Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

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Tiny T: Episode Three

   At a full run now, fueled by the disappointment- alright, the embarrassment- of not finding the beautiful brunette where she said she’d be, T covered almost half a mile in just a few minutes. He was threading through the busier and busier streets, dodging many more cars and pedestrians than just an hour earlier. Without knowing exactly why, he was aiming for the river. The mighty Mississippi. He ran another mile, past three more coffee shops, a convent known to be haunted, and a bakery with wicked, wide open doors. The fragrance of sugared donuts and rising yeast rolls made him homesick, and that empty feeling reminded him of being stood up by a woman. A woman who had smiled at him so sweetly, so warmly, last night.  Why do they do that?

   He could hear the river traffic now. the barges and the ferry, the seagulls screaming and spiraling wildly. Just another quarter-mile. As his feet fell rhythmically, his solid arms pumped and ached through every emotion as if their physical strength was holding him together mentally. Man, I just wanna go home. 

   He slowed to climb a hill. At the top, a streetcar was filling with downtown commuters and about to slice across his path. So he waited. He laced his gold-decked fingers together on top of his mow-hawk and drew several long, deep breaths, pacing in easy loops. Summoning to mind the rocky slopes next to the Mississippi river bank, now only yards away. I just wanna go home.

   Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a burst of activity just downhill, behind him. It looks like someone trying to get the attention of a streetcar passenger, but the streetcar is gone now and the guy’s gestures are getting bigger and bigger. It’s someone on a bicycle, waving one arm- which holds a small paper bag- and screaming, “Hey Mr.! Hey, T! I’m supposed to find you!”

   Mr.? T?? man, is this fool yellin’ at ME? T turned a dramatic semi-circle and looked quizzically at the fast-approaching messenger.

   “Oh man, T, you are not easy to catch up with, but you sure are easy to spot! Can I call you T?” The guy was wearing corduroys with a wrinkly button up shirt and a narrow orange neck tie. He laughed generously at his own remarks but enjoyed no response, just a studying gaze. So he combed his free hand through his curly, moppy hair then thrust the small paper bag forward. “This is for you. The girl- the girl at the coffee shop? She wanted you to have it.” The orange-tie comedian was panting. It must have been quite a ride.

   Feather earring still gently swaying from his run, T accepted the bag. It was the same one he’d left for her with the spinach croissant inside. It was empty now and boasted a brand new message:

I was such a jerk to be late.
I’m leaving town today, around lunchtime.
here is my number…
thank you for breakfast!

   T furrowed his brow a little extra to conceal his grin from the panting messenger.
********************

   Could Zane possibly have found him yet? She felt ridiculous for caring so much. As soon as the young clerk with the gauged earlobes had told her “T” was gone, and pointed to which direction, Olivia had flown out of the north door, yelling the dumbest thing anyone has ever, ever said on a first date, ever: Thank you for the spinach croissant! It was still warm!

   When she didn’t hear his gruff voice in reply, she tried once more: Thank you!!

   This time someone from an upstairs balcony a block away in the wrong direction answered her, “You’re so welcome, dahlin’!”
   This little outburst had garnered the attention of a few people. Zane, wearing his orange necktie and laptop messenger bag, riding by on his bicycle. Carly, a redheaded girl dressed in so many layers of patchwork cotton and hemp that she was probably headed for a fortune-telling gig on Decatur. And Anthony, a local Italian limo driver dressed in a black suit, black shirt, and black tie. He was not quite on duty and freely explaining to other coffee shop customers the differences between cold press brew and traditional hot drip.
   They all circled around Olivia and wanted to hear the story she was happy to tell, short though it was. She so convinced the three that she and T were meant to be acquainted, that she might have even felt love at first sight, that they sprang into action. A passionate, spontaneous, well oiled machine of human nature: 
   Anthony, the limo driver, in his bizarre Cajun-Italian musical accent, rapidly explained to Zane, the bicyclist, how best to navigate the labyrinth roads at rush hour. Olivia interjected to describe T to a, well, to a t. And Carly shoved an ink pen into Olivia’s hand, saying, “Quick! Your number!”
   Carly’s swift, affectionate movements wafted their little sidewalk air space with patchouli. And maybe something else.
   Loaded with the empty, message-bearing paper sack, a mental image of T, and a ride plan, Zane checked for cars behind him and launched his bike, orange neck tie flapping. “Wish me luck!”
   “This is for love at first sight!”‘ Anthony bellowed. “Find T!”
   That same balcony voice from the wrong direction sang out, “That’s a’more!”
   Now, a little while later, Carly and Anthony still kept Olivia company. They all three nibbled at the spinach croissant, though it was no longer warm. And they took turns going inside for more coffee. The clerk with the gauged earlobes was greedy for updates every time. “Any sign of the big guy?”
   “Nope, not yet.”
   Olivia must have checked her silver watch two dozen times. Eventually she grew worried that she had sent her cell phone number with a total stranger. 
   Around 8:15, Anthony received a text beckoning him to the Windsor Court hotel downtown. Some clients needed to arrive at breakfast in elegance. He extended his best southern wishes, and Olivia believed him. He kissed her hand and was gone.
   Carly offered Olivia a sisterly little hug now, though they too were strangers, and said, “I’m sure he’ll come back or at least call. I’ve just got this feeling!”
   “I basically stood him up. If it were me, I’d be pissed.”
   “Well, yes.” And her face bloomed with enjoyment. Something in Carly’s unfiltered agreement was very comforting. Either way, it would be alright. They both laughed and laughed. Then Carly’s eyes flashed with mystery and she said, “Come on with me. Lemme show you somethin’ you won’t see anywhere else…”

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

Tiny T and Halloween Costumes

   Greetings, Tiny T fans! 
Thanks a bunch for all of your brilliant, often hilarious comments and emails
suggesting where his search for love goes next. 
While that chapter percolates today, 
T is linking up with Mama Kat to share his favorite Halloween costume. 
Please tune in either this evening or first thing tomorrow morning 
to see what happens after the coffee shop!
New here? Welcome!
Start reading Tiny T’s love story adventure
by clicking on the button to your right.
xoxoxoxo

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

   Mama Kat wants to know my favorite Halloween costume? Tiny T don’t wear costumes. Costumes impede my mobility and anyway… what is better looking than what I already wear? I pity the fool who thinks a denim vest and feather earring can be improved upon!


Tiny T and Batman are known compatriots in Oklahoma.
   But I do love a good Batman costume. Batman and Tiny T have a lot in common. We fight crime. We defend the defenseless. And we rarely smile.

   Now. Who wants two tickets to this gun show?

Tiny T: Episode 2 (please vote!)

   Dressed in tight sweatpants, high top sneakers with striped socks, and a faded denim jacket with the sleeves long since removed to accommodate his building musculature, he closed his hotel room door and rode the elevator down one flight to the ornate lobby. Classical piano music was raining down all over the giant green ferns and baroque furniture. A concierge wearing a gray suit and matching hat offered him any help he might need, which was none, thanks very much anyway. A pretty young woman behind the front desk smiled and said good morning in a Louisiana accent that just dripped with honey. Everything in the expansive room said elegance. It did not escape him how differently he might have been treated a century earlier.
   Outside, the morning was bright but very cool, especially between the shadow-casting buildings, so he eyed an empty stretch of sidewalk and decided to jog a zig-zag path through the French Quarter to reach the coffee shop on Royal.
   Finding his rhythm was easy. Though not too tall and heavily burdened with muscle, he had always been light on his feet. Swift and sure. He glided though the bicyclists and pedestrians and admired the tidy, creative neighborhoods that spanned between the hotel and his destination.
   He noticed some plastic beads hanging from an iron gate and recalled their meeting last night. He remembered her face, the way her eyes smiled at him, and the gloss of her straight, dark hair reflecting all of that colorful light. Despite himself, he grinned into the open air.
   He picked up his pace now, excited to see her again. Come on, man.

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

   By ten minutes after seven, she had scrubbed her face and reapplied a little makeup, brushed her teeth twice, and decided a ball cap was all she could do for her hair. She found soft but snug jeans and the only clean tee shirt still in her suitcase. One spritz of perfume and she was out the door.
   The lobby of her quirky little hotel offered a family-style spread of pastries, but she ignored it.
   She walked quickly, hastened both by her limited time and the brisk morning. She hugged herself a little and rubbed the outsides of her slender arms. This brought to mind his massive arms, how very different they are, and how he had used one of them to protect her last night. She wondered cautiously how those arms might feel wrapped around her. Why didn’t I wear a sweater?

   A quick glance down at her watch told her time was running out. 7:26 and the coffee shop was still more than ten blocks away. There was no way she could make it, but since they hadn’t traded any personal information she couldn’t very well text him a warning. Oh I hope he’s still there.

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

   A block away from their meeting spot, he stopped running and allowed himself to cool down. He took several long, deep breaths, grateful for the roses and bougainvillea. This picturesque area of the Quarter was a far cry form Bourbon Street, and he tried to memorize the details. As he walked up to the corner coffee shop, it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember her name.
   He swung open the tall, heavy door on the north end of the shop and stepped inside. Heavy, pleasant café sights and sounds bombarded his senses and stimulated his appetite. Scanning the L-shaped room, he saw no one who might be her. He looked again, even prying to see around newspapers and laptops to find her. Not here yet.
   After a short wait in line, where he resisted every tempting confection behind the domed glass case, he paid cash for a chai latte. Then he sat down at a marble table with two chairs, facing both the east and the north entrances. The screen lock on his phone told him it was now 7:41 a.m. He took one studied drink of his hot tea.
********************

   Absolutely late now and panicking a little, though she chided herself for it, she was enjoying the rush. She didn’t mind admitting how excited she was to see him again, somewhere quieter. And after so much speed-walking and nervous thinking she was glad for the cool air and to not be dressed in warmer layers.
   Finally the familiar brick building was in view. She saw the coffee shop shingle hanging at the corner and slowed down. This normally self-possessed woman adjusted her shirt, took off her hat and replaced it three times, and tried to walk as casually as she could up to the east door.
   Once inside, her gray-brown eyes searched the lively cafe for her breakfast date. She smiled brightly in anticipation but didn’t find him. Her watch now said 7:46 a.m. Had she missed him? There was no line at the register, so she asked the young clerk with the gauged earlobes whether he’d seen an African-American guy with a Mohawk and (she fiddled her fingers in the air near her own face at this) a feather earring?
   The young man’s face flashed in recognition. “Oh yeah! Sure did. He said you might ask. Here- this is for you.” He handed her a brown paper to-go bag. On it was the coffee shop logo and a neatly printed personal message in handwriting she did not recognize:
Sorry we missed each other.
Maybe another time.
~T
   Inside the paper bag was a spinach croissant, still warm.
   “Where?” She muttered. The excitement in her chest was already sinking into a heavy ball of disappointment in her stomach.

   The tattooed clerk with the gauged earlobes nodded toward the north door. “You just barely missed him. By like, a couple of minutes.” And he smiled, clearly enjoying this miniature drama.
********************

Audience Participation!
Does she go after T?
or is she too ashamed, 
and shrinks back and goes home?
or something else entirely?

Tiny T: Episode 1

   As he lay there on the warm, blurry threshold between asleep and awake, sunlight pressed hard against his eyelids and he needed a few moments to remember he wasn’t home. The pillows were smaller and plumper than normal, and more plentiful too. Who needs five pillows? He gently slammed his head back on one pillow then covered his bearded face with another. The sheets, while smooth enough for a hotel, only reminded him he was alone and far from home. Enough with the pillows! He stretched, glanced at his phone to note the time- 6:43 a.m.- and swung his legs over the bed’s edge.

   Though shirtless, he only felt naked with out his gold chains. So he draped two or three over his head then walked to the double wooden doors leading to his rented room’s outdoor balcony. The cracked doors, thick with many years of paint, opened with much creaking and ushered in great, gold, pulsing streams of morning air. Now everything in the room was gilded. Glowing with the energy of the fresh new day.

   He stepped out onto the slightly drooped and ancient hotel balcony, barely six feet wide and half as deep. Below him on the narrow streets, overflowing trash bins were clustered at every corner and every alleyway, awaiting another collection. Waiters in white shirts and long black aprons rode bicycles to their morning restaurant shifts. A few early-bird tourists, overdressed except for their sensible shoes, walked the skinny brick sidewalk in search of coffee, beignets, and adventure. Only cars driving and honking, a dog barking from behind a garden wall, and the voices of early workers were audible so far. No jazz quite yet. He surveyed the neighborhood calmly, wondering where she might be waking up, whether he might see her today. He hoped so.

   Then he grinned. She was so beautiful. Nearly black hair, silky straight and bobbed to her shoulders. Olive skin. And a full, smile-ready mouth. How much more beautiful would she look in the daylight?

   Then a motorized street-scrubber came barreling around the corner, replacing the liquor-vomit stench with an unnatural lemon-soap fragrance. It left in its wake a four-foot wide ribbon of wet, sudsy blacktop. He wondered if anything would scrub his memory so clean of her face. He hoped not.

   The sudden sights and sounds of water broke his reverie and sent him hurrying back inside, to the bathroom. Wake up, man! I pity the fool who daydreams his life away!

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

   A few miles away on Frenchman Street, she had been awake for hours. A band playing at the nearby Spotted Cat club had filled her minuscule hotel room with rolling, thumping, soul-rattling tunes well into the wee hours; then in the relative quiet she had found her thoughts to be even more distracting. Should I go meet him? Was he serious? I’m driving home soon… maybe there’s no point. 

   Of course, she had a talent for spotting interesting men, maybe attracting them, but something in his intense gaze had gripped her. Somehow in the midst of so much activity around them, he had focused all of his steady attention on her. She was slowly allowing herself to enjoy the feeling, slowly admitting to herself that she liked it. He was neither needy nor aggressive about it. Just- ready. Captivated and captivating. He spoke to her with simple words and easy invitations. 
   Was he serious with that feather earring? You can never tell in this city. Last night, his unusual ornament had given her something to look at, a focal point to break their mutual gaze when it became so warm and heavy she had felt hypnotized.
   I really need to sleep before driving. I’ve got to. But what if he’s there waiting for me?

   She closed her eyes to block out the garish lime-green wall paint of her weird little hotel room, rolled onto her side, and burrowed deep underneath the thick, scratchy comforter. One pillow on each ear, like giant marshmallow earmuffs, she strained to remember the conversation exactly.

   “Well, maybe coffee tomorrow then?” She had offered. A safe enough idea. Tomorrow morning always seems so far away when you’re strolling through the French Quarter and have barely finished supper.
 
   “Sure. That sounds great. But not Starbuck’s okay? Or Cafe Beignet either. Can’t do it,” he had said firmly, furrowing his dark brow, “I pity the fool who falls for those tourist traps.”

   She had suppressed a giggle then, remembering how on her first-ever morning in New Orleans she had fallen for exactly that tourist trap and, fool that she was, pitied herself indeed. She had waited an hour for a three-dollar cup of coffee with no refills. “I know a great spot,” she had offered last night. “It’s on Royal Street near Jackson Square. Not too crowded, mostly locals, and it has great spinach croissants. How about we meet there tomorrow?” Anyone could tell by looking at this man that he prized fitness and nutrition; surely a spinach croissant would be appealing.

   “That sounds real nice.” His heavy gaze returned now. “How about 7:30?”

   “7:30 is perfect.” She had smiled at him with her entire face, even her eyes, allowing the gaze to root so deeply that she felt it tugging at her lungs.

   Lively zydeco music spiraled and thrummed at them from an open-air souvenir shop. Our of the colorful, excited darkness a tipsy reveler had stumbled and nearly crashed into her. With ninja-like reflexes, this dark-skinned, muscle-bound stranger with a feather earring had just raised one thick arm and barricaded her in safety. It was an accident, of course, and the tipsy reveler had offered them some green and purple Mardi Gras beads as an apology.

   She found it remarkable and hilarious that her new friend- What’s his name again? Tony? Terry? Tommy?- barely altering their warm, lungs-deep eye contact, had kept the beads for himself. Not only had he not made one lewd joke about how she might earn the beads; he just never offered them! Instead, he had draped the plastic trophies around his substantial neck like it was the most natural thing in the world. And she had to admit… they looked perfect nestled there between his other eleven or twelve necklaces, though these were the only ones made of plastic.

   Thoroughly soaked now in the memory, she peeled one of the marshmallow earmuffs away just enough to glimpse the glowing red digits of the hotel alarm clock. 6:43. Plenty of time still to throw herself together and run over to the coffee shop.

   She definitely wanted to. Wasn’t that what had kept her awake? But this looming road trip and no sleep… She knew she really should get some rest and drink some water instead of rushing out for caffeine and a meeting with a very, very distracting stranger.

   So she laid there, torturing herself and fake-punching the pillows, for eight more minutes. Then she raced to the closet-sized bathroom, stared at the mirrored medicine-cabinet door, and commenced with an emergency grooming routine. This is crazy, she thought, I’m never gonna make it in time. And despite herself, she grinned.

Episode 1 is dedicated to Handsome,
my husband and my best friend,
in honor of all of our New Orleans adventures.
XOXOXOXO