: Against a full moon Monty trotted to the
rear door to the theater where a cat slept. When its tail was stepped on the
cat lashed back by scratching Monty's calf. Once past the cat he limped up
the stairs.
Jack awakened from his chair. "Where've you been?" "What're you talking about? I
was gone only a few minutes." Monty sat opposite Jack. Monty
opened a can of beer. "I'm doing my bit to keep up with you."
He pointed to the pile of empty beer cans on the floor beside Jack. "Shhh," Jack said as static leaped from a police
scanner. No need for you to try to fit the scanner, something is trying
to come in right now. He leaned his ear closer to the small speaker.
Through the window came the faint sound of emergency sirens. A voice came
through the police scanner speaking of a murder. Their hands began
shaking. "You're Jack Lace?" Jack nodded. His tears had frozen to his
pale face. "I know, this is a rough time, but
I need a few words with you. Is there some place quiet where we can
talk?" Nearby was the Timberland insignia
embedded in the ground. "Are you suggesting I murdered my
wife," Detective? "Those are your words. I
merely asked, when was the last time you and your wife had an argument?" "This afternoon." Detective Thorne took notes on a small
notepad. "What was the argument about?" "A couple of things. My
drinking, for one. There were signs that she was preparing to leave
me." He poured himself a beer. "There was one other thing. She
told me someone was stalking her." He stopped chewing his gum seeing Jack
glance at the end table. "She said, he was after her to get
work; even went so far as to buy her what I thought was a strange gift for a
big city-bred woman like Heather." "Work?" Detective Thorne
momentarily stopped writing. "You mean, next door at The
Sugar Factory? "I don't know." "Continue." "For about nine months I
was convinced she was having an affair. I hoped I was wrong." "Were you?" "It seems, well
never know." "Explain." "I planned to confront her about it
tonight. Raise the curtain on the issue at hand, as it were. Alas that was
not to be. Detective
Thorne looked through Jack. "By your own admission you believed your
wife was having an illicit affair with another man for nine months, and you
didn't press her for the truth back then? Mister Lace, patients is a
virtue in the movies. This is big-time real life. And somebody's going
to get the electric chair for this." He calmed himself, sights
remained riveted on Jack. "Tell me more about your relationship
with your wife." At the theater a hand arranged sign
read: DRAMA CLASSES RESUME TONIGHT. "Listen up!" Jack
positioned those people nearest him in certain locations across the stage.
"We're looking to make this rehearsal the best so far." He
pointed for the scene to begin, "Action!" There was a knock at the door. "Who is it?" Taylor stood from
the kitchen table and asked. From the other side of the door Monty
answered, "Post Office delivery!" Taylor touched-up strands of wayward
strands from her face. "One minute." She opened
the door to see Monty standing there. "Come in." A tear formed in Jacks eyes. "I need a signature, Ma'am." "I have to get a pen."
Taylor turned from the door and walked to the center of the area. Monty followed her. "Nice
place you have." "Thank you." She motioned,
"Put it down anywhere." The lights went out. A gunshot sounded! Someone screamed. Rapid shuffling of furniture followed. "I can't see!" someone yelled. "The light. Find the lights! "There was a frantic pace generated
by everyone. "Turn on the lights!" another
shrieked. "Where!?" There was
pandemonium! Furniture continued being banged about,
making chaotic noise patterns. There were more screams! "Where!?" "How did you know?" Monty's arm relaxed to his side, shining
the beam onto his own face. Worry began to show in his face. "Know what?"
He was breathing heavily. "How did I know what?" Jack pointed. "The
flashlight." The house lights came on. "How did you know where to find
that flashlight?" Jack repeated. "I just." Monty was
afraid. "Why are you all looking at me like that?" Detective Thorne walked, slowly,
confidently, into view with pistol drawn. "Montgomery Styles, you are under
arrest for the murder of Heather Lace." "Arrest?" Monty gasped. A second police officer came in and
placed handcuffs on Monty. "Only the killer knew there was a
flashlight in the upper drawer of that end table. A fact that was not
released to the press," Detective Thorne
said, "Her own husband didn't even know. But he did know that a
man was stalking her. And that it was that same man who bought the flashlight
for her not a day before." Taylor rushed to hug Monty but is
grabbed by Jack. "It was an accident," Monty
pleaded as the second police officer led him away. Taylor wiggled free of Jack and fell to
both knees sobbing. "I never meant to hurt her." He dropped the flashlight to the floor,
and it rolled and rolled. "She said Dirk was coming-on-to-her
in his usual obnoxious way, and she was afraid to lock-up at night
alone. I got her the flashlight to make her feel safe." Taylor glares at Monty. "The truth is,
I was in love with Heather. We had been seeing each other for
months." Taylor softens her face as Monty looks
back at her. "But I knew what we were doing was
wrong. Dead wrong. And I wanted to end it. That's why I came by that night. I
wanted the flashlight back, was all. She
refused to give it back. She said, it was all she
had to hold on to for hope of ever leaving this town." Jack is devastated. "When she wouldn't give it to me we fought. And." His head dropped as he was led away by the second police officer. Monty is gone. "Increasingly, I wondered who could
get a man like this work. Then it hit me." Jack said.
"Who, indeed." Detective Thorne frowned at Jack who was helping Taylor stand. "How did you know the killer would return to the scene of the crime?" "How?" Jack looked proud
and professionally distinguished. "Because he is an actor.” ZAAK FRESH · THE
WRITERS POST (ISSN: 1527-5467), VOLUME 5 DOUBLE ISSUE WINTER 2003 - SPRING 2004 Editorial
note: All
works published in this issue are simultaneously published in the printed Wordbridge magazine double issue 3 &4 Winter 2003
& Spring 2004. (ISSN: 1540-1723). Copyright
© Zaak
Fresh 1999, 2004. Nothing in this issue may be downloaded, distributed, or
reproduced without the permission of the author/ translator/ artist/ The Writers Post/
and Wordbridge magazine. Creating links to place
The Writers Post or any of its pages within other framesets or in other
documents is copyright violation, and is not permitted.
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