Description Writing Magic – Class Blog

His cellphone beeps what to me seems to be the fifteenth time during this birthday lunch out I had planned for us so carefully. I’d had to juggle times and, in fact dates so our time together could coincide with his insane schedule that barely permitted us any time together.

Sitting here across from him, I’d half hoped we could recapture the closeness we’d had last summer on the San Juan Islands when we’d first met, a closeness that had cemented us together. It had been a glorious summer with walks together on the beach, visiting the smallish towns, riding the ferry to the other islands, making love in the quaint and high priced BNB room we ended up sharing. We synced beautifully. Or so I thought.

My annoyance increases now, as waiters flit by us to tend to the throng of increasingly demanding diners. Then yet another beep from Scott’s cell placed carefully at the side of his empty plate. He hasn’t even turned it off. The bastard.

Nevertheless, I smile while he takes the call which is thankfully brief. When he hangs up, I whisper, “Happy birthday, babe!”

He shoots me a fake crestfallen look and mutters, “I just had to be born on one of the busiest stock market days. Shit.”

But I know he’s itching to get back to the trading floor downtown. 

A waiter finally graces our table, his white apron stained with what looks like wine or grape juice. He hurriedly chants, “And what can I get for you today?”

We chant our answers back to him and he sails away. Scott magnanimously slips his cellphone into his pocket. I hope fervently that he’s turned it off. 

We both look towards the kitchen and see meals of the restaurant’s famous food being put on the metal counter for the waiters to take away. 

Scott mentions, “Damn. I should’ve ordered that.” He tips his head toward a Philly cheesesteak with fried onion rings waiting to be picked up. I ruefully realize the shrimp salad I’d ordered doesn’t even measure up. I, too, would’ve liked to indulge. Oh, well.

Amazingly, our waiter then shows up with the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and two wine glasses, one with a smudge of lipstick on the rim. My glass.

He looks away as Scott lifts his glass to take a sip and then nods at the distracted waiter who rushes off.

Scott seems distracted as well. Trust a stock trader. Our hemming and hawing is forced because his mind’s on the fluctuating market these days. 

Our meal arrives quicker than expected and even though I’m disappointed with what I ordered, I’m grateful that we might just have something to talk about.

“How is it?” I say to him, indicating the Monte Cristo that he’s just taken a bite out of. He swallows and takes a slug of wine and smiles at me. “It’s actually quite good, Suze. Perfect birthday sandwich!”

I giggle and tell him, “I should’ve ordered that.” I lift up a forkful of the uninspired shrimp salad to show him. He smiles and tells me, “Here, babe, have half of mine!”

“Give me only a bite,” I say. After all, he’s the man in the family. Plus, I’m watching my weight.

We are relaxed now, just as I’d hoped. I’m thinking of ordering a second bottle of Sauvignon Blanc

so we can share it after eating. While I’m looking around for our waiter, his phone beeps yet again. The bastard hasn’t even turned it off.

It always ends up like this, but this time, there’s a horrible twist.

Scott jumps up as he listens to the caller. Then he shouts, “No! It was fine earlier!”

Then he glares at me and shouts, “I can’t believe you dragged me here on the absolute worst day you could! My client just lost millions!”

And he storms out.

At first I’m shocked. Then I give a wilting glance at the other diners whose meals Scott’s just disturbed. Then I wonder if I have enough money to pay for our own meal. Scott’s the one who has our credit cards. 

I decide right then that I’ll finish the rest of the wine at my leisure and pull out my cellphone to while away the time. I’m aware that a few diners are whispering about poor little old me.

There’s a catch holding down the thick barred window that I’m working on now. I’m familiar with how these catches work: the metal bar slides to the left between its circular metal holders but this one seems rusted into place. I know from vast experience that if I keep working on it, chipping at the dark red rusted parts with my fingernail, it just might open. So I keep at it while trying to think positively.

The room I’m now in seems to be on the second floor of some house. And thank God the glass is clear enough so I can figure out where I possibly may be. While giving my fingers a rest, I gaze outside. There’s snow everywhere. And pine trees whose dark green hides what may be beyond what I immediately see. It’s a peaceful scene. And I might be in love with it if I weren’t trapped up here on the second floor.

I’m not surprised by my relative calmness. I’ve been trapped many times since God knows when. It just takes the patience I’ve been developing over a long, long time for me to get out of here. To get free. 

Whoever put me up here was thoughtful, at least. I’m wearing a ribbed down jacket, turquoise in color. Also a sweater underneath that keeps scratching my nipples, but at least I’m warm on top. They’ve also dressed me in blue jeans and slippers.

So I can be comfortable while practicing my patience.

I divide my time between scanning the room for any possible escape hatch.that those who have me here have failed to notice and then gazing out the window.

I see another log cabin buried beneath the pine trees on the other side of what I assume is a road, now covered with snow. Through squinted eyes, I can make out a woman or someone standing at the door. She appears thick, but maybe it’s what she’s wearing. And she seems to be looking toward where I am. I think briefly of waving my arms and yelling but then I know she can’t see inside the window I’m gazing out of.

I toy with the idea of what she might be doing in that cabin. Waiting for her husband? Her boyfriend? Her captors now that she’s escaped? My fingers return to the rusty catch and begin picking at it. But I keep my eyes on that woman. It helps pass the time.

She seems to be trying to leave the cabin, or so I tell myself. I squint my eyes again and then I see a flash of pale flesh below the pant legs. With a start, I realize she’s not wearing any shoes. Walking or running in the snow would be sheer torture. Poor thing. At least they’ve put slippers on my feet.

I’m suddenly aware I have to pee. Badly. My fingers are tired from working at that catch. I stand up and see the woman across the way has gone inside the cabin and the door has closed. 

 I scout about this room in search of something to pee in. My bladder is uncomfortably full. The room is surprisingly full of furniture which I haven’t taken the time to peruse yet. I finally find a tin bucket and hastily pull the loose jeans down and squat over it. My relief overpasses the realization that I’m not wearing any underwear. 

I stand up and pull up the loose jeans, wondering why I’m dressed in these clothes that aren’t even mine. I’m also wondering how I’m supposed to empty the bucket. 

I wander around the room, poking at the furniture: a wooden bureau with empty drawers. A small wooden table that might have been a sewing machine table at one time. There’s the bed with a red plaid mackinaw blanket thrown over some hotel type sheets. One pillow with a white pillowcase. There’s a bedside table on each side of it, wooden as well. The door to the closet has been removed. Inside, there’s the requisite wooden pole and what looks like an ironing board, folded up. 

I spend time walking around and around the room, remembering a story they’d had us read in high school about a crazy woman walking around and around her bedroom. Left foot. Right foot. Turn at the window. God. “The Yellow Wallpaper”. I was fascinated by the story, I remember, wondering if that kind of thing would ever happen to me.

And now, here I am.

What irony.

I jerk myself away from that mindset and go back to the window, peering out. The cabin’s door is still closed, the woman presumably inside. 

So I put my fingers to work again on the rusted catch. It’s the only thing left to do as long as the light outside holds.

But the light doesn’t hold. The shadows of late afternoon begin making things harder to see as the sun hides itself behind the pine trees. Pretty soon, all that will be left to do is get in that bed. Plus, hunger is making my empty stomach make unhappy sounds.

The prairie was vast. Vast was the word. It provided that sense in comparison to the tightly packed city where the teacher came from. Through the open spaces of the carriage in which she now sat with the four other silent passengers, the prairie gave her a sense of openness and of hope she wanted not to be dashed this time.

The creaks of the carriage wound around the clip-clops of the horse’s hooves and its variety of nickers and neighs. It was music to her ears.

Five hours later, the town began to approach the carriage, or what she thought must be the town. Craning her neck, she could see the small sod schoolhouse with its lone wooden door painted green that was now shut and locked. Another sod house stood to the schoolhouse’s right, and then another one and another. When they approached a sod house that must be some kind of grocery store, the carriage came to a stop at the driver’s “Whoa, now. Whoa!”

The teacher got out of the carriage taking care to gather her dusty skirt about her legs to keep it from blowing upward at the sudden strong wind. The other riders, getting off as well, clutched their hats on their heads. They looked up at the driver, now on top of the carriage, tossing the parcels and makeshift suitcases to the dusty ground. Her own suitcase landed a ways from where she was now standing and she had to fight the wind and dust to get to it.

It was in one piece, thank God. One other rider shouted a few swear words because his parcel had broken apart at its landing. But whatever he said was drowned out by the wind. 

All of them trooped into the makeshift store to get information and perhaps something to eat. A fat, middle-aged woman stood behind a concrete block counter and welcomed all of them in her badly educated English. The store, however, was completely neat and clean. Various canned foods lined the sod walls and there were other necessities like bridles, reins, hatchets, sacks of flour and sugar and the like.

The teacher took this all in as she waited in line in front of the fat woman. When finally, it was her turn, the fat lady smiled at her and said, “Youse must be de teecher! M’I raght?”

The teacher smiled back at the woman and answered, “That I am! Minnie Proulx, or Miss Proulx, if you please.”

The fat woman kept smiling at her, a bit uncertainly.

So the teacher asked, “I have a room to stay in?”

The woman’s several chins undulated as she said, “Oh, yeah!” She reached into the pocket of her faded stretched tight apron and pulled out a two-pronged key, blackened with age. Then she handed it to the teacher and indicated, “Backa the sto, numbah 3.”

The teacher grabbed the key and thanked the fat woman. She then went back outside to find that the wind hadn’t let up.

She once again grabbed her skirts about her, clutching the key in her other hand and her suitcase under the same arm. Quite a feat in this strong wind.

Number 3 was another sod house, this one very small. But the lock had been greased, which meant that opening the door was fairly easy. 

But once inside, she found the one room house to be almost completely dark. After depositing her suitcase on the dirt floor, she found a large rock outside to keep her door propped open so she could see what was what. There was only one window perched high up on one wall. There was a bed with a Navajo blanket on top of it and below it, worn sheets. A chamber pot sat below a desk made of concrete blocks and a planed door serving as its surface. On top of the desk sat a kerosene lamp and someone had kindly put a box of matches near it. Beside the desk sat a bookshelf of concrete blocks and uneven boards and a few books inserted. The teacher drew nearer to them and found an arithmetic book, an ancient history book, a book on elementary grammar and, of all titles, the book Jane Eyre. The teacher breathed a sigh of relief.

There was one chair, thank God that was not constructed of concrete blocks. 

Although she was hungry, the teacher preferred to lay down for a while and begin rereading Jane Eyre while there was still light coming in. But first she had to find places for the few belongings she’d brought with her from Boston. There was no armoire, just hooks sunk into the sod walls. She laid the suitcase on the bed and opened it to find her one good pinafore dress which she’d be teaching in, two white blouses, a night gown and a framed picture of her parents, now long dead. 

When she’d hung all her belongings up, she sank down on the bed with Jane Eyre, but found the pillow sorely inadequate. So the inserted her now empty suitcase below the pillow. It would have to do.

Despite the waning outside light, she was soon caught up once again in her favorite book. What luck that they’d had it here! 

Reading the familiar words calmed her as she lay on what would be her bed for the coming year. The book also made her feel that this long trip out West towards her unknown future might have been worth it, after all.

Some time later, the teacher woke up with a start. She grabbed the Jane Eyrebook now resting on her stomach and sat up. Her propped open door showed her it was now evening time as did the growls in her belly. 

Before she could get to the door, the fat woman from the grocery store appeared in the doorway, blocking out the now disappearing light. She asked, “Bout ready fer some vittles, Miss Minnie?”

The teacher said, “Oh, yes!” enthusiastically. 

“Well, c’mon then! Food’s awaitin’”

Fortunately, the full moon allowed her to follow the undulating wide body towards the dim back window of the sod house store. Once inside, she saw several lit kerosene lamps lighting up a long table on which were placed what looked like casseroles and bowls of boiled potatoes. The other passengers in the carriage were now seated silently at the table, clutching forks and with cloth napkins tucked in their front collars. 

The fat woman announced, “Nah we’re all heah! So dig in!”

The teacher, her stomach growling loudly, sat primly until the other passengers and the fat woman had served themselves the jackrabbit stew and potatoes. The teacher then served herself the remaining food. There wasn’t much left but she told herself there was enough. She calmed herself by eating slowly. 

Nobody said a word. Then the fat woman jumped up and grabbed a pitcher of lemonade, handing it to the teacher who filled up her empty glass. She passed the pitcher to the others who had to do with what was left. But it was all good.

Enlivened by having had something to eat, the teacher picked each empty plate up till she had her arms full. She determined where the kitchen was and made her way there. The fat woman then declared, “Leavum till I git to ‘em, Miss Minnie!”

The teacher shook her head, “You’ve done enough, ma’am. It’s my turn!”

She found the lye soap and a scrub brush easily enough in the sparse kitchen, now lit only by a single kerosene lantern. Making quick work of the dishes, she laid them to dry leaning up on the hardened sod wall. Then she grabbed the lantern and made her way back to the table. The other passengers were still sitting there, silently, digesting their food along with various farts and other digestive sounds. 

The teacher quietly announced, “I think I’ll head back to my room, if all of you don’t mind. I’m frightfully tired.”

The fat woman said to her, “Take de lantrun wit ye, if ye please, Miss Minnie. Yull needut on yer way back. And tank ye fo yo help!”

LESSON 6 OPTIONAL WRITING ASSIGNMENT 

I got home to our empty townhouse, completely exhausted by my six American History classes and a mandatory faculty meeting at our junior high school. I was in a bad mood, understandably. Those 12, 13 and 14-year-olds had been especially trying today and the faculty meeting a big waste of time. I hoped I could find something to put me in a better mood by the time Sheila got home. My students’ essays could wait. I deserved a few beers, the comfort of our plush sofa and an inane TV show to make me feel better.

I got to the kitchen and opened the fridge to find only two cans of Budweiser. “Damn!” I said to myself, and then, “Well, it’s better than nothing.”

I grabbed the beers and moseyed back to the living room, passing by our large picture window that showed the street where we lived. I sipped a beer and kept standing in front of the window, watching the streetlights flick on. The afternoon was coming to a close. A few of our neighbors flicked on the lights of their houses and I could hear mothers calling their children to come home. 

Life does go on, I thought. 

Then I saw her. Sheila. Through the window in the waning light. I gathered that she’d just gotten home, parked next to my car and had gotten out while I’d been gazing afar.

I remained standing there, gazing down at her. But I couldn’t yet figure out what she was doing. She seemed to be waiting for someone, and I caught myself thinking, another man?

But, in fact, it was a teenage boy who came out of the bushes from across the street. When he got to my wife, he handed her what looked like a small package and she, in turn, handed him something. Was it money? I couldn’t tell in the approaching darkness.

As I was puzzling all this out from the second story of our townhouse, I realized I recognized the boy, and a wave of desperation crashed down upon me. My God! I thought. That boy was one of the ninth grade hoods in my 5th period American History class! And, as rumor had it, he’d been known for dealing drugs of some kind, although he hadn’t been caught. (So the vice-principal of our school had advised all his teachers this year.) 

The principal had also ordered us to report any kind of suspicious behavior on the part of the kid, both inside the classroom and out.

As I stood there in our living room, gazing at what I assumed was a transaction between my wife and this teenage hood (my teenage hood), possibilities of what they were doing made me grab my keys and wallet and dash out the door.

—————

I’d arrived home early, hoping Paul wouldn’t notice. I turned the car off before letting it glide next to his car and stop. As quietly as I could, I opened the car door, grabbed my purse, got out and closed the door silently. I glanced up at our second story picture window from which we can see our driveway. He hadn’t turned on any lights yet. Good. I hoped to God he was taking a nap, poor guy. Those hormonal teens always gave him a hard time. And I was guiltily waiting for one of those teens who I’d contacted the day before on a tip from one of my coworkers.

The teen showed up a few minutes later, with a permanent smirk etched on his face, like most teenage boys. He was taller than me and wore a hoodie over his head which made it seem like he didn’t want to be recognized. All good, I reminded myself. 

According to my research, what I was about to do was on the edge of being illegal and I wanted to cover my tracks. I also wanted to keep Paul from finding out. Therefore, the kid and I had to meet here, at this time, partially hidden by the waning day and during the time when Paul, home now from the junior high, would with hope would be resting and noticing nothing.

The smirk never left the teen’s face as he reached into the pocket of his jeans. I, myself, had shoved three $100 bills into my pants pocket. And just as he pulled out the packet, the street lights blinked on. Damn! I swung my head toward our picture window to make sure Paul wasn’t looking. 

The teen suddenly said, “Well?”

I turned my head back to him and pulled the $300 from my pocket. We made the trade just as I heard our garage door open.

Before the teen could make his getaway, I heard Paul yell, “Ronald Harris, STOP!!”

And the teen stopped in his tracks, surprisingly. I, myself, remained frozen.

Paul came up towards us and his low, authoritative voice said, “What the hell is going on?”

The teen’s smirk disappeared and he said in a trembling voice, “Mr. Davis, I was just selling concert tickets to your wife. I swear!”

Paul turned to me and said, “Concert tickets?”

I hoped the darkness was hiding my now red face as I admitted, “Bruno Mars, hon. Your favorite!”

Paul grabbed the packet from my hand and opened it. I couldn’t see his face. Then he said, “Sheila, how much did you pay?”

Quaking, I admitted, “$300.”

Paul turned to the kid and said, “You charged too much, Ronald. Give her $100 back.”

Amazingly, the kid reached into his pocket and pulled out one of my $100 bills. Paul reached out and snatched it from him. Then the kid hightailed it back across the street.

As my heart was settling down to its normal rhythm, Paul put his arm around me as we walked back to the townhouse.

He kissed the top of my head and whispered, “I love Bruno Mars!”

I walk mornings, as I do every morning, to free my mind and give my eyes things to feed upon. The air feels fresher in the early hours, the trees stand more at attention, the flowers strain towards the advancing sun. The houses that line the streets are more colorful somehow, their faces showing a variety of hues, some pink, some blue, some green, some white. And they’re able to compete with the many colors of the flowers that grow on vines or in flower pots or even on the flowering trees. 

The sky is streaked with wisps of clouds painted on its morning blue with a sparse paintbrush dipped in white. A car rumbles by me, giving its morning cough but it’s all part of this early morning scene. I hear the rat-tat-tat of my steps as I march along, my lungs grateful for the stream of early air. 

The field I’m passing by now is a sponge of shades of green and sports two splintery posts between which someone has hung a woven clothesline with the clean boxers and shirts and jeans that that same someone forgot to collect the night before. Each piece of clothing waves lazily like soft flower petals around whispers. 

I hear a door opening and see a young black haired, acne-scarred woman come outside, a little brown baby on her hip, her other hand clutching a plastic basket. They’re on their way to the clothesline. With fluid movements, she easily collects the whispering clothes and the baby on her hip starts chattering, his tiny fists holding the black braid down his mother’s back. I pass by her and we flash each other smiles and “Buenos días”. 

I feel my cheeks tugging my mouth into a lasting smile as I resume walking. The Pemex horn sounds, signaling 8:00 AM, a brief blast that splits the relative quiet, indicating that the day has begun.

Kate was sitting on her back patio enjoying the late afternoon sun. The golden glow of sunshine lit up the colors in her flower garden like no other time of the day. She came home from work early today and immediately changed into some shorts and a tank top, got herself a tall glass of cold iced tea and headed outside. After the pressure at work with all the changes being made, this is just what she needed to clear her mind. She took a deep breath of the clean fresh air, sat back in her favorite lounge chair and closed her eyes to relax.

Suddenly she heard a faint creaking noise from her neighbor’s house. She opened her eyes and listened but thought maybe she imagined it. She leaned back sipping her tea, closing her eyes again. Then she heard it repeat, this time louder. It was a distinct cracking noise, like on old wooden floorboard splitting. Kate sat straight up, putting her tea on the little turquoise side table. She knew her neighbor Brad wasn’t home; he’d gone to Virginia Beach for the weekend with his buddies. Trying to think what the noise might be, Kate imagined maybe an old shelf snapped in the basement, or possible a pipe broke and there’s water dripping. “No, she said to herself, if there’s water damage it’s because Brad is pretty careless and sometimes forgets to turn off the shower or faucet before leaving the house. It’s happened before.”

with this in mind, Kate decides to get into his house and see what was happening. Having no key, she got a screwdriver from her garage and went to Brad’s side door to try forcing the lock open. There was a small white trellis with a green-leafed vine thickly entwined around it blocking the view of the door from the street and the other neighbors. No one saw her manage to open the lock and quietly enter the house. Kate closed the door behind her and listened quietly for a moment but heard nothing. She then softly called out, “Brad, are you here?” No answer. She called again, still no answer. Then once more, she heard the creaking sound. She thought it came from upstairs. “This is creepy,” she thought to herself. She walked into the little dark kitchen feeling uneasy when she thought she saw a dark shadow move across the entrance to the dining room from the corner of her eye. she stood breathless; a cold chill ran down her back. As she slowly turned to look that way, she stepped back shrieking in ghastly terror…

Shane walked Olivia to the edge of the balcony overlooking the marble floors of the grand ballroom, bathed in a yellow hue from the gold-plated candle sconces on the walls. Ribbons hung from the arches of the walkways allowing women in silk ballgowns of gold, blue, yellow and purple to glide along the shining ivory as they attempted to find partners for the waltz taking place in the middle of the room. A crystal chandelier hung on a thin chain from the ceiling, with hundreds of nude candles burning brightly and flickering shimmers off the tiny stones. From the ballroom below, the smell of roast and chocolate and cream mixed with the sweet scent of sweat wafted toward them.

Drawing in a deep breath, Shane took Olivia’s white glove clad hand from the railing as she gazed out over the room. As he brought her petite hand to his full lips, grazing her knuckles, she turned to him, and pink flushed her cheeks, matching her pale, silk dress. Her sky-blue eyes danced with mirth and curiosity as her permanent small smile grew into a wide grin. Olivia pursed her lips together, trying to remain demure and composed as Shane placed his left hand on her waist and led her across the floor toward the fresh night air. Surrounded by the cool evening and under a blanket of blinking stars, Shane turned to gaze into her eyes, which had been enhanced by the soft pink powder on her lids before the dance.

Shane sank to one knee and extended his arms, his trembling hands holding a small red velvet box. As he pushed it toward her, pulling his coat tight over his bulging biceps, Olivia gasp, her hands going to her to cover her heaving chest as tears welled in eyes. With a slow grace, she slowly reached her glove out to touch the box as her red hair that hung to the top of her hips fell from her shoulder and brushed past his hand. Opening the tiny box, Olivia’s eyes shined as she gazed upon the ring inside. With a stunning gold band, the top of the ring held emeralds and sapphires that swirled around a large princess cut diamond.

Suddenly, the glittering smile drops from Olivia’s creamy face as her eyes widen and her ginger brows furrow. Shane turns to find his ex-fiancé stalking toward them like a predator approaching prey, her grey eyes like cold steel. He stands quickly, snapping the box closed and wrapping his leathery hand around it. Emily’s pale blue dress swishes violent side to side as she approaches. As she stops in front of him, her brown curls stick to the sweat on the edges of her crimson face. Without hesitation, she raises her lace covered fingers and slaps Shane with a might thwack that leaves an impression on the side of his chiseled jaw before turning sharply and storming away.

Desmond knew the moment he walked in the door Pauline wasn’t

home. For one thing the smell of lilac wasn’t in the air and the windows

were wide open. He was half an hour early getting off work, and he hadn’t

bothered to call. Shrills of laughter floated up to him from the side walk. He

marched to the open windows and gazed down. Pauline was jumping rope

with some girls half her age and he had to admit she was holding her own.

The smell of Lim’s barbeque floated in through the windows and his stomach

flipped. His mouth started watering and suddenly he felt hungry. A smile

creased his face because it reminded him of the coming summer. It was still his

favorite time of the year. Footsteps rumbled towards the door and he braced himself.

Pauline had the widest grin on her face and it made him smile too. “You didn’t tell

me you were coming home early,” she said.

Pauline hated it when Desmond checked up on her. And lately he had

been doing it often. The thing that troubled her the most is when he acted like

he wasn’t. For instance, the time last week when he watched her jumping rope.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had so much fun. She had felt like a teen-

ager all over again. She had played it off. She knew that was one of the reasons

he came home early. She would think after ten years of marriage, he would have

more trust in her.

She have never cheated on him, and she didn’t have a reason to now. He had told

her his last marriage had ended in disaster, when his wife had run off with another man.

He just couldn’t get in his head that all women weren’t the same. There was still some good

women in the world, and she was one of them. She really loved Desmond but he would

have to come the truth himself. One thing that came out of the jumping rope session was

that she still had it. She had turned thirty eight a few months ago, and she could still keep

up with women half her age. A smile creased her face.