Before the Fall

Ruby Cole was completely innocent of all wrongdoing. She hadn’t seen anyone take those two brats, and she sure as shit wasn’t going to admit to anything else. Besides, she had nowhere else to go, and if they wanted to keep her sitting in this little room all night smoking cigarettes, that was fine with her.

The skinny one was kinda cute. He had this little mole over the left corner of his mouth that she just wanted to suck. She kept watching it go up and down as he talked, and the way his full lips kept spreading and then coming together. She really wanted to kiss him, but that was pretty much not gonna happen. The fat one wouldn’t leave them alone long enough for her to make anything go her way.

No, she just had to sit here listening to their bullshit about what time was it, and where was she when the guys came in, and what had she been drinking and all of this other crap. She was so tired of hearing their voices, she just wanted them to shut… the fuck… up.

This morning, Samantha had been complaining of stomach pains again. It’s no wonder. All that girl wanted to eat was fruit loops. It’s not like Ruby didn’t cook for her kids. Why just the other day she made spaghetti and hot dogs, Justin’s favorite. She’d made enough to last a few days, but that kid’s such a goddamn pig he ate enough for three people on the very first night. She tried to teach those brats some manners, but what with the shit they learn at school, it’s pretty near impossible to keep them on the right track anymore.

She tried to remember if Samantha had finished her homework last night. She had helped her with her spelling words, and then her vocabulary. That part had been easy. Somewhere around the damn math questions, her memory got fuzzy, as it usually did around numbers. Besides, what was she, some goddamn tutor? Let the girl learn to count for herself. She needed to learn how things worked. Get up at six. School at eight. Two dollars for lunch. Five days a week. Three guys a night. Two fists in the gut. What was his name, Tex? Rex? Who the fuck knows? C’mere Moleman, I’ll show you what I know. Just get rid of Fatboy here. He’s really holding things back. You want some truth? I’ll show you some truth. Just give me ten minutes, I’ll have you begging for more truth.

Sure, I’ll take another cigarette. And a pepsi. Yeah, fine, good. Anything to get Fatboy out of the room… Ruby felt her breath catch as Moleman sat down and drew his chair up close to hers. He was leaning in, right to her face. She could see that mole really clear now. It wasn’t really round, it was more like a misshapen square, what was it they called those, a trapezoid. Ha ha. Geometry. There was a subject she really understood. The shape of things.

Detective Newsome. Oh, nice. Well, Detective, here’s your chance. You wanna kiss me? Ruby closed her eyes as his face moved in to meet hers, and she felt the press of his warm lips and the thrust of his tongue into her mouth. Mmmmm… Ow! His fingers dug into her left arm as he brought it back quickly behind her, bending her wrist backwards in a most uncomfortable way. And his hot breath in her ear, You wanna fuck with me? Is this what you have in mind?

Ruby did not like this at all, not one bit. She wasn’t even getting paid for this shit. And Newsome’s breath stank like sour chicken stew. Suddenly she felt like she was going to vomit. She turned away from him just as the hot bile came bubbling out on a stream of chewed up donuts and splattered all over the floor. Tex, his name was Tex. That was his name, the bastard. He had brought that friend of his with him, the greasy guy with the long pony tail. She hadn’t minded at first, but the greasy one had a really mean face, and no one had said anything about two guys at once. Funny how a bottle of Jack Daniels can make everything seem a little easier. Her head was cracking open now. Where was Samantha and Justin? No, she did not want another goddamn Pepsi, where the fuck were her kids? Newsome, you have such pretty lips. C’mere handsome, let me give you another kiss. And he’s pulling her arm behind her again, and it hurts so much. My babies! Where are my babies?? Ruby screamed as she saw Tex and the pony tail heading out the front door with their sleeping bodies, and then the room started spinning and the bile was coming up again, but before she could feel it come out, her head hit the metal table and the room went dark with a dull thud.

* * * * *

Newsome glared at the sleeping woman, slumped over the edge of the hard, metal table, her head settled comfortably into the crook of her arm. Over an hour she’s been in that position, he thought to himself. Despite the harshness of the room, the fluorescent lights, the cold tabletop, she seemed at home - like she was curled up in a big down comforter in the corner of a thick couch.

It’s too bad this chick is such a mess, he thought, spraying more Fantastik on the floor and wiping up the remaining chunks of vomit. She’s got a great ass and two gorgeous tits. Licking his lips, he thought about what it would be like to take her from behind, right here, right now. His cock hardened as he imagined holding her mouth shut with one hand and thrusting the other hand down her pants to find her, wet and waiting for him.

“You thinking about me?” Ruby looked up from the table top, pushing her damp hair back away from her forehead as she turned to face Newsome with clear eyes. “I’ll give you a good deal – abduction night special.”

“You oughtta be thinking about your kids.” Newsome tossed the soiled paper towel into the trash and snapped off first one, then the other rubber exam glove, as his cock reflexively went soft.

“Fuckers took my kids. They waited until I was good and drunk, and then they took my goddamn kids.”

“Any idea what they want?”

“I got nothin.”

“S’not what I asked.”

Ruby took a deep breath, drew her sweater up around her shoulders and looked straight at Newsome. “Look, am I a suspect?” Her tightly curled lips could not hide a small quiver. “I need a drink.”

Newsome stared back at Ruby and sighed in return. “You could be in a lot of trouble right now.”

“I know.” And closing her eyes with an even deeper sigh, she put her head down on the table again, this time face down.

Newsome looked down at Ruby. He liked this one. He felt sorry for her. She was pretty. His shift was ending in fifteen minutes.

His hand touched the back of her neck, only for a second. “Wait here,” he said, and the door closed behind him.

* * * * *

The Roadway Bar was one of those places that truckers would crowd into… if there were any highways passing by Hell’s Kitchen. Instead, it was peopled by retired postal workers and petty criminals – cheap hookers and dime bag dealers. Coleman liked coming here after his shift to unwind. He didn’t worry about what anyone was doing except the bartender.

“Hey Charlie,” he called to his long time friend, as he and Ruby took the last two seats at the non-TV end of the bar. Silently, he lifted two fingers, and then lowered them with a slight wag in the direction of him and his female companion. Two shots of Scotch and a couple of beers would follow shortly.

Ruby leaned forward slightly to peer across Coleman’s shoulders and survey the other end of the room. “The lady down at the end of the bar keeps looking at me.”

“That’s Gladys. Postal clerk, Wall Street Station. Retired since 9/11.”

Charlie placed mugs of beer down in front of them and poured two shots of whiskey. “Probably thinks you’re a terrorist.”

“Well she's freaking me out.”

Gladys shook her head and muttered into her coffee. “Don’t like this one, no, not one bit… got shifty eyes… gotta watch her, I do…”

“Steady, Gladys. Want me to warm that up for you?” Charlie walked back into the pulsating bluish glare of the small TV on the Gladys end of the bar and poured her another cup of coffee. She emptied the sugar dispenser into the stream of thick, black liquid, all the while fixing her eyes on the new woman on the other side.

Ruby threw back her shot and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She looked up into the mirrored wall, watching as the muttering woman continued to peer across at her. “She’s giving me the creeps.”

Newsome drank his shot and slammed the glass back down on the bar. “Grab your beer.” Ruby picked up her mug and followed him over to a dark booth in an even darker recess of the bar. She stumbled over a hole in the worn linoleum floor, and he reached out with a quick hand on the small of her back to steady her. Sliding along the cracked vinyl seat across from him, she leaned back to watch him sit down as their glasses knocked together in the center of the table.

“Is this better?” he asked, settling back against his own seat.

“Yeah, I hate people staring at me.”

The two sat in silence, sipping their beer, allowing the tension of unanswered questions to slowly uncoil.

“Thank you,” said Ruby. Newsome nodded and took another sip. He was probably a cruel bastard. Punishment would come later. It always did. But Ruby was grateful for the small kindness of this moment, and she wanted it to last as long as possible. They emptied their glasses in silence and Newsome nodded to Charlie to bring them another round.

To be continued...


© Deborah Oster Pannell 2009

So I decided to start a blog...

Last night I had an epiphany. I was talking with an old friend, and with her strong encouragement, I realized that all the time I have spent idealizing the success of people I have known throughout my life and then knocking myself down in comparison, I have been doing myself a disservice. For I have also been quite busy over the course of my own existence, gaining experience and hopefully a little wisdom, learning invaluable life skills, and exercising my creative muscles. The fact that certain people whose paths I have crossed may now occupy this or that position in the professional world is kind of irrelevant. Everyone still has to wake up each day and do their work. Some people’s work is more fulfilling, some is less. Some people make more money, others are just scraping by. Some of us have realized lifelong goals or dreams and are now moving on to other things, while those of us who have yet to come into our own still feel the yearning to strive for more. The plain fact is, each of us is on a very distinct path, and although I could choose to be discouraged by the success of another, I can also be inspired.

Today I feel inspired.

With Erin’s encouragement (shout out to the timelessness of friendship), I have decided to start a blog. That’s right. I’m taking the plunge. I’m not sure I’m ready for comments yet – that might be way too traumatic – but I definitely need to publish my work, my thoughts, my feelings, my stories… I have to get them out of the solitude of my own internal process, my aspirations. I have to share them with others and let them breathe – give them a chance to delight or disappoint, let them stand on their own and see what they’re made of… I’ve been through so much, I don’t believe I have anything left to fear at this point, at least when it comes to putting my work out there. What’s the worst that can happen? People won’t like it? Ooohhhhhh….. scary monsters!!!
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Ever since I can remember, I have loved reading. It was my first great escape. There was some family myth that I started reading when I was two years old, but I don’t think that’s true. I do know that I was given a very detailed book to read at the age of 4 or 5, called “The Wonderful Story of How You Were Born,” and I proceeded to give a full report to my kindergarten class. My parents heard all about that at parent/teacher conference night.

Somewhere along the line, I started writing. I remember having a diary somewhere around the 6th or 7th grade, filled mostly with detailed descriptions of trips to the mall. Since then, in addition to the mandatory school book reports and creative writing assignments, I have written letters, short stories, poems, feverish journal entries (more than I care to remember), plays, screenplays (never finished, of course), essays, treatments, and all matters of work related documents for the various management and marketing positions I have occupied in my professional life.

I LOVE to write. I love how it feels to let ideas flow through me and to watch them slowly take shape on the page. I love discovering what direction I’m actually going in, when I thought I was headed somewhere else. I love seeing characters that I have created come to life.

Of course I, like many people, grew to be very protective of my work over the years. For a time I was brave, and circulated my stories for comment from friends and colleagues, even had a couple of my one page plays produced, but aside from one South African feminist website that published two of my short stories about a decade ago, and one poem in college, I’ve never seen my work in print. Somewhere along the line, I began to develop a crust of fear that hardened a little with every tentative submission and subsequent rejection (I have made it a habit of periodically sending one of my stories to a literary magazine run by two sisters, called Glimmer Train, and they have regularly rejected each and every submission). At some point, I settled into a passive state of lethargy with regard to putting my stuff out there at all. Life, work, doubt, all seemed to overshadow my creative aspirations, and rendered me virtually silent.

But in the private woods of my mind, there are trees falling all the time – very loudly, I might add! In fact, sometimes it’s so noisy, I can barely concentrate. There are characters, situations, plot lines, all jostling for attention, distracting me from the exigencies of daily life, which, in and of themselves, are numerous. And now, my life has come to a head, and I can no longer tolerate the status quo. It’s time for a major change.

Almost eleven months ago, I lost my husband and life partner of 22 years, Ivor Balin Pannell. People who knew him will tell you that he was a force to be reckoned with… A man of extraordinary wisdom and patience, seriousness as well as humor, he taught me more about adversity and courage than anyone I have ever known. He was born with a genetic disorder called sickle cell anemia, a terrible disease that affects the blood and causes extraordinary bouts of pain as well as major organ and joint damage. My life with him was incredibly rewarding, but also filled with challenges that pushed me to my absolute limits. Together, we learned about love and friendship and struggle. We also created a son, Josiah, who is now 7 years old.

So I’m a newly single mother, working sometimes upwards of three or four jobs or projects at a time, trying to keep afloat financially in the midst of a terrible recession, struggling to keep my house clean and organized, and dealing with perhaps the single greatest emotional transition of my lifetime. And yet, there are still those nights when I will stay up until all hours working on a short story, because I just have to do it. I don’t know why, I just know that there is still this creative fire that burns inside me, and all of these other draws on my energy seem less like obstacles than they do inspiration.

When I was in my teens and twenties, and I was going through some particularly angst ridden episode of the drama that was then the hallmark of my days, I used to say to myself, “There’s good material in all this.” Well, if that was true, then by now I have accumulated a goldmine of material, and it’s time to hammer it into something shiny and polished to admire, and have the satisfaction of knowing that I created it. And since I’ve now hit the point where I’ve lived out some of the scariest things imaginable… and survived… I’m no longer frightened by the prospect of sharing my words with you.

Like so many other creative souls, I have a tremendous need to be told how wonderful I am, even at the same time as I yearn for constructive criticism that will help to make my work better. When I say better, I mean, closer to the essence of what it is trying to be. In my work as well as my life, I tend to take things to the nth degree. I don’t like to hold back, and whenever possible, I’m out there pushing the limits. I don’t know if my work always reflects this desire, but that is something I’m working on! Some would say I have boundary issues. I prefer to think of it as taking liberties, questioning authority, defying limitations.

Or maybe I just like being a bad girl…

In any case, I’m officially inaugurating this blog, and I am going to try like hell to put it out there with courage, and without expectation. I am at what you might call a pivotal point in my life, and can think of no better way to celebrate than to take a leap into the ocean of creative possibility. Fortunately, I am a pretty good swimmer.

I will begin the task of uploading stories, essays and other random pieces of writing that I need to share, starting with a couple of new pieces. Soon I’ll go back to my older stories. They have been holed up for too long, and I warn you, some of them may be a little mildewy. But I can’t keep them private any longer. Seriously, if I don’t get them out of my head, I may become physically ill. So this is truly an act of self preservation.

I have no idea what a woman like me, pushing 50, a widow, a single mom, is supposed to sound like, look like, act like or be. I’m pretty sure I get to make it up as I go along, though. I guess we’ll see what happens…


© Deborah Oster Pannell
August 23, 2010