The Muse's New Drill
I often find that the only solace for a chilly winter night is a lazy night at home. And so it was I found myself lounging in front of the TV again last night with a roaring fire in the background, soaking in the pleasant warmth of an evening of blissful sloth. The firelight flickered in a dance with the shadows, and their spell slowly seduced me to a slumber. Ah. Heaven.
My eyelids had just begun to drift together, when suddenly, the air in front of me contracted with an insistent -POP!- A wild woman materialized before me, cloaked in a wine red gown and a royal purple turban, hands on her hips.
"Whoa!" I shook my head violently, fully expecting her to disappear. Not only did she remain stubbornly present, but she even wagged a finger at me, her dark eyes flashing. Her musky perfume, warm cloves and peppermint, teased my nose. I sneezed.
"Get up," she ordered. "We have work to do."
"Who are you?"
"Oh, stop pretending," she scolded. "Or we'll fight again."
I shook my head again, in a vain effort to clear it. "Muse?"
"Who else?"
"What do you want? I'm busy right now."
"Having your brain cells slowly digested by late-night TV again? Fat chance. Come on, get up."
I reluctantly rolled forward and half-fell off the sofa, landing on my knees. O-o-w-w-w-w. Getting old is hell. My knee cracked like a gunshot. "You are evil."
"There is inspiration in suffering. Come on, I haven't got all night."
"Muse, did you know, that when you stay in one position for more than twenty minutes, your brain assumes you want to stay that way for ALL ETERNITY, and it sends collagen fibers to all your joints to hold it that way?"
"So what? Best be moving. You've only been there for fifteen minutes anyway."
"I have fast collagen."
"You have fast excuses. Let's go."
She held out a hand, dragged me to my feet, and marched me down the hall to my office. Her nose wrinkled. "How can you work in here?"
Piles of paper leaned dangerously against the bookshelves and lurked all over the desk, threatening to topple. Otherwise, though, I couldn't see what the problem was. A bit dusty, but that was part of its charm. It looked bookish, after all.
"Um - "
"Never mind. Fire up the computer."
"Dictation again?" I sighed. Somehow, no matter how slowly and painstakingly I labored to convey her words, they always got garbled. Her perfectly clear voice, once she stopped giving orders and started telling stories, would suddenly sound like whales speaking Russian.
"We're going to try something different tonight."
"Okay..."
She reached over and pried my wrists away from the keyboard. "Don't type. Just say the first thing that comes into your head when I give you a word."
"Are you going to psychoanalyze me?"
"You'll see."
I reclined back into my cheap office chair. It's terribly uncomfortable for sitting upright and working, but quite comfortable for daydreaming. "Shoot."
She kindly put her fingers to my temples and rubbed them. This drill was rapidly improving. "Man's name," she fired.
"William."
"Woman's name."
"Ginny."
"Your psychic? How interesting. Animal."
"I only went twice. Wolf."
"River."
"Reeds."
"Hmmm... very Biblical. Location?"
"Railroad crossing."
"Length of time."
I stretched. "7:05."
"For a length of time? Seven minutes five seconds?"
"I thought whatever came out was supposed to be fine. I figure that's about how long you've been pestering me so far."
"I've been pestering you for 38 years. Food."
"Spongy cake with chocolate rum."
"Yum. I see the trip to Key West is paying off. Color."
"Red."
She smoothed the border of her gown, and her cheek twitched in a supressed smile. "Give me a memory. Without thinking about it."
I laughed. "Playing a Bee Gees record. You know, one of those old 33s on a turntable. Caren and Becky used to -"
"Enough." She twirled, and with a flourish and a smile she handed me a piece of paper. My words, written in her luxurious flourish, adorned it in gold ink.
"Three minutes. Use every word. WRITE."
"Couldn't I at least have my seven minutes five seconds?"
"2:57... 2:56..." She barked.
I waved my hands madly, then began to type. God only knew where this could go. Well, she asked for it.
Once upon a time, a troubled wolf named William went to see the Wise Priestess Ginny. "Please help me, Ginny," he said with a great sigh. "The men have come, and I want to befriend them, but they keep playing Bee Gee records, and it's driving me crazy. I swear I want to strap myself to the railroad tracks and let the 7:05 do me in."
"Well," mused Ginny the Wise, ruminating in a manner that was, well, wise, "They would not be there if you had not called them in some way. Here's what you can do. Go down by the river, walk very carefully in among the reeds, where you can watch the people but they can't see you. Watch without fear, and you will learn what they have to teach you about themselves. There is more to Man than disco, you know."
William the Wolf put his head between his paws, troubled even more. "Are you sure?" he asked anxiously. What if they added Andy Gibb to the torture?
"That's what the Russian whale spirits are telling me," Ginny said, smiling sagely.
Wolf William shook with resolve.
"OK."
"That'll cost you one spongy cake with chocolate rum," Ginny called after him.
"TIME!" the Muse bellowed, and bent her head to read my fevered document, littered as it was with red and green lines from MS Word's Spelling and Grammar Nazi. Her laughter danced in gilded peals. "Cute."
"Come on, Muse, what am I supposed to do with this?"
She tapped her forehead. "That's up to you, now, isn't it?"
"I guess. Can we do this again sometime?"
Her mischievous smile was suddenly warm; images of Mom flashed through my mind. "I'll show up if you will," she dared me. "I'm always here for you, you know."
And then she was gone. I stared at the screen again, and pondered my new story. Gradually, the hum of the surge protector became more insistent, and grew into a throbbing bass line. The funky strains of "Stayin' Alive" became distinct. The white block of the cyberpage dissolved into a young John Travolta strutting down a 1970s New York street. I shuddered, jumped, and abruptly fell off the sofa, banging my shoulder on the coffee table on the way down. The TV lurked in front of me; the fire had died down to its embers. A scent of peppermint and cloves whispered through the room. I lumbered to my feet and rushed to the keyboard.
© 2006 Melissa Cross. All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced without the express permission of the author.
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