Grayling Junction - Chapter 7 and a half
By JupiterMoon
- 547 reads
Snails
Lalo Garcia Morrow steps into his reception room, the door he closes behind him bears a silver metal plaque with black lettering that reads Privado.
Lalo Morrow is not tall and has jet-black hair swept back over his head. A widow’s peak lends him an air of refinement and closer inspection shows his collar length hair is shot through with silvery strands. The gaunt aspect of his jaw is softened by frosty stubble that gives him a reassuring countenance quite at odds with the clouds of brooding introspection; for when not smiling Lalo closes himself off like a shuttered door. Dark, watery eyes give little away, save for a fleeting sparkle of animation evident in Freyja’s company. Ladies in his past have referred to him as ‘handsome’, immediately diluting the compliment by hastily adding ‘but somewhat detached’ in the same breath.
He reaches for a chrome coffee grinder on a simple counter top and spoons dark, oily beans from a foil parcel into the hopper of the grinder. With the press of a round rubber button the blades splinter the beans, spitting a powdery mound into an attached container and for a few moments Lalo allows himself to smell mountains that touch the sky, distant forests and rich foreign soil.
Removing the container he bangs it sharply on the counter to gather the grounds, smoothes an unbleached paper cone into the filter compartment of his Melitta Special 131 and tips in the grounds. Within minutes a gentle drip of water gives way to a murmured put-put-put-put-put sound as it passes through the grounds, which in time becomes a smooth brown stream slowly filling the glass jug beneath.
A tubular steel stool behind the counter belongs to Freyja. Lalo can often be found in a bruised leather chair of faded splendour, pushed up against a modest wooden desk in one corner. The surface of the desk has been buried years ago beneath a disordered pile of receipts. Somewhere is a fountain pen, a writing pad and a late 1930's Bakelite telephone reluctantly doctored to accept modern cabling. The telephone is for the use of the proprietor only and as few beside Lalo and Freyja have the number is it mostly silent.
The filter machine spits and crackles as it rests. The remainder of the counter is clear except for a hefty ledger book the colour of midnight and a nearby mug filled with black ballpoint pens. Freyja bought the mug and it bears a print showing a pair of bemused, cartoon fish headed in opposite directions.
Under the counter is a recess where vintage stereo equipment, including a ROTEL amplifier – the soft, rhythmic heart of the entire room – and a Technics turntable, is stacked like a metal layer cake.
A collection of vinyl, slouched against the back of the counter, boasts original releases by The Grateful Dead, Gong, Jimi Hendrix, Stephen Stills, Janis Joplin, the Incredible String Band and enough others to leave any serious collector with a dry mouth. Wharfedale speakers fill the room with a pristine, pitch perfect delivery.
Conspicuous by its absence, above or below the counter is any form of cash register, for payment here is not acceptable in cash.
A narrow gap at one end of the counter gives access to the remainder of the room and beyond are three comfortable-looking settees – upholstered in a worn burgundy fabric with a spill of black scatter cushions – loosely arranged in a 'U' formation around a wide coffee table. The table is of an old, marked wood ringed with coffee stains. Sea coloured glass ashtrays shaped like upturned hands – introduced by Freyja to make the area more welcoming – take up a good amount of the table.
Beyond this seating is an unremarkable front door propped open with an ancient ceramic elephant. Slatted, wooden blinds cover wide windows on either side of the door, through which jagged sunlight extends over the settees, dust motes darting through the air like silverfish.
Sipping at his coffee Lalo pauses to allow a long, creaking yawn to pass. A night of continuous rain had woken him repeatedly, as though the flabby sky had torn down the middle, with a mean, marching rhythm like many feet thundering through his open window.
Heavy rain reminds Lalo of his mother speaking to him as a child: She would pull his blankets tight to his chin and in hushed tones exclaim: “The snails are crawling in the paths tonight!”
Toward the arrival of dawn the rain had dwindled to an insistent hissing like distant gossip. Lalo had witnessed the curling of his curtains as a damp breeze had brought the smell of the sea sidling into the darkened room. In the frailty between black storm clouds a waxing moon had lit his iron-framed bed and a simple bedside table and lamp, the light sinking into the bare boards and bare walls.
Beyond the shadow of the room had been a grumble of thunder like falling masonry. Switching on his lamp he had retrieved a book from the floor. Normally he could lose himself in a Steinbeck within seconds, but his concentration had failed as he had found himself wondering if Freyja was awake and listening to the downpour, which had by this time slowed to a crisp, hollow dripping.
Freyja had arrived in his life as an accidental spill of colour.
To say his life was previously without enjoyment was untrue, but her presence heightened the definition of his surroundings, gave sharper, brighter colours to his life. Her dry sense of humour – both caustic and endearingly inappropriate – teased from him a laughter that burst from deep inside.
They often laughed and after closing the front door and drawing a line under the working day, they would drink coffee or a good bottle of red, music in the background. With Freyja making hand-rolled cigarettes they would look back over their day briefly, before packing it away ready for the next. Lalo would try to make her laugh and watch for the dimples that broke at either end of her mouth as the light in the room glinted against her silver lip ring. For reasons not entirely understood both of them need this prolonged conclusion to the day, before stumbling through a hasty goodnight as each heads into the solitude of their evening.
On the desk in front of him waiting to be wrapped are three presents for Freyja. The first is a CD version of ‘American Beauty’ by the Grateful Dead – something Freyja returns to again and again, her gaze drifting beyond the window, tapping her foot lazily to the bass lines. Taking a sheet of heavy crimson paper Lalo wraps the CD, taking time to crease each fold and making sure it fits neatly before fastening it with sticky tape. He stares at a blank, star-shaped silver gift tag and as he chews the end of a black ballpoint a good many words come which in the end become just a hasty, 'To Freyja, Happy Birthday, Lalo'.
He rises from the table
with a heavy sigh. He refills his mug with coffee the colour of night, steam fringing the air like cobwebs. The low wattage of the electric light in the room speckles his desk with a wilting, eggshell colour. Selecting another piece of paper Lalo wraps a slim paperback book, ‘The Strange Life of Ivan Osokin’ by P.D. Ouspensky.
Her final gift is a solid silver bangle, the precious metal crafted into a perpetual snake whose expertly rendered fanged jaw opens to swallow its own tail: Ouroboros, or life curved in a circle.
Lalo places each of the gifts into a rigid black gift bag that he ties shut with a silver ribbon. By the time he reaches for his coffee it has gone cold.
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