Ring Between Smokes
"Ring Between Smokes"
The scene is an idyllic day in suburbia when the sunshine makes one last stand against the changing seasons, the bright and sharply contrasted calm after blustery winds, bruised clouds, and stinging rain. Out back of a modest rambler house with cake-frosting stylistics, Tiassa sits smoking and reading a volume of Neil Simon's collected plays.
Tiassa: (taps ashes, reads aloud to himself) "Success, I grant you, is relative. From an outsider's point of view, it is measured by the degree of his admiration, respect, envy or disdain. From inside looking out, it is no greater nor less than you perceive yourself." (shuts book, stares thoughtfully at the sun through closed eyes).
Seconds pass, smoke curls. In the trees, small birds sing a pleasant murmur. In the corner of a yard, a black and gold cat with Siamese eyes flashes between a toolshed and three evergreens knotted up in the corner of the yard. Somewhere closeby, feline eyes the color of the sky follow the intruding cat.
A telephone rings, Tiassa sweeps himself and the book up and flicks the cigarette away to the concrete patio. Moving quickly, he slips inside after the telephone, hoping the baby hasn't woken. He is not watching when the cigarette hits the concrete and spits its embers to die in the afternoon. He does not see the black and gold cat spring to alarm and dart across the lawn. He does not see the white and blue flash from the far corner. He does not hear the birds fall to silence, but does know a moment of value has slipped away to shatter on the rocks.
Tiassa: (snatches up telephone) Aye. Hey ... ayuh. Okay .... Okay .... Can do ... Alright. rolls eyes, winks at the curious baby now awake and watching him from a playpen)
The baby smiles and gurgles, but the sounds of the television draw her attention. She stands up in the playpen, squeals gleefully, points at Sagwa the Chinese Siamese Cat.
Tiassa: (nods his head side to side, eyes rolled, mouthing mimicry at the phone) Alright. Yes. Yes ... at the bar, well, I figured that ... (exaggerated, frustrated, and possibly unheard by the other party) Ooooo-tay. (hangs up telephone)
The baby turns and yelps, standing in the playpen and waving her hands until she falls over. Tiassa smiles, squats down beside playpen and manages to fix the sitting baby's attention for a couple of seconds. He opens the book, still watching her, and then lowers his head to read aloud.
Tiassa: (reading aloud) "I have dozens upon dozens of awards, nominations and tributes, most of which hang in my bathroom on a wall facing the commode. I am too vain to store them in the basement and humble enough to know they seem to be in the right perspective from the low vantage point I view them from. I rejoice in the flattering letters I receive from my peers and thoughtful admirers who rank my plays anywhere from 'a delightful evening' to 'worthy of Molière.' They do not, however, counterbalance the humiliation endured on the opening night of God's Favorite, when a kindly semi-invalided woman in her mid-seventies beckoned to me at the final curtain as I made my way backstage, took me by the arm, looked me straight in the eye and said, 'Mr. Simon ... shame on you!' It's moment's like this that take the lustre out of an opening-night party."
The baby laughs and claps her hands as Tiassa shuts the book with subtle melodrama. He smiles avidly at the baby, who squeals and claps more and falls over sideways. Chuckling, Tiassa stands, points affectionately and kitschily at the baby and walks into the next room to put the book down. He sits down in front of his computer and begins clicking links in the web browser. After a moment, he stops and reads. His head twitches the negative reflexively. His brow furrows, and he doesn't quite scowl but rather seems viciously amused.
Tiassa: (murmurs) O ... kay. Try that again. (reads softly to himself from website) "God, the Source of all Good, the Creator of all things, the all-powerful, omniscient, most perfect being in the history of the universe, why would an all-powerful God need to send some other man/demigod/myth to save his human race? Either God isn't all-powerful or us humans don't need saving." (shakes his head more thoughtfully this time)
The baby gives a frustrated squeal.
Baby: (smiling, clapping) Ba! ... Ba! ... Da-na-na-na-na-na-na-ya! (waves hands about)
Tiassa: (warmly) I hear you, honey. (closes browser and gets up)
Baby: (stands in playpen, slaps palm against top rail in rhythm) Ba-na-na-na-na-da-ya!
Tiassa: (walks to playpen, bends at waist, speaks in exaggerated tones) What's-up-you? Want-a-ba-ba? (the baby squeals in apparent delight. Tiassa looks down at himself and realizes he is still wearing smoking clothes) I'll be right back, honey. Gotta go change. (walks out of room, muttering to himself) Omnipotent, salvation, omnipotent, salvation. (stops halfway down the hall, calls back to baby) You know that one, don't you, Baby?
Baby: (assertively) Ba! (claps hands, falls over)
In the bedroom, Tiassa spies a pipe. He checks the bowl and finds to his delight that there is still marijuana inside.
Tiassa: (quietly excited) Well, now. That explains it. (raises pipe, hits it, holds breath, exhales smoke and murmurs to himself again as he tamps the bud with his thumb) All-powerful, all-perfect. All-powerful, all-perfect. (chuckles, hits pipe again) I mean, you'd think they'd figure it out. Fuck. (hits pipe again, grimaces, picks ash from his tongue) Blech. (puts pipe down, changes clothes, listens for the baby, moves to the bathroom to wash his hands) Russell ... Russell ... okay that's not here but it doesn't matter anyway. It's beside the point. That's right, it doesn't matter. (shakes water from hands in gesture of disgust) Fuck.
In the other room the baby becomes more impatient, stands up and starts muttering her disapproval with the delay. Tiassa appears, moving swiftly with faux-grace exposed when he accidentally bangs his hand on the wall. The baby, however, is delighted by this and applauds.
Baby: (happily) Ah-ba-ba-ba-da-ya-na.
Tiassa: (grimacing, nursing hand) Yeah. You-like-that-don't-you? (smiles broadly, evoking a joyous peal from the baby) You like watching Daddy bang into walls? (the baby applauds) Yeah you do. (he eyes his computer) I bet you can't wait to learn to read so you can see people banging into walls lots and lots. (the baby laughs) In the meantime, you can laugh at Daddy banging into the walls. You want a ba-ba?
Baby: (clearly and enthusiastically; throws hands in the air, falls over) Ba!
Tiassa: (impressed, grabbing bottle and formula can) I see.
Baby: (authoritatively) Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba!
Tiassa: (adds formula, adds water, screws on bottle lid) It's all speculation, you know. (shakes bottle)
Baby: (almost as if mimicking) Ay ... ya.
The shaking of the bottle has a Pavlovian effect, and the baby shouts once, sits, and stares at the bottle as Tiassa hands it over. Satisfied, the baby turns her attention back to the TV and kicks back.
Tiassa: (thoughtfully) Why do you think they forget that? It's what they're complaining about all the time.
Baby: (turns a disdainful eye toward his voice as if to shut him up) Gur ....
Shaking his head and smiling, Tiassa backs away from the baby and into the next room, where he spies the Simon volume and moves to pick it up. Reconsidering, he spies a compact literary journal sitting next to a pack of cigarettes. He gathers these things up, moves back out to the sunlit backyard, grins at the blue-eyed, smoke-white cat curled in triumphant and smarmy indolence on the picnic table. He sits, lights a cigarette, and stares up at the sun through closed eyes. A quick smile because it's a bad idea, and he squints against the daylight and opens the well-read journal instinctively to a page.
Tiassa: (exhales smoke, reads quietly aloud) "The skull distills the sun, shadow by shadow, like black honey across the descent of its eyes" . . . .
- Fin -