The Stray

Outdoor Seating, Former Doughnut Shop, Wallingford, 2009




Dutch shook out his umbrella, stomped his feet a few times, then stepped out of the rain and into Winchell’s. He waved at Steve as the Assistant Manager-Trainee took a customer’s order. Steve winked in return.

The doughnut shop's aging linoleum floor was muddy wet. Bare florescent bulbs cast a blinding reflection off the glass display case. The radio played something closer to static than music. The windows were covered in condensation. Dutch traced a smiley face above a Puffies poster that clung by a single piece of tape, then slid into his usual seat at his usual table, removed his parka, and waited for Tina to bring him his coffee and lemon jelly doughnut.

It was a just another dreary Tuesday morning in the Wallingford Winchell's Donut House and Dutch couldn’t have been happier.

Dutch Kerrigan would turn sixty-eight next week. He would mark the occasion in the same manner as he had for the last ten years, the length of his sobriety. He would pull the thick wallet out of his coat pocket and show the kid behind the counter--probably Steve this year--his driver’s license.

“See? It's my birthday today. I'm still here,” Dutch would grin. “Where's my free doughnut?”

And the kid--Steve, and before him Aaron, Kyle, Maggie, Wes, Mark, Kelly, Nick, Latetia, Bryce and countless others--would find a candle, stick it in the doughnut or apple fritter or maple bar, light it, and make Dutch’s day.

Steve walked over with the coffee and doughnut. “Morning, Dutch. Here you go.”

“Thanks, kid. Where’s Tina?”

Dutch had a special fondness for Tina, a street kid, a runaway from Wisconsin who escaped an abusive boyfriend by hitchhiking across the western states with nothing but the clothes on her back and plenty of guile and perseverance. When Tina started working at Winchell’s last summer, she treated Dutch with the same poorly disguised contempt as everyone else she encountered. Tina was like a feral cat, aloof, weary and defensive--and for good reason. But Dutch saw through her tough façade. He recognized the disillusionment and hurt. She reminded Dutch of his oldest daughter, Kimmie, the one who got away.


Dutch was everyone's favorite regular--gregarious, sweet and unassuming. He regaled the staff and fellow customers with stories about the Wallingford of his youth. He told corny jokes. He handed out trinkets to little kids. He greeted everyone who walked in like a long, lost friend. In spite of her resistance, Tina evenutually warmed to the doughnut shop's beloved fixture.

When Dutch would casually ask Tina how things were going, she sensed his sincerity. He didn’t meddle in her affairs or try to give her advice, like a father might. He just listened. Dutch expected nothing from Tina but a smile to go along with his daily cup of joe. Tina gave him that and, over time, her trust.

With a few words exchanged each morning across a grimy, laminated table in a poorly lit, nearly empty doughnut shop within earshot of the Interstate's drone, a friendship was forged.

They talked about tv shows, the weather, politics, other customers, their families. She would ask about his health and remind him to keep his doctor appointments. She would tie his shoes, clean his glasses, and pour him free re-fills. He would suggest movies for her to rent, lend her his favorite paperbacks, encourage her to eat better and would occasionally slip her a few twenties for groceries or a good used coat. She would refuse his generosity, but he would insist.

Dutch was the only stable, consistent presence in Tina's life. The only man she had ever trusted, really. Dutch understood and embraced the delicacy of their frienship, how even the slighest shift in behaviour or motive could alter its balance, damage its foundation. If only he had had this revelation before it was too late with Kimmie, before she had finally given up on her wreckless, erratic, absent father.




Entrance, Former Doughnut Shop, Wallingford, 2009



Steve looked solemnly at Dutch's jelly doughnut, then took a seat across from the old man. “Tina’s probably not coming in today, Dutch.”

“Oh. Why’s that?” asked Dutch.

Steve explained that the Winchell’s corporation was losing money and closing unprofitable franchises. He told Dutch that all of the employees at the Wallingford location were being laid off or offered part-time positions at a shop in Kent, some twenty miles away.

Dutch took a sip from his cup and considered this news. He scanned the empty room and noticed that his smiley face had disintegrated into something abstract and lifeless. “Are you going to Kent, Steve?”

“No, Dutch,” replied Steve, “I’m done with doughnuts. I’m thinking of going back to school.”

“Oh, that’s good. What about Tina?”

“I don’t know, Dutch.” Steve heard the chime indicating the door had opened and turned to see a couple of teenage boys enter the shop. He got up from the table. “When I told her about the lay-offs yesterday she was pretty mad. She stormed outta here without saying much. I don’t know where she is, Dutch.”

Dutch couldn’t finish his doughnut. His felt anxious.

Tina was tough, a survivor. She had been through far worse than this, but still Dutch worried for her. He couldn’t help it. He envisioned her somewhere out on the streets frantic, beside herself, with no one to turn to. He left the shop without saying goodbye to Steve.


Dutch waited in the rain for the number 44 to take him into the U-District, to the dilapidated house on 7th that Tina shared with a bunch of other kids. He would find her and offer her whatever comfort and support he could. She might refuse him, he knew this--fall back on her street instincts to protect herself--but he would be there for her. He would not lose this one.




Service Entry, Former Doughnut Shop, Wallingford, 2009

Charlie's Guitar

Elliot Bay, December, 2009



Father Bernard called Jess, a concert promoter, to ask if he knew any musicians who might want to sing and play guitar at Mass on Sunday. Jess thought about it for a moment, then volunteered himself.

“That’s great, Jess” said Father Bernard. “I didn’t know you played.”

“Yeah,” replied Jess, taking a sip of his whiskey.

“Well, thank you, Jess. I guess we'll see you on Sunday, then.”

“Okay, Father. See you then,” said Jess.

Jess walked down to the basement and found the acoustic guitar he had bought as a present for his son’s fifteenth birthday. Charlie loved the guitar, a Seagull S6, and had been taking lessons for a couple of months before the accident. After he died, the guitar was the only possession of Charlie’s that Jess had kept. Everything else was given away. Jess had asked his brother, Mark, to manage the purge, while he disappeared for a month somewhere in the remote woods of the Cascades confronting the deepest, most painful despair a man will ever know.

He took the guitar out and studied it. It hadn't been touched since Charlie’s friend, Rick, had played it at the funeral, three years ago. It felt light and foreign in his hands. He ran his fingers over the few scratches on its body and the remnants of a Radiohead sticker that Charlie had pried off after tiring of the band.

“He was getting good,” remembered Jess, cradling the guitar in the dim light of his tool room. “Really, really good.”

Jess gently placed the guitar in its case and carried it upstairs.

He poured himself another glass of whiskey and sat down in front of the tv. A basketball game was on. Tomorrow he would go to church for the first time since his son’s funeral. He would go to church and play a few songs for God and Father Bernard and all the rest.

He would play for his boy. His boy, Charlie.

*****

Jess arrived at the church a few minutes before Mass was to begin with the smell of alcohol on his breath. Father Bernard greeted him warmly, handed him a list of songs, and asked Jess if he still felt up to playing.

“Yes, Father,” he said. “You remember the last time I was here?”

“I do, Jess.”

“It’s been a tough few years, Father. You know what I mean?”

“I think I do, Jess,” said Father Bernard.

Jess stared at the priest for a moment and said nothing, then turned to leave the sacristy. Father Bernard caught up to him and said, “Jess, you don’t have to do this.” But Jess ignored him and made his way to the sanctuary, near the altar, where the small choir sat, waiting for him to lead them in song.

*****

On Father Bernard’s cue, Jess rose from his pew and moved to the microphone stand. He strapped on Charlie’s guitar and gazed out at the packed church.

The parishioners waited for Jess to introduce the first hymn.

But Jess froze. He had taken this as far as he could. There would be no redemption. He stood paralyzed before his friends and neighbors, defeated and helpless, like an innocent man convicted, awaiting his sentence.

Father Bernard waited as long as he could through the uncomfortable silence. The parishioners were beginning to grumble. He was about to escort Jess back to his pew, when Rick, perhaps the only person in the congregation who knew that Jess could not play a single note on the guitar, got up from his seat in the back of the church and walked down the aisle toward the altar.

When he reached Jess, Rick carefully unstrapped the guitar from his neck, then placed it around his own. Then he whispered in Jess’s ear, “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Gainey. I hope this thing's in tune. Why don't you introduce the song.”

Jess took the list from his pocket and spoke hesitantly into the microphone. “The…uh…first song today is…uh…How Great Thou Art.”




For, Elliot Bay Fishing Pier, 2009

Wrong, All Wrong

Blue Beam, Fremont, 2009



The memo informed John that the promotion would go to Davis, not him.

This news surprised John. He was certain that he would get it. He had been given every indication by his boss that the promotion was his to lose. The interview had gone very well. Everyone liked him. Everyone. His production was up. He hadn’t missed a day of work all year. Not one day.

But it was Davis, not him, who was named the new assistant.

Davis.

“How can this be?” he wondered. “I’ve done every thing they’ve asked. Everything. What has Davis done?”

That evening after work, Davis approached John in the parking lot as he was getting into his car. John decided that he would avoid Davis. “Just look straight ahead,” he told himself.

Before he could escape, though, Davis stepped in front of the car and tapped on its hood. John could not ignore him. He took a deep breath and rolled down the window. “Davis,” he said.

“John,” smiled Davis. “I’m glad I caught you before you left.”

“What is it, Davis?”

“I just wanted to say…well…I just, ah….”

“Congratulations on the promotion, Davis,” John said.

“Thanks, John. I know it must be hard--”

“Tell me, Davis,” interrupted John, “what have you done?”

“John?”

“What have you done in the time you’ve been here?” asked John.

“I’ve done everything they’ve asked,” replied Davis.

“Have you?” said John.

“Yes,” confirmed Davis. “Everything.”

John fiddled with the zipper of his jacket. A squirrel scampered across the parking lot carrying what looked to be a slice of pumpkin pie in its mouth.

“Did you see that, Davis?”

“See what?” asked Davis.

“Never mind,” said John.

“John--”

“I have to go, Davis. Things to do, you know.”

“Sure, John” said Davis. “I understand.”

John rolled up the window and drove off, ignoring Davis' wave.

On the way home, as snowflakes began to fall, John decided that his car needed washing. He pulled into a stall at the deserted Fremont Brown Bear and spent the next three hours there, under the harsh florescent lights, washing and rinsing his Buick and wondering what more he could have done.




Foam, Leary Way Northwest, 2009

Autumn In The Neighborhood

Metal Fabricators, Leary Way Northwest, 2009






Carpet Cleaners, Leary Way Northwest, 2009






Ship Builders, Ship Canal, 2009






Accountants, Leary Way Northwest, 2009






Auto Mechanics, Leary Way Northwest, 2009






Headstone Manufacturers, Fremont, 2009

Delectable

Hostess Cake Factory, Aurora Avenue North, #1, 2009


“He’s a two-timing son of a bitch is what he is,” Stella cried, and threw her engagement ring into the giant, silver chrome vat.

“What are you doing?!!” screamed Rainey. She flicked off the power switch, yanked up her sleeve, stuck her arm into the vat and frantically worked to retrieve the ring but it was too late.

The ring had become one with the thick, gooey Ding Dong batter.

*****


Rainey McCartney and Stella Von Trope had been best friends since high school and had worked side by side at the Seattle Hostess Cake plant for just shy of ten years, integral in the production of millions of Ho-Ho’s, Twinkies, CupCakes, Suzy Q’s, Sno Balls and Fruit Pies. They knew their way around industrial baking machines. The women had tried their hand at other professions (Rainey as a daycare teacher and convenience store clerk, Stella as a dog groomer and waitress) but found bakery work suited them best. They didn’t make much money and the hours were grueling, but the work kept them busy, the benefits were good and the uniform was free. Plus, they got to talk to each other all day and enjoyed a generous employee discount on the world’s most delicious snack cakes.

Rainey lived with a grizzled ex-marine, Chet Wilson, another baker at the plant, fifteen years her senior. They had a young son, Ben, the result of an affair that cost Chet his marriage but gained him a new lease on life. The couple worked opposite shifts so that one of them would always be at home with Ben, and to keep their stormy relationship half-way sane.

Ben’s doting godmother Stella (“Auntie Stell”) was single, childless, and had never had a long term boyfriend. In fact, few men had ever shown much interest in her at all, really. Until Deacon came along.

Chet’s younger brother, Deacon Eugene Wilson, was a recently ordained minister (online, Universal Life Church of Modesto, just $12) and auto parts store clerk from Abilene, who had visited last spring, met Stella at a company picnic, and fell madly in love.

Before returning to Texas, Deacon promised Stella, “I’m gonna marry you, girl.”

“Well, I suppose you could, legally. If I ever find a man, that is,” she grinned.

“Oh, you’ve found him!” he declared. And off he went, back to Abilene, to resume his upstart ministry, Fly By Night Weddings And Inspirations.

They exchanged emails and calls over the summer, and in September, Stella used up the last of her sick days and made the long drive to Texas to visit Deacon. They spent a glorious weekend at a Howard Johnson’s, swimming, lounging and ordering room service. During Stella’s drive back to Seattle, Deacon called and proposed. Stella pulled off the interstate somewhere near Baker City, Oregon, wiped the tears from her eyes, and accepted his offer to become Mrs. Deacon E. Wilson, minister’s wife.





Hostess Cake Factory, Aurora Avenue North, #2, 2009





A young couple, not much older than twenty, contacted Deacon to have him officiate their wedding ceremony, as soon as possible. “Right now, if you can fit us in.”

After offering them iced tea and a comfy chair on his front porch, Minister Deacon asked them a few questions about how they met, their plans for the future, and their financial situation. Then Deacon came right out and asked the young woman, “Miss, are you with child?”

The young woman was so startled by the question that she yelped. Then her eyes started to water. She bit down on her lower lip and pressed the hem of her dress tightly against her knees, trying to keep it all together. She looked to the young man but his head was turned away, his eyes downcast. The tears fell now, unrestrained. She hated him. She hated herself. She wished she were dead. Better dead than to live with the constant judgment and persecution and uncertainties and guilt. She quivered and looked helplessly at the minister, in supplication.

Minister Deacon leaned forward and took her hands in his. “Everything’s gonna be alright, Miss,” he whispered. “I promise.”

His words and touch calmed her, soothed her. She believed him. She would believe anything he told her right now.

“You’ll be taken care of,” he said. “I promise.”

Finally, she answered his question, “Y-y-yes, sir.”

Deacon addressed the young man. “Son, listen to me. Do you truly, from the bottom of your heart, from the very depths of your soul, love this woman?”

The young man looked at her, with pity and remorse, then gingerly stroked her stringy blonde hair. He returned to Deacon, but said nothing.

“Son,” encouraged Deacon, gently, “be truthful with me here: Can you give me your solemn word that you will love this young woman, treasure her, protect her, exalt her ‘til your dying days so help you God?”

“Sir?”

“Can you, son?”

“Sir, I like her an awful lot. An awful lot.”

Deacon stared thoughtfully into the young man’s teary, tired, brown eyes, then said, “Son, that’s not good enough. I cannot condone, nor will I preside over, a holy union based on…on like.”

“Yes, sir” said the young man.

“Son. Miss. Go home. Rest well tonight. Pray. Talk to God. Then, if the Spirit moves you, give me a call tomorrow or the next day and we can set up a time to meet. For a small fee I can offer you guidance. I can steer you in the right direction. I can clarify the mixed messages your heart is giving you. Think about it, won’t you? Here’s my card.”




Hostess Cake Factory, Aurora Avenue North, #3, 2009




Stella slid the steaming hot sheet pans out of the rack oven and placed them on the transfer dolly, slid the next set of pans in, programmed the temperature and time on the control panel, and slammed the oven door shut.

“What’s wrong?” asked Rainey, pushing the dolly toward the cooling tower, where the Ding Dongs would settle before being inserted into the cream coating machine.

“He didn’t call again. He said he would call. It’s been over a week,” said Stella.

“Has he texted you?”

“He doesn’t text. He doesn’t even have a cell phone.”

“Really? That’s weird,” Rainey said. “Even Chet has a cell phone. Though he never answers it.”

"He calls me from a pay phone. From a Seven/Eleven," sighed Stella. "When he does call."

"A pay phone?"

“He’s probably busy with his ministry, or whatever,” Stella reasoned. “Help me with this.” The women hoisted a fifty pound sack of baking powder onto the dolly and made their way back to the mixing vats.

“We’re supposed to get married in April,” Stella complained, “and we haven’t even talked about the wedding. Every time I bring it up, he changes the subject, Rainey. I think he’s getting cold feet.”

An unusual odor, a mixture of sweet corn syrup and burning acid, wafted through the warehouse. “Oh, man. The Sno Balls got flamed again. Damn,” said Rainey. “Sid said he fixed that thing.”

Stella phoned Maintenance, then the women started toward the oven room. “Don’t worry, Hon,” assured Rainey, “he’s just nervous. He’ll come through. You’ll see. Those Wilson boys are hard-headed and unpredictable, but they keep their word. Mostly.”

“I hope you’re right, Rainey.”





Hostess Cake Factory, Aurora Avenue North, #4, 2009




The young woman, Hannah, called Deacon the next day to make an appointment to meet. “And what about the young man?” asked Deacon. “I can’t find him,” said Hannah, through tears.

“Why don’t you stop by this afternoon,” suggested Deacon. “I have no other appointments scheduled.”

The fact is, no appointments had ever been scheduled in the six month existence of Fly By Night Weddings And Inspirations. Hannah would be Deacon’s first customer. People just weren’t getting married in Abilene, apparently, and weren’t ready to embrace Deacon’s unorthodox, rather hodgepodge approach to spiritual guidance. The large, very expensive, blinking neon sign bolted to the side of his house, CLARITY INSIDE!, attracted plenty of attention and free publicity, but no business. “God is testing my faith,” the minister acknowledged. Deacon had taken out a second mortgage, a small business loan, and had used plenty of credit card debt to finance his modest ministry, but it was looking more and more like God’s plan didn’t call for Deacon to spread the good word at this time. Deacon was considering temporarily shutting down the operation and going back to the auto parts store full-time. Then Hannah showed up.

Hannah took much comfort in Deacon’s words and reassurances. His pontificating was hard to discern sometimes, but undeniably uplifting. He was an odd man, to be sure, but she found his confidence and enthusiasm to be charming, even attractive. And for a few minutes, in the presence of this stranger who may or may not be all that he claims, she was able to forget that she was single, poor, pregnant and without hope. She scheduled another appointment for the next day.

“It looks like I’ll have some time available between…um… 11 o’clock and noon,” said Deacon, scanning the blank pages of his appointment book.

“That’s fine,” said Hannah. “Minister Wilson?”

“Yes, Hannah? And, please, call me Deacon.”

“Minister…er,Deacon…I have to tell you: I don’t have much money. I’m not sure I’ll be able to--”

“Money is not an issue here, Hannah. The good word cannot be bought and sold. It just… is. No one has ownership over... One’s path to enlightenment is not paved with... sales and receipts and stocks and withholdings and...and...well...things of this nature!”

“So,” giggled Hannah, “what you’re saying, I think, Minister...Deacon...is that--”

“I’ll see you at 11 tomorrow, Hannah,” Deacon smiled.



*****


Deacon finally called Stella.

He called and told her that he was closing Fly By Night Weddings And Inspirations for good and that he was going to let his license lapse. He was resigning from the ministry. He told her that he was applying for the manager’s position at the auto supply store and felt that he had a good chance at getting it. He also told her that he had fallen in love with a woman named Hannah and that he was going to be a surrogate father to her unborn child.

And Deacon told Stella that he was very, very sorry that he had mislead her and that God works in mysterious ways.

Stella told Deacon that she appreciated his honesty and that if some kid chokes to death on some foreign object found in his Ding Dong that he was to blame. Then she hung up, put her engagement ring in her purse and went to work.




Hostess Cake Factory, Aurora Avenue North, #5, 2009

The Aerialist

Blue Tarp 1, 2009



When are you going to fix the roof?

When the rain lets up a bit.

It’s not raining now.

It's not?

No.

I need to get a few more materials. The right tools. I need to do some research. On the internet.

What were you just doing on the internet?

Looking at…pictures of…endangered wildlife.

There’s a leak in the bedroom now.

Yeah, I know.

And the bathroom.

Yes. I know.

You said you would fix it this weekend.

I'm organizing my thoughts.





Blue Tarp 2, 2009





Why don’t you just hire a contractor?

I told you I don’t trust contractors. They’ll just charge us for repairs we don’t really need. And they’ll take forever. I’ll do this myself and save us thousands of dollars.

Alright. When?

It's stopped raining?

Yes. The kitchen has a leak, too.

It does?

Yes.

Hmm.

Should I call my brother?

No.

Why not? He’ll help. He’s good. He wants to help.

I don’t need help. It’s a one man job.

You sure?

I’ll fix the roof.

You know what you’re doing?

What?

You know what you're doing?

I might have to improvise.

Improvise?




Blue Tarp 3, 2009

The Mule And The Salt Lick

Doors, Mottman Building, Pioneer Square, 2009



He ran his fingers carefully through the bowl one more time, convinced that there were some uneaten pistachios hiding among the spent shells. He would find the elusive last few and finish the whole snack. Nice and tidy. Nothing wasted.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Digging and stirring. Whisking. He kept at it, but found nothing but hollow, dusty half shells.

He stopped fishing for nuts and licked the salt from his fingers. "What am I doing?" he wondered.

He craved one more unopened treasure, one more shell to break apart (the satisfying snap!), one more kernel to suck up like a vacuum cleaner. One more savory nugget to chew.

"Stop this!" he told himself, then resumed mining the bowl.

Just as he was about to give up and get on with his evening, he found one.

It was a pistachio he recalled tossing back because it was sealed shut. It had been quickly dismissed and discarded. Useless. But that was when the bowl was chock full of ripe candidates, easy openers. Then, it was simply interference, an obstacle, a tease. Now, it was his last hope.

He held it pinched between his thumb and forefinger and re-examined its potential. Perhaps he had been a bit hasty. There was some space there, not much, but something to work with, at least. He placed the pistachio between his clenched teeth--like a vise--and bit down in an effort to pry the seam apart, but the nut did not cooperate and flew from his mouth onto the table top, then down to the carpeted floor, where it lay harmlessly at his feet.

He picked up the pistachio and cleaned it with his shirt. “We've made some headway,” he supposed, optimistically. “The door is ajar, I think.”

He inserted his sharpest nail, his right thumbnail, into the suggestion of a crack and began to pry. He wedged his left thumbnail in. He pulled and pried and twisted. He persisted, but it was no use. The shell halves would not budge. The kernel remained safely ensconced in its casing.

For his futile efforts, he sustained a small but painful cut beneath his right thumbnail--no man's land. It was sore, throbbing, and the salt found its way into the wound and made the sting worse. He instinctively put his thumb into his mouth to suck the pain away. It was the last salt he would taste that night.

He dropped the pistachio into the bowl then buried it. He had laundry that needed folding.




Shell, 2009