The Saddest Song in the World
I met Cat Woman through a mysterious man during one of my kamikaze door-to-door Avon missions. He stood on the corner of the two most expensive ocean-view streets in town, a tasseled leather woman's bag slung over his right shoulder. He wore slim pin-striped denim slacks and over-pursed lips as if he were kissing an old lady on the cheek. I stared at him a moment. We looked like strangers from kaleidoscope planets on opposite sides of this fine galaxy - me in my sample-stuffed kilt and a datura trumpet stuck behind one ear, him all slick-backed hipster with the shiniest lizard green shoes I ever saw.
What the heck, I thought, and pulled an Avon Men's Catalogue from my backpack.
"Hey there! You look like quite a snazzy young man. Would you care for an Avon brochure geared toward fashion forward men and a few free samples?"
A black angle crow squawked from the swaying telephone wire above us, his beak pitched and angry, and I smiled and waved the Men's book toward the sky. The man broke kissing concentration, broke into a beaded smile, and extended his hand to grab the brochure.
"Well sure, now. Why not?" His palm shone like a sailor's warning sunrise, all fire orange angry with patches of missing skin as if someone grated his hands with the tiniest grit of a cheese grater.
He swung his purse out front, snapped open the tarnished silver buckle and stuck the book in a zippered compartment lined with a delicate floral print as if he'd done this a million times. His motions were easy, well-rehearsed, a man with deep purse knowledge. "But if you're looking to sell some Avon, you should see my friend, Gail. She's in that brown stucco behind the Spanish Manor."
Purse man pointed to a hulking spread surrounded by an electronic gate. A small dirt drive ran beside the mansion, and I craned my neck to see the small home he referenced. I turned to thank him, but his back headed north, already many yards down the rich street, one lizard toe in front of the other, his purse slapping his butt in concrete rhythm.
I followed the dirt drive past six century plants, their spiked fronds open, inviting, thin stalks rising from their centers like the unrolled tongue of a butterfly. The mansion people littered their pristine sod lawn with generic marble statues of cupids and maidens and one lone fat hen. Gail's house hid in an alcove of eucalyptus. Her yard consisted of decaying ice plant and a natural wood rail fence missing half of its support. Beach towns are like this, I thought. Filthy rich next to middle class next to the fallen forgotten.
I heard the music first, and in my next breath I heard the cats. A woman's whimpering voice cut through the drawn drapes and shut glass, fell through the roof, slashed the walls, a plaintive cry of despair accompanied by plodding piano.
I went down to the river
to meet the widow
she gave me an apple
it was red
I slept in her black arms
for a century
she wanted nothing in return
I gave her nothing in return
I gave her nothing in return
the ghost of her husband
beautiful as a horse
pulled up an apple cart
full of millions of red apples
Cats howled along with the recording, and I stopped at the open gate. I leaned against a lichen-covered rail, backpack cutting into my sleeveless shoulders, and decided this house was just one hair too much, too loud, too decrepit, too sad for me to enter. But Gail saw me first, opened her white wood door, waved me across the yard, invited me closer with a solid wink and a hearty voice.
"Don't you think Chan Marshall just has the most gorgeously sad voice? I've heard plenty of sad songs over the years, but I think this takes the crown. It could make Satan weep like a schoolgirl. Do Not listen to this song in the vicinity of razor blades!"
A black cat jumped from under a sage bush, ran for the door, crossed my path as sure as Gail's weeping Satan.
To Be Continued....
7:39:12 PM 
|
