August 1992, in response to growing citizen concern about excessive force allegations and other alleged police abuses, the Spokane City Council approves Resolution 92-67, creating a Citizens Review Panel (CRP). Continue reading The Search for Reform
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“Of course you’re my muse,” Terry shouted back to Melinda, after she asked, aloud, whether she still inspired him.
“You better mean that,” she replied, her voice cutting through the soft din of the Mumbo Jumbo Muffin Shoppe. “I have a short fuse for false sincerity.”
This was day 168, without a break, except for weekends. The idea to be a daily deadline poet had come from one of his heroes, the whimsical Calvin Trillin. And to perform this art at Mumbo Jumbo during the mid-morning rush involved just the right mix of panache and difficulty, like riding a unicycle, and spinning plates, and crossing a busy street.
“I need words with spice, Mel,” he called out.
“Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,” she called back as she turned to make a cappuccino.
Terry stared at his laptop.
“That’s good,” he exclaimed. “I can work with that.”
“Damn right,” she then said to the next fellow in line. “Down at the market they’ll just throw you a fish.”
“Of course,” the next fellow replied, as if this all made sense to him.
“Algorithm, logarithm, Marxism, catechism!” Terry now chanted with delight. “Parsley goes well with asiago cheese, but it won’t change your life!”
“Sounds good to me,” Melinda replied.
“You’re the best Mel,” Terry said, snapping shut the computer.
“Don’t be late tomorrow,” she replied. “And don’t forget my tip.”
From the story Angelfish
As in:
Marjorie’s breakfast this morning is the chalky icing on a store-bought powdered donut. She’s put two fingers through the hole and is scrolling slowly forward with her tongue. She does this leaning out over a paper plate, so that the little avalanches of unloosed powdered sugar do not tumble down the front of her blouse.
Because I am her brother, and because the quality of brotherhood I aspire to involves a certain duty to inject brotherly advice, I wonder aloud about the nutritional merit of powdered donut icing. I then try to warn about the three large mugs of coffee she’d guzzled and whether some preemptive relief might be in order.
“I’m ready,” she insists.
On the road, approaching a rest stop I ask, “do we need to pull off?”
Negative.
Seven miles later we are parked on the shoulder somewhere beyond Waitsburg, and she is over the bank, finding a way.
I would like to yell “snake” but we are older now. At least I am older. Marjorie is Marjorie without regard for chronology. Our Grandma Beth was among the few who professed to understand Marjorie and I do not recall her ever demanding that Marjorie act her age. It just wasn’t a meaningful point of reference. Still isn’t.
I am thinking about my blood pressure when she comes back into view, her flannel overshirt pulled down and tied at the waist. She stumbles a bit at the top of the sandy bank and so I start over to break her fall. She ignores me and, like a surfer slicing into the face of a wave, she slides on the soles of her sneakers back down to the shoulder of the highway.
Next segment, Permeated.
From the story, Angelfish
As in:
Marjorie and I are heading toward Grandma Beth’s funeral. Our father’s mother was a pillar of humanity in a family which, before her, was not discernibly endowed with either wisdom or grace. It was a sad tragedy, but no departure from the coil of the brand, that her husband died at the hands of his brother, an insane event instigated by a petty argument over a $100 gambling debt, leading to the reckless display of a handgun.
For the last forty of her years she was a widow, a woman who permeated the world around her with the weight of books and the aroma of fresh-baked breads; a woman whose versatile wit could amuse children and deflect the rage of pompous men.
In the seat beside me, Marjorie is laughing, softly. At what I don’t know. We figure penetrating cosmic radiation affects her this way.
“Where is that place you got us lost that night coming back from Canada?” she asks.
“Washtucna,” I reply.
“No, no, no, no, it had a pretty name to it, like a flower.”
“Kahlotus,” I say.
“Kahlotus,” she repeats. “That was it.”
“You think that’s pretty?” I ask.
Marjorie laughs and slides her back lower in the seat. Over the rim of her sunglasses I see her eyes close.
The first dust devil of the afternoon spins weakly in the crotch between two hills. Jet contrails subdivide the southern part of the sky in a way that reminds me of a four-square court.
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