The Faults Of Tom Jones

July 3rd had been their anniversary, she guessed it still was, but to Shirley Jones it was just another day.  Not that it had always cracked up to be such a special day when he was alive.  There were the war years, Korea, when she obviously forgave his absence, even found it romantic to receive his happy anniversary cards with a few sincerely scribbled words of love and yearning, anywhere from a week before to three weeks after July 3rd.  But then upon his return he was changed.  And she didn't read it as some sort of post traumatic syndrome but rather a part of Tom's makeup that would have clicked on at a certain time in his life no matter where he had spent the previous years or what he had been doing there.  He became distant (oh how she hated the cliche, was it really a noteworthy thing to say about any man, that he was distant, might as well try and distinguish your man from others by saying he had a dick.) But Tom after the war just seemed increasingly to get everything out of context.  There was the year little Jimmy had received his first bicycle on their anniversary (it was on sale honey, there are no good sales around his actual birthday), and the years he had simply forgotten but would sheepishly grinning bring her breakfast in bed days or weeks later (remember during the war when my cards would be delayed?), or the three or four hard years where there was no card or gift, or remembrance of any kind excepting that palpable angst arriving around the end of June like a ribbon wrapped box of shit.  She didn't consider herself blameless in all this, she could be a hard and unpredictable woman, sometimes irresistible and seconds later quite the opposite. But she had been good to Tom for the most part, there was no one that saw it any differently. Maybe it was all men, maybe they all really were shits, except for those ones you didn't marry but kept in your fantasies to puff up your self-esteem. Shirley however had not been married to all men, only the one, his name had been Tom, and for the last 17 years the only absolute certainty was that he was dead, and that despite his many, many faults (don't get me started on the faults of Tom Jones), she did (was she cursed?) miss him.

The Contrition Of Abel Gardner

The opportunity to contribute his world view via film did not present itself to Abel Gardner and instead he was made, per instructions from his lawyer, to apologize to the judge and this he did sincerely without being obsequious, reading from his own hand written script.  The judge, a dour, grey bearded black man kept his head down during the brief apology and it was hard to tell if he was a man prone to forgiving foolishness or as might be construed from his demeanor, more likely to throw the book, make an example, or put some other common euphemistic hurting onto Abel that would certainly result in his future times being unhappy ones. Abel felt shame as he read, his head down not unlike that of the judge.  But his lawyer had made it clear to him that however noble might be his intentions, neither he nor his film nor the impressive handful of fellow radicals he had asked to support him at the hearing, nor even the two Times reporters invited by one of his group, would in any way change the justice system, except perhaps in the minutest way, like how might be changed the disposition of a rhinoceros from a mosquito bite on its ass. The judge let out an almost inaudible grunt following the completed contrition of Abel Gardner, still looking down and at no one, which strangely made it seem that he was looking at everyone all at the same time, and then slowly raising his head and with black mirthless eyes locked on Abel's lawyer, beckoned with a slight wave for him to come forward. There was then a muffled conversation between the two of them, punctuated with many nods; nods from the judge which did not convey agreement but rather you better be hearing me and nods from the lawyer of yes absolutely of course I understand and thank you judge.  Abel and his lawyer were then allowed to exit the courtroom under no constraints, excepting those just discussed in private between the lawyer and the judge: that there must be no outbursts of celebration from the gallery, no fist pumping or expressiveness of any kind, and under no circumstances was Abel Gardner allowed to speak to the press about this matter.  Other than that, he was a free man.  The mandate extended even to the outdoors surrounding the courthouse and Abel was persuaded to keep his distance from his friends until that time they could all if they chose to, meet for lunches and get back to their private discussions about any number of things.

Diagonal And Askew

The mylar walls of his toolshed abode shimmered mutely with the light of dawn. This was Ward Ambler's introduction to each day.  The one east facing window had no drapes but could be covered with a pink plastic shower curtain whenever he desired privacy from the black squirrels, who routinely perched their jittery selves on the flower box outside.  This morning he lay fetal, slightly askew of the diagonal axis of his plywood floor.  On the diagonal was the only way he could stretch out his length unobstructed.  The rabbit Leander could be heard moving around in the attached doghouse on the western side.  There was a chill in the air and Ward knew the patchy backyard grass would be wet with dew.  Birds were waking up. Nothing too unusual this late in June, just the resident Jays, Robins, and Cardinals.  There was a Catbird he called Cal, but there was no Mockingbird to be called Mike.  And also, there was this morning like there had been last night, an uneasiness that pervaded Ward Ambler.

Boots

Ward hooked the diamond jig to the bottom guide of his ten foot paraflex rod and reeled the 30 lb braid taut.  He turned his back on the crashing waves pounding the shore by Old Inlet.  A front was moving through, that seemed certain, but his understanding of how meteorology affected wave dynamics was lacking.  Hell of an east west current on a south facing shore was all he knew.  He had been casting far to his left into the wind and by the time he got his lure to shore the trailer hook was digging a skinny trench across the sand well to his right.  Covering a lot of ground he reasoned at the same time knowing that if there was a sweet spot in this water his lure was actually in it for only the briefest of moments.  He was now barefoot.  As he walked back to where he had left his boots, near that minimally protected area enforced with a string fence and warning signs, behind which the plovers laid their eggs on top of the sand, he was as he blinked walking on a gum and spit dotted sidewalk in New York, with a rabbit named Leander inside a tote bag in his left hand and his tool bucket in the other.  He zig-zagged back and forth, dodging the cell phone worshippers and the overly confident, the women walking three abreast and the parents with strollers.  He felt that he spent a lot of time on the lateral in New York, always moving sideways to move forward.  He picked up snatches of conversation.  At 23rd street and 3rd Avenue a somewhat masculine looking woman with large hands wearing her wig slightly askew said to her companion, that was my second daddy, my first daddy, my real daddy, he got beat to death with a baseball bat, it was over drugs, oh my it was very sad.  It was cold on the beach in June.