The crimson glow from her bedside lamp perfects Juarez’s
skin tone as she poses in her floor length mirror, critiquing every square inch
of her physique, refining her look to air brush perfection. A few finishing touches and she will be ready
to hit the town. Juarez has yet to shake
the value of good looks that have been stressed to her by her gloss and glamour
co-workers and the chic trendsetters of the Toronto highlife; a people she has
never fully understood but had always dreamed of infiltrating. Gold bangles hang from her delicate wrist;
they were forged from the imagination of her fiery best friend Dee and named in
Juarez’s honour along with the single feathered earring that hangs from her
left lobe. This set was the first in a
long line of jewellery that Juarez inspired and has remained to this day, her
favourite. If it weren’t for Dee, Juarez
would know nothing about the finer things; she would still be in a small town,
still making apple pies and huddled deeper into the quiet reserves of resignation
and day dreams.
The tiny brunette reluctantly turns her body to evaluate her
backside. She is praised with
consistency - her ass is her best feature - but the girl has yet to see the
appeal. With her two feet strapped into
half foot high shimmering copper sandals and her two legs capped with classic
white short shorts, the force of the upward thrust shapes her hamstrings into
her rear like a long and winding road into the heavens of a dancers’ sky. Juarez may not have much, but with legs like
those the world is her plaything. She
completes her look with a halter that drapes over her breasts like an emerald handkerchief
holding on for dear life and shakes her hair out, long and wild. There are some things she could never change,
not even for the chance to rub elbows with the elite.
***
Clark peeled off a piece of chipped white paint as it fought
a losing battle against the cedar trim on the old house. He had been removing the white stuff with
systematic persistence twice daily that summer, making a routine of picking up
Juarez once in the morning and once after dinner, skinning a little primer as
he waited. There were no phone calls;
she didn’t have a phone to answer. There
was only a quick and polite knock on the door and the patient endurance of a
seasoned hunter. That day the clouds had
arranged themselves to ensure darkness throughout the county and the canola
fields behind the city were bursting with bright yellow blossoms against the changing
slate and charcoal backdrop. A leafless maple
that towered in the centre of that yellow sea was crying out to Clark to bring
his new best friend there and to sit a spell under its lonely dried out
branches. He had never been there
before, had only seen the dead wood in a vision, but understood the ancient
call to bring life back to that forgotten place, in the tree and in the teenage
girl he dreamt about nightly.
Clark imagined stripping the neglected cedar trim by the end
of October as a gift to the family who dwelled inside, as a thank you to the folks
who Juarez silently chronicled about in her journal; chronicles that on the
rare occasion were recited aloud and witnessed by his graceful acceptance in
their bleeding vulnerability. Her verses
formed and fell like breath when she read to him, his young hands trying to
keep up with the chords in her voice as he strummed his guitar alongside. The cutting truth that pushed through her pen
was like gold, gifted to her by the aching isolation of a childhood spent as a
caretaker and subsequent mute. He did
not understand when she tried to explain that she was never like this, that she
never speaks, only around him. He could
not fathom the picture she paints of herself in the world outside their
friendship. With his third eye Clark,
could see into the girls’ mind. It was a
cauldron, fermenting memories by way of repression and brewing a sweet elixir
of verbal choreography. He could see her
medicine, if only there were a way to extract the salve.
“Where are we going today?”
She asked as they peddled to find their balance on their two slow moving
bicycles.
“Did you bring your treasures?”
“Of course I brought them, Clark.” She knew he meant her journal and loved that
he held them in as high esteem as pirates’ booty and his beloved guitar.
Clark watched the road ahead of him and sped up. “Perfect.
Follow me.”
***
A line up the length of a dragon’s tail is kept in peak
condition while two doormen size up the bodies that form it. Only the beautiful people are welcome, even the
outside queue behind the red velvet rope consists of standing advertisements;
powerless candidates for the gorgeousness inside. It is here the selections are made, survival
of the fittest. Juarez pulls up to the
entrance of the club and waits for her driver to open the door. Never in her life did she imagine someone
opening a car door for her. It was Dee
who insisted she learn to act like she deserved more and decided her
girlfriends’ grand education would start with a cabbie. Dee was the kind of girl who people ran from
across the street to open doors for and she refused to apologise for feeling
entitled to it.
“Hey Cutie,” a doorman says as he unhooks the rope, towering
above her in a black suit. By now,
Juarez has become accustomed to the taxi driver and bypassing lines.
“Hey Billy,” she smiles, “How is Donna?” Dee would be petrified if she knew Juarez was
talking to the help but she had to connect with everyone, made a point to get
to know the lives of the people who maintained the illusion that she was a
superstar.
“Two weeks overdue and making me pay for it,” He
answered. No one ever asked the
glorified thug about his life except of course for Juarez and he did his best
to repay the kindness every way he knew how.
“Party treasures for you, milady.
I’ll give you two but I suggest you start with one. These gems are potent.”
Juarez takes the pills from his baseball mitt hand, washes
them down with whatever replaced the water in his bottle of water and enters
the concrete warehouse like she just got home from a long day at the office. The bass gets louder as she approaches the
sliding glass door to the main bar. A
devoted servant to her very presence, the transparent gate opens as she moves
toward it and a wall of sound and flashing lights absorb her with each
step. As promised, she feels the ecstasy
kicking in hard and fast with a sensual violence, coursing through her,
magnifying each goose bump and sending shivers from tip to toe. Steps away from the coveted VIP table, Juarez
freezes and accepts the intense synthetic pulsing inside of her. Deep house vibrates into her core and she
surrenders to the undeniable good feeling as it washes in and out and over her
body.
***
“Read to me,” Clark requested, half plea, half encouragement. “I want to hear your treasures.”
As always, Juarez was hesitant to comply. Bits of dried-out bark were sprinkled all
over the earth like ashen fairy dust and the heavy sky had yet to decide
between rain or shine. They had made it
to the middle of a farmer’s field with not a house in sight and sat under the derelict
tree, stranded on a lifeless island in an ocean of canola.
Remember this moment, she thought to herself as she
inspected a grey chunk of skin from the dead maple. She remembered every moment, noticed
everything as though it were living breathing poetry and catalogued each stanza
in a mental filing cabinet for later use.
Clark studied her, shielded by his guitar and let the girl warm up to a recitation
in her own time. He knew that to push
her too hard would only close her up tighter than when he first met her. He didn’t mind; Clark found great pleasure in
exploring the world through her wide open eyes, understood the power of the
present moment when she got lost in the endless textures of the now.
“Ok, here goes,” Juarez snapped out of her meditation and
shuffled through her notebook until she picked the perfect piece for her
friend. “It’s called The Weaver. Please don’t laugh at me.” She waited a few beats to set the tone and
began to read with slow and rhythmic surges.
“What a dark and beautiful web we weave.
On one side of the fabric, clean ridges of
colourful thread cresting and cascading like sand after a night of lapping
waves, telling the good life story; bright and glorious, spiritual will, divine
and hopeful.
On the other side, shortcuts of the yarn zig
zagging from one point to another; no rhyme, no reason, the only purpose to
uphold the story on the flip.
We can only pay attention to one side at a
time. That is the paradox.
We are the thread, each of us tightly wound
into potential tapestry but not without its shortcuts and pricked fingers,
bleeding from the process.
Stare not for too long at the gorgeousness
of your masterpiece; it too exists not without attachment, addiction,
fear.
Remember to peek around and open your soul
to the work behind the curtain.
Weave in, weave out.
There is only so much we can see at one
time.
Weave in, weave out.
Our filament, our golden thread is the same
thread from the tiniest atom to the biggest idea, from a newborn to a dying
sun.
It all weaves in and out together into light
and under darkness.
Give yourself some rope sometimes; tensions
rise when we resist the weaver.
Cut the world some slack; we are all weaving
in and out.”
Clark was stunned, speechless. He set down his instrument in the hanging
quiet and smiled at the bashful glowing girl before him. Instantly he felt his heart crack open, felt
a warm rush swallow him whole. Prepared
for criticism, Juarez looked up to hear his feedback and jerked in shock to find
his face inches from hers. He did not
let her reaction prevent him from gently moving closer until he sensed her relax
with trust, a gift she rarely handed out. With her guard finally down, Juarez accepted
his subtle affections and surrendered to the love that poured out from his soul
and into hers. A cosmic thread tugged
between them until they were braided into each other, bonded at their lips,
their torsos, their toes. This was not
the first time Juarez had let a man into her tiny body, but it was the first
time she wanted it and she cried as he heaved himself on top of her, safe and
protected.
“I love you, Juarez.” He reassured her with each thrust and
kissed the tears from her smiling face.
***
Seated in the corner of a table reserved for high rollers, a
sharp dressed man watches Juarez as she rushes on ecstasy, evaluating his
prospect. He saw her come into the club
alone giving off a signal that penetrated through the veneer of drugs and into
his radar; an indicator he could not ignore given the award winning physical
dimensions of the girl. She would be a
hard sell to start, but if he could convince her then surely he would come out on
top. He had conquered animals far more
wild and exotic than her before; this one wanted to be caught and vulnerability
was his specialty. He waited for her to
move to the bar and timed his chance encounter with a masters’ precision.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
He asks as Juarez holds on to the cool stainless steel bar top and grabs
the attention of the new bartender. She
smiles. He looks like one of the models
that work for her magazine, the chiselled husband type.
“Why not?” she answers and tells her order to the blonde
behind the counter.
“Make it two!” he shouts. “I’m David.”
“Juarez. You must be
from out of town.”
“I am from out of town, yes.” He laughs, surprised by the
accuracy of her assumption. The
bartender hands them their cocktails and David makes a toast. “To being here,
from wherever we were.” They each take a
sip and Juarez waits for her suitors’ reaction.
Just as she expected, he has more to say. “Is there any alcohol in this?” Juarez shakes her head no. David is confused. “Really?
What is it?”
“It’s a Shirley Cocktail.
Do they have those where you come from?”
“In fact they do. I
haven’t had one of these since I was twelve.”
He was not expecting this, but he likes it. “I have a bottle at the table over there and
all the mix that make a great Shirley Temple.
You are welcome to as many as you like.
How about I leave you to dance?
You are a delight to watch.”
The two part ways and Juarez can feel his eyes scanning her
as she moves to the music. Enjoying the
spotlight she puts on a little show, carefully shortening the distance between
her and the chiselled model man who, for all intents and purposes, makes her
grade. As she reaches the table, she
jimmies herself so that her legs straddle his bent knee and she can fix herself
another Shirley Temple. David takes the
hint and brushes his hand up the inside of her calf, testing her limits, one
inch at a time. With every bounce to the
beat, Juarez pushes down and bends to display herself, aiding his fingers as
they climb up. She sips and sways, he slides
toward his goal, not once losing his grip.
Juarez is right high now, wrapped in a warm blanket of ecstasy and open
to the advances of the stranger behind her.
She tilts her ass up, arching her back, welcoming his focused glance and
inviting his manicured eager hand. Eventually
the tips of his fingers infiltrate the citadel between her legs and the shorts
that cover them and David realizes with a smug satisfaction that his mission is
about to be accomplished.
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