Some hors d’oeuvres:
Vaguely creepy 1: A couple of months back, I mentioned this TV show, Making It, on SDMB. I remembered little about the show, except the theme song, which I still remembered bits of and liked though I hadn’t heard it in twenty years. That same week, I was on hold with some computer tech company, and guess what song I heard on my phone? That’s right. The theme to Making It.
Vaguely creepy 2: In my misspent youth, I often ended up in downtown Vancouver at 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning. This is the town which shouldn’t sleep, but definitely does. As I’m walking through the dark, deserted streets, the song Ghost Town, by the Specials, is playing in my head. And that song is creepy enough just by itself.
Not so vaguely creepy: Jogging down the highway in “Windham” (see below) one morning, I looked down and saw a rattlesnake right by my foot. I swear I jumped ten feet straight up. Turns out it was dead (it slowly deflated over the next few days before getting pecked to pieces by crows), but, hey, nothing like an adrenaline rush when you’re out for your morning jog.
Main course, names of people and places changed to protect the innocent, or whatever (hope this isn’t too long):
Hot, yellow sun in the valley. The mountains, brown walls of a brick oven. A stiff, warm breeze. Creaking, twisted trees. Prickly pear, green between the golden waves of grass.
Windham is a small farming community at the Canadian tip of the Sonoran desert. It sleeps at the bottom of a dry valley on an ancient, fertile riverbed. Orchards bejewel the banks of the twisting, withered river, its waters a refuge from the oppressive summer heat for the village’s children.
The population, normally just two thousand, swells in the summer; transients come to work the orchards, then move on. They are mostly “hippies” in their twenties, and they sometimes bring a young family with them. Many are from Quebec, on the other side of the country. When they arrive, they (and their clothes) are often in desperate need of a good wash. The smell can be quite powerful.
Jackie, 35, divorced, owns several acres of land along the river, a ways out of town. It is prime orchard land, but Jackie uses it for her horse ranch. This day, she sits on her back porch, tall, cool glass of lemonade in hand, with her mother, Irene, in town for her first visit to the ranch. Her hand runs through her hair, short, dark brown, sticky with sweat.
Jackie: We should go down by the river for a swim, Mom.
Irene: That sounds nice. Do you have a bathing suit I could borrow?
Jackie: We don’t need bathing suits. There’s a little pool off the side of the river, surrounded by bushes and trees. It’s totally private.
Irene: Well…
Jackie: It’s great, Mom. C’mon.
The breeze has died. Waves of heat wash over the two women as they walk through the knee-high yellow grass, towels in hand. The grass swishes against their legs, the sound punctuated by the occassional soft crunch of decayed vegetation and insect carcasses underfoot. The river murmurs in the distance, slowly growing louder. Insects buzz, jump from the grass before them, fly about haphazardly. Ahead, at the end of the field, the twisted, white trunks of the trees. Low, pale green brush along the river. Brown backdrop of mountain on the other side.
At the pool, the breeze has picked up. Under the shade of trees, the women undress and step into the pool. The dark blue water is wonderful. It washes over their naked bodies as they swim. So lovingly cool. So refreshing.
But he is there. At the top of the bank. Under the branches of a tree. Crouching. Silent.
The women swim and enjoy the water for about an hour. Then, on the bank, they dry off.
Jackie: That was great. I love it here. It’s so quiet and peaceful.
Irene: It is. You’re so lucky to have this place. And it’s perfect for your horses, too.
The breeze dies again. The women simultaneously notice a sickly sweet smell in the air.
Irene: What is that smell?
Jackie looks around, trying to find the direction of the smell. And she sees him, crouching under the branches, looking at her. She gasps.
Jackie: Get the hell off my property. What the hell do you think you’re doing there?
Irene is frightened by her daughter’s sudden yelling, but she is shocked again when she sees who Jackie is yelling at. The man is clearly a transient. His clothes are old and ratty. A light brown jacket, too big for him, hangs over a plaid shirt. His pants are light brown as well, though barely visible as he is crouching, quiet and unmoving, behind a weather-beaten, burgundy suitcase. His face is black with dirt and many days of walking under a hot sun. And something else…
They move around him, Jackie yelling at him to get off her property the whole time. He doesn’t move. When they feel they have enough distance, they make a run for the house.
The RCMP arrive promptly after Jackie makes the call. They go to the river to investigate, and one officer returns some time later with news. They found the man, exactly where Jackie had last seen him, with his black face and that horrible smell. He had been there the whole time, even before the women arrived at the pool. They had walked right past him, the breeze blowing his stink the other way. But Jackie and Irene hadn’t noticed one detail when they saw him there after their swim: a rope, one end tied to a tree branch, the other around his neck.
Apparently, several days before, the man had grown weary of this world, and under a tree, by a quiet pool near a river, he had taken his own life.
(hope I got that right)