jacobean revenge dramas
The winter sun moved low across a one-story plaster compound, yellowing it, flecking light like chunks of rosy snot into the cornices of blank windows. The whole place felt like wallpaper, Grisby thought, running his hand over a banister that—but for the choking layers of varnish—would have given him a splinter. Ten paces down, the banister joined a column and here Grisby stopped, checking his digital watch with the same quick nod that, over on Lot Eight, he had spied the trainer coaching Monkey Alonzo to employ when smelling a pot of soup left on a Sitcom’s burner.
Grisby stood beneath an overhang supported by a series of spindly log columns. The set was the semblance of a “wild-west” main drag, but opening any of the doors would lead him out into the fried heat of the desert lot, to a “craft services” table where a nice girl named Mindy in—what was it, black leggings today?—would ladle out fruit salad with gentle, humble smiles.
At this time of day, below the overhang, before the windows of the muted, lousy shops. Grisby felt self-conscious. How could he not? They had fitted him into brown breeches, scathing lemon yellow socks, a pointed pan cap, and a rumpled vest all smothered above a muslin shirt—lace, good god. Still, he could snap the suspenders—and often did.
“Quiet,” Myrtle hushed to him, at the sound of his snap. “They didn’t do that then.”
Myrtle was a yellow-toothed, grizzled old woman. In his youth, Grisby had been coached that there are two types of old women. A young woman can either “turn sweet,” or “turn sour.” Myrtle was an enigma. She had the body of a woman who had turned sour—all bones. Still, she had the spirit of one turned finicky sweet, a dumpling of a heart cradled somewhere beneath the sallow, limp pocket of dried-out breast. She was not the type of woman you would want to hug; but she was the type of woman that would hug you. That was how he saw it.
Myrtle held a young boy in a white and bloodstained overcoat. During the break, the boy—Macautte—pulled a phone out from beneath a board in the livery and took a quick call.
“Yes,” Grisby heard him saying. “Pages forty-three to forty-four, only the odds…Uh-huh…Yes.”
Grisby stood beneath an overhang supported by a series of spindly log columns. The set was the semblance of a “wild-west” main drag, but opening any of the doors would lead him out into the fried heat of the desert lot, to a “craft services” table where a nice girl named Mindy in—what was it, black leggings today?—would ladle out fruit salad with gentle, humble smiles.
At this time of day, below the overhang, before the windows of the muted, lousy shops. Grisby felt self-conscious. How could he not? They had fitted him into brown breeches, scathing lemon yellow socks, a pointed pan cap, and a rumpled vest all smothered above a muslin shirt—lace, good god. Still, he could snap the suspenders—and often did.
“Quiet,” Myrtle hushed to him, at the sound of his snap. “They didn’t do that then.”
Myrtle was a yellow-toothed, grizzled old woman. In his youth, Grisby had been coached that there are two types of old women. A young woman can either “turn sweet,” or “turn sour.” Myrtle was an enigma. She had the body of a woman who had turned sour—all bones. Still, she had the spirit of one turned finicky sweet, a dumpling of a heart cradled somewhere beneath the sallow, limp pocket of dried-out breast. She was not the type of woman you would want to hug; but she was the type of woman that would hug you. That was how he saw it.
Myrtle held a young boy in a white and bloodstained overcoat. During the break, the boy—Macautte—pulled a phone out from beneath a board in the livery and took a quick call.
“Yes,” Grisby heard him saying. “Pages forty-three to forty-four, only the odds…Uh-huh…Yes.”
posted by AQ at 22:59
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