A Candy-Coated World

A Candy-Coated World
Introducing Sandy and Fredrica
and Dexter and Ruffian

Copyright 2013 by
Bill Rayburn

When I awoke, it was as if God had filled his stainless steel sifter with powdered sugar, inverted it, tapped it gently a few times with the palm of his hand, and given London a sugar coating.

I had to go out in it immediately.

Thick wool scarf hugging my neck, warm fleece pullover under a puffy down jacket, faded blue jeans, suede cotton-lined gloves, over-sized wool socks, Herman Survivor boots; and I was ready for the elements. Any elements.

It was a soft snowfall consisting of big moist flakes that melted on my tongue and coalesced on the lawn to quickly form a white carpet. The concrete resisted that effect as the flakes melted on contact.

The 50p-sized flakes floated languorously to the ground, as if flung gently from heaven under the instruction to make the journey last before landfall. Flakes would settle on my tongue with such delicacy that I was not even aware of their weightlessness other than the hint of coolness as they evaporated.

I always thought better during a snow walk. In fact, my bestselling novel, the one that made it affordable for me to live in this tony district of north London, was actualized and outlined on a late-night early December snow walk in Greenwich Village in New York four years ago.

Now I had my Siberian Husky Ruffian with me as I trudged up Wades Hill. He was completely in his element and pranced elegantly along, sans lead, by my side. Every once in a while he’d bury his snout in a small accumulated pile of snow and chew it.

It was first light, so the street lights of North London were still pressed into duty. I’d noticed they flickered off at staggering intervals in the morning in the small commercial area surrounding the Green with the last one usually doused when you could read a newspaper by natural light.

This morning’s thoughts turned to Sandy, who’d gently but efficiently escaped my bed a little after midnight last night. Her kiss goodbye was almost sisterly, a quick post-coital peck on the cheek and a soft “Call me tonight, ok?” request to which I nodded and grunted affirmatively.

She was young, even by my standards. Twenty nine to my forty three, though fourteen years didn’t make much difference for me; others rolled their eyes or gave me a tawdry wink, reactions I was usually able to ignore. Anyone short-sighted enough to make an awkward or untoward comment in the direction of Sandy usually paid with a severe, immediate reduction of their personal dignity.

She had a thick raven-colored mane that spilled to her shoulders in waves of lusciousness, dark sparkling pools of crude oil for eyes, a perfect nose and mouth and a small dimple carved cuteness into each cheek. She was 20lbs. of high octane pain-in-the-ass stuffed into a 10lb. can.

She had a well-worn, seasoned soul bursting out of a body that still caused most men to hit the brake pedal, with a sharp wit and an even more agile mind. Her analytical brain rarely positioned her anywhere but at least one step ahead of whomever she was talking with. Her self confidence scared most men and turned off most women. Initially, even I had occasion to rock back on my heels, but I caught up, being a confident sort myself. She had an antennae for bullshit that, when combined with her filter-free tongue and caustic sense of humor, would fold up and put away any phony sod unlucky enough to be within range. She seemed incapable of lying which can be a double-edged sword. On the one hand, you always knew where you stood with her; on the other hand, you always knew where you stood with her.

I mean really knew where you stood.

Her elitism coupled with her heightened sense of misanthropy combined to offer up a degree of honesty usually found only in people who have been granted tenure, like teachers and Supreme Court justices. The liberation that comes with little or no inclination to bite one’s tongue is often tempered by the number of people you hurt along the way.

At least that is the argument I would pose with Sandy when we discussed her rawness and compulsion to tell it like it is. Her ‘World According to Sandy’ was often entertaining, never boring, and almost always cringe-worthy for the unlucky sucker who blindly stumbled into her sympathy-free barroom and crapped the rug.

In fact, we’d had just that discussion last night over dinner at a little Chinese place around the corner from my flat in the Winchmore Hill district where I lived. Surrounded by four plates of steaming food from which we cherry-picked to fill our own plates, we good-naturedly argued back and forth the merits of calm reticence in speech, and the good Karma that can come from sparing some poor soul the misfortune of experiencing her barbs.

“My karma is just fine, thank you,” she’d said, plucking a pot sticker with her chop sticks and popping it into her mouth, whole.

“Don’t you think you sometimes come across as arrogant? As a know-it-all? Even a bully?”

“In a perfect world,” she’d retorted immediately, eyes glistening with mischief. “I think a shade or two of arrogance is almost impossible to resist when you are as smart as I am.”

“Try not to dislocate your shoulder patting yourself on the back.”

She chuckled and tore into a crusty egg roll stuffed with crab. She even ate aggressively. “I yam what I yam.”

“And I love you for it. I’ve always enjoyed playing devils’ advocate. I think it’s good for your contrarian ass to be called on it occasionally, and I seem to be the only one to do it.”

”You’re the only one with the balls and the chutzpah to do it. It’s no accident I’m with you, Dexter.”

She was the most challenging woman I had ever known, let alone become intimate with. She could be relentless, but other than a mild beef with her, stylistically, I rather enjoyed her blunt-trauma approach to life. I couldn’t remember when she’d hit somebody over the head, thus far only figuratively, that did not have it coming. Her judgment about people was usually flawless and spot on, though she was a bit more myopic when she turned her prism on herself. On more than one occasion she had steered me clear of a potential sticky wicket as I was poised to get friendly with a certain bloke that she had deemed unworthy. I also have an eye and ear for bullshit, but it is not as refined as her skill at separating the sods from the blokes.

The fact that I was not intimidated by her directness and outspoken nature is why I was allowed into her inner circle, a not overly-crowded room. We graduated very quickly from friends to lovers, based solely on the fact, I eventually concluded, that she simply would not sleep with a man she did not respect and, once over the shock she experienced upon realizing that she actually did respect me, she dragged me almost immediately into bed.

We made each other laugh, which I felt was both an aphrodisiac and a healthy respite from our more serious discussions which usually ended up with one of her rants about her disappointment in her fellow man.

Her father was the first man to sow those seeds of discontent.

*******************

Ruffian suddenly sprinted off to the right, chasing one of the ubiquitous North London foxes. This particularly lithesome fox was partially domesticated, having charmed three or four of my neighbors on the Close where I lived who would kindly leave snacks out on their porch or stoop for this young fox. Ruffian never caught Fredrica, the moniker bestowed upon this vixen by my neighbors, and when I would sit outside on pleasant evenings, if I kept Ruffian tethered, Fredrica would stroll by and circle us and nibble on the snacks I would toss her way, never coming closer than about five feet.

The chasing had become a game, as Ruffian knew he couldn’t catch her as she would leap over a short brick wall or scoot through a previously unseen opening in a hedge to elude him, only to reappear and bait him as soon as she thought he had lost interest. It was like viewing the scene at an animal singles bar.

One shrill whistle, muted through the falling snow but still clearly mine, and he came running back to me. Fredrica had escaped again. I rubbed his muzzle, which was speckled with snow. I passed the secondary education institution known as the Keeble & Schuchat School, where the school’s colors were black and yellow and the articles of clothing required for the kids included a beanie, a tie (boys and girls), and even extended to color-themed jackets for cold weather and light weight sweaters for cool weather and usually both for these frigid mornings. My normal AM stroll with Ruffian usually coincided with the beginning of the school day, and we would sit on a short stone wall and watch the well-dressed, perfectly coiffed men and women of Winchmore Hill double park their Mercedes, BMW, Porsche, Lexus, Land Rover or Jaguar and pluck their youngster from the back seat and subsequently disgorge an ungodly amount of detritus which they would then load upon their child in a fashion resembling an 1830s farmer preparing his pack mule for a four day trip through the brush. The coup de grace was a book-filled backpack gingerly strapped onto the child’s back, whereby any casual observer could detect a literal buckling of the knees under the weight, a shoulder shrug and a heavy sigh, and then the short staggering jaunt to the classroom. The majority of these kids chose to wear their beanie and when combined with the other themed elements of their “uniform”, it often looked like a parade of Bumble Bees staggering their final Green Mile.

Today it was too early for the youngsters so I steered Ruffian toward the Green in the little center strip that constitutes the hub of Winchmore Hill. It offers a comforting tableau, but this morning it elevated to lovely with the snow coating everything and the benches lined with soft one inch thick ‘cushions’ of snowflakes.

With my gloved right hand I brushed off a 12-inch swath on a bench in the center of the Green and sat. Ruffian sat between my legs and I used my thighs to keep him warm. The wind had picked up, slinging tiny bits of sleet and snow into both of us. Cars slogged through the slushy streets on all three sides of the triangular Green. I heard the 6:23 train arrive amid the muted squeaking that snow-covered rails allowed, and within seconds Winchmore Hill citizens were evident moving quickly toward the station or coming up out of the landing. Snow and the early hour did nothing to slow commerce or capitalism.

Ruffian craned his neck back toward me as if to say, “Must we?”

I scratched him behind his ears, gave him three little chicken finger snacks packaged and intended for a more upright, two-legged species, and he settled down again and welcomed the warmth of my thighs.

Much as Sandy had last night.

***************************

Sandy’s father was a Machiavellian asshole. ‘Not in a bad way’, mind you, which is how she always responded when I described him as such. She would alternately defend him and excoriate him in the same half sentence. Her relationship with her father was the very definition of ‘conflict’. She was driven in equal parts by guilt and indignation, depending upon which memory she was recalling at the time.

He had killed the family dog, for which he had already proclaimed a fierce distaste, by “accidentally” backing over the poor hound in the driveway.

To this day, Sandy tears up when recalling that tragic afternoon. Rusty was her dog.

******************

Ruffian finally had had enough. I got up and we started a slow walk back to my flat. The Close I lived on was an oasis of convenience in a city that offered very few of those to its denizens. I had a parking spot off the street which is akin to holding a winning lottery ticket. The fact it was a cul de sac allowed me to train Ruffian without a leash to where I now rarely if ever used one, no matter how busy a street we were on. The high fox attendance rate was a good thing for my hound, as he’d discovered the seductive powers of Fredrica a mere two days after I first let him roam the Close untethered. The lithesome Fredrica with the long bushy tail and sexy gait was elusive but nonetheless thoroughly engaged in the little chases Ruffian would initiate.

Now as we turned down the Close, there she was, Fredrica, standing defiantly in the middle of the road, snowflakes sprinkled on her gorgeous auburn coat, unblinkingly challenging Ruffian. My dog froze, went into his crouch, belly resting gently on the snow covered sidewalk. For the first time, Fredrica did the same and I noticed Ruffian’s head cock to one side in query. I decided not to leash him up.

Suddenly, Fredrica rose and took two or three tentative steps toward Ruffian, who remained poised to pounce, but did not. Three more cautious strides toward Ruffian and Fredrica was suddenly closer to him than ever before. Ruffian’s tale was wagging enthusiastically. Fredrica’s breath came out in short bursts of condensation. Her tail was absolutely still.

It had stopped snowing.

I pulled a dog biscuit from my pocket and extended it toward the fox. She eyed it but didn’t move.

Ruffian sat up, lipped the biscuit from my hand and took three steps and dropped it at the feet of the young fox.

The two beautiful beasts that represented some of god’s finest work stared at each other, and then Fredrica leaned over and licked Ruffian on the snout.

It was time to go home, light a fire and start my next best seller.