Jewl&James

Table of Contents

Part 1:  Blood | Chapter 1:  Portland, Running

Chapter 2:  The Gorge, Driving With Gipsy

Chapter 3:  The Gorge, Breakfasting at MontRy's

Chapter 4:  The Gorge, Hiding Out

Part 2:  Valentine | Chapter 5:  Mt. Hood, Playing Holidays

Chapter 6:  Hood River, Retreating to Write

Chapter 7:  Hood River, Hooking Up

Chapter 8:  Crozier, Breakfasting With Parry

Chapter 9:  The Gorge, Driving West

Chapter 10:  Portland, Visiting Detective Eastby

Chapter 11:  Camas, Visiting Mr. Jones

Chapter 12:  Celilo, Grounding

Chapter 13:  Bend, Visiting Issy

Part 3:  Confluence | Chapter 14:  Home

Acknowledgments:  Jane Austen, especially Emma, Debbie Hunter, Ellen Moody, The Republic of Pemberley, Tom Ranieri/Cinema 21, E.M. Forster, The Child is Father of the Man, Francois Truffaut, Eighth Generation, Richard Dawkins, Judy Bluehorse Skelton, Wikipedia, NezPerce.org, Kate Bush, Janne Black, Cheri Adair, Frank Herbert.

Part 1:  Blood

Chapter 1:  Portland, Running

Jewl was surprised by the blood on her hand.  Bending over to catch her breath, elbows resting on bent thighs at the signal light, she had felt overwhelming relief escaping the trap; then the color red had glared hot a few inches from her face.

She yanked her hand away from her body and, simultaneously, the stitch in her side flared.  Her hand hung there, dried blood covering it...she was all confusion:  whose blood?  As if touching the burner on the stovetop, she shook her hand, bouncing up and down—mad to get rid of it—holding it out as if begging the air for help, when a tinkling sound (just loud enough between panting breaths) latched her attention.  It was a pure sound of water.  Rescue from an old Portland burbling water fountain, not three steps away.  All could be sensical again.

Jewl reached for the meager wash, rubbed coolness into the red stain.  It was like trying to rinse off dried paint.  She shifted weight back and forth because both knees wobbled, persisting until the color was gone.  Then she pulled back, hoping now everything was going to be safe and sane and balanced.  Looked down at herself.  She must make for a silly sight.  Tucked in her shirt.  But just as she felt composure return something caught under her nail!—she flinched—it was only a long straight dark hair.  Her own.  She thought, 'This isn't me acting the lunatic.  I've seen all kinds of-of bio...of biological....'  But no appropriate jargon would come to her mind, only, 'stuff' and 'blood' and 'I'm so rattled' and 'I hate this'.

To her surprise, she was shaking her hands as if to cast off imaginary beads of water.  Her brain ordered her hands to stop it!  Reluctantly, they obeyed and quivered at her sides.  Front brain lectured, 'What happened is in the past.  Unpleasant, yes.  But you're unhurt and you've got sweaty face in the July afternoon heat.  Sweat is fine, you've sweated many times, just sweaty face and eyes.  And out of breath—'  Oww, the side-ache was back and her swollen feet burned—these clogs were not made for running—and she was blinking?  'Ready to cry?'

No.  No, not in downtown Portland.  'Use your head' rose up in her brain next, mimicking her uncle's steady voice.  Jewl rubbed fingers together, as if to ensure there were no traces of stickiness.  She wiped them on her jeans, adjusted the wide belt, pulled at the denim sticking to her thighs and stood up tall.  Deep breath.  Poised.  'Well.  This is me.  However unpleasant the situation.'

She scrutinized the waterfront sidewalks and grassy areas—no one was following—but city instincts told her she'd been beside the drinking fountain too long.  She flicked her long hair out of her eyes, waited for a driverless car to pass, and crossed the next block against the light as fast as her clogs would go, not caring the destination, just away from the water, up a sidewalk, across a street she didn't recognize—damn, another building half-demolished beside a new one, hemming her in.  Around a corner.  The sidewalk on the far side was closed.  The near side one was partly blocked by a straggling houseless camp of bundles, tents, and tarps.  She felt the old helplessness but followed etiquette:  careful and go around a dirty pink sock poking through a sleeping bag, don't make eye contact with a group of loungers (the red-nosed guy laughing at nothing, the stooped figure buzzing and sniffing, the gal staring serenely) or with two other people who looked completely normal, smoking.  Cross the street at the construction sign to avoid the two scroungers in the trash can, which was surrounded by a pile of orange and yellow food garbage and assorted grey blanket scraps and rags topped by a hot urine smell.  Don't make a face but cross back again; turn down the empathy and turn the corner.

Phew, she got past the worst of it.  The next block was clear.  The warm jeans were sticking to her thighs again.  Personal comfort and safety, that's all I'm good for, was her rueful conclusion.  The next block she saw someone hunched over, playing folk guitar, and she felt squeezed and sidled off pavement into bark chips, an old rhododendron the size of a tree rising up in her way.  She ducked caution tape that stretched from its branches, skirted the plantings close to a brick building, struggled on the uneven ground, reached out and touched the brick—colder than she expected.  She paused.  If she could have gripped the building, she would have, it seemed solid and supportive.  She dug in her clogs, but no, she was swaying, her legs trembling.

'Lord what a coward.  Get hold.  Where next, where am I?'  A breeze touched her cheek, bringing a fresh vegetal smell.  Evergreen shrubs wrapped around the building, beckoning, so she put a hand on the wall and followed the building around, over an earthen mound, past fat burgundy Lenten rose leaves, and then...a shady, open sidewalk—like a new country.  She was panting.  She realized it was the first time since dashing to the bridge and running across the river, then run-walking and washing and sidling to here—where?—that she had really stopped.  Full stop.  Full breaths panting in and out.  Was she going to faint?

She blinked and waited.  The sun baked.  Her eyes spotted a green awning.  She surged forward and nearly ran into a glass door, hands thrown up and protecting her at the last moment.  Nearly blind, she rummaged for her sunspecs in the sling purse.  Swinging her gaze up, eyes still stinging, she studied the restaurant menu posted on the window beside the doors.  A band of shade felt good across the top of her head.

Oh, the train station?  Jewl hadn't taken a train in years.  Of course, she had crossed the tracks back there, and her mind weighed whether running had been wise or selfish.  She could call December or even Anna for support...but still, her brain kept yelling at her to get away from danger!  Away from the splintered apartment door at the Big Box...the red stain...the sugary smell of cooking chemicals, the crying and the sirens and the creeps on the street—get inside!

A quick look behind—no one following.  She hunted for the hours of business; a crooked taped-up sign read, 'Tuesday eve, restaurant closed for private event'.  Screw private.  She groped for the door handle, pushed and it gave.  She embraced the dim and cool like a particular friend, instantly giving thanks for the A/C.  Her eyes burned.  'Am I crying?'  Hard to see, she ripped off the specs anxiously.  Safe?

She wanted to crawl under something and hide.  No one was at the desk in the foyer.  She sneaked along and ducked down a passage, found a restroom door, escaped inside.  It was a single, what a piece of luck!  She locked the door.  Safe...safe and homeless.

Peeing, she absently noticed blotches on her hand, and a tremor started and got worse and worse.  It made for jerky bathroom business, and part of her mind wondered if one day she'd find this event amusing.  While another part was arguing that, yes, running had been the right decision for safety, while yet other messages continued to pound out the counter-argument—'No-no-no, you left everything behind, the naive roommate, the scope, the graduation ring, the French press, the Ph.D. thesis, go back go back go back, check on your friend, get your stuff, talk to the police, why should you be stranded?'

Her silicone seemed to be in her hand and almost dropped through her legs into the toilet.  She clucked and put it away.  Washing hands with plenty of soap, even though there was no trace of red, felt comforting.  Whose blood? whose blood? was chanting in that annoying part of her mind that also didn't think running and hiding a good idea.  Her other argument rallied—silly to consider talking to the police, there were already sirens blaring once she'd exited the apartment building and what evidence could she relay?  Her legs shook some more and she wondered if she would cry.  The mirror surprised her; so this is what I look like when I'm afraid?  She dug out a hair tie and got her hair in a pony-tail.

She said aloud, Look better with makeup.

No paper towels.  The hot blower, and blotting her forehead with tissue paper, a deep breath—her side ached but not as much.  She leaned against the counter and, after a minute, felt energy drain, like she'd punched holes in a water bucket, but the holes were small so it took some time for the anxiety to run out.  Disagreeable event.  Better now.  It's back there, leave it.  Time to move on.  Time, yes, she felt ready to face people.

She put her hand on the door handle and stopped.  Safe.  But if she turned around and gazed behind...Blaise and the blood and sirens and Scary Boyfriend and 'Guilty, guilty, guilty,' banging out like an obnoxious judge who thought her body made a good target for a gavel.  What if she opened the door and panic kept rapping?  What if she couldn't function?  Her vision blurred holding the door handle.  Okay, feeling trapped.  Enough time in a confined restroom, have to chance it.

She opened the door, saw no one, crept back down the passage and peeked into the broad stately restaurant, her spirits revived by the handsome sight of a piano and silver-bottled bar twinkling and a cool stream of air.  She remembered the train station was a popular venue for hosting live music.  A few people in black and white twittered about.

Darling how are you? one of the wait-staff greeted someone in a shrill voice while doling out silverware.

Oh my God, hi sweetie! a well-dressed woman sang out, appearing from the shadows at the back of the room.

Like the outside of the train station, everything inside was brick, windows heavily adorned by curtains.  Booths and tables and chairs appeared expectant.  Jewl collapsed in the last chair at the end of the bar, slipped off her clogs and put up her swollen feet.  Suddenly behind her, the piano was playing—too loud.  Someone was singing.  The lyrics came out of the speaker above her head, as if a switch had been thrown.  Her eyes had adjusted to the low-lit chandeliers and she shifted so she could see a woman maybe in her 40s in a red dress belting into a microphone:

Won't I ever...know you?

The loneliness of a few seconds worth of music vibrated against her heart.  It was alarming how her mood changed, and she didn't like that—it wasn't good for a biologist to be swayed by sound waves in the air, was it?—and just as suddenly the singer stopped mid-phrase.

I messed that whoa-whoo up.

The pianist, in a black dress, her eyes bright beneath purple eyeshadow, asked, Isn't it sitting okay?

Jewl didn't move—she watched, becoming like a tourist in a foreign country, curious about this little world of musicians, her brain eager to forget the world on the other side of the river.

Don't know why.  Without a pause, the singer resumed and Jewl had lost track of the key and the pitch and the tempo, but when the piano caught up all was perfectly consonant, and the lonely feeling came back:

Ever?  Ever know you?

Jewl's body swayed to the sound, and she remembered Dug saying that it's the groove in the brain that rules—the song is already playing internally, there's a line already cut there.  But she wanted to ask Dug, now, what if you don't know the song?  Did it cut a fresh groove?  Could she change her mind and go live with Dug?  Or...no, he was in Germany by now.  Had the invite been a...what?  Some kind of disguised proposal?

Her mind tried to follow the lyrics—what was the story?  The meaning jumbled in the words and sounds, but her mysterious internal world got stirred up.  She analyzed anyway—maybe the brain is ahead and figuring out what's going on while the groove is laid, you're hard-wired to understand key signatures and modulations and all that.  Oh, and semantics.  She lost track of the verse and the bridge or whatever, whereupon the song ended on an impossibly shimmery note—a glorious ringing—Jewl was astonished and euphoric, and the lyrics and the story didn't matter much.  The singer scratched her boob.

You going to let me get to my tables?

Jewl's attention shifted from the stage area back to the restaurant floor.  The speaker was the maitre'd.  Heavily bearded, the mustache curled primly, the lips like a bugle blowing reveille...French, for morning call or...Jewl felt too close to the musicians, exposed, so she moved to a booth in the far corner of the dining room where it was more secluded.  She ran the dictionary on her silicone...Reveille.  Jumped forward to, alarm clock, and the verb form, to wake up.  She couldn't even remember the idiom for, Yes, that's it.  She gambled:  'Ce'st ca'?  Her French vocabulary had been usurped first by taxonomical terms.  What unfair trade was that?  She let slip the device and it landed on the table with a crack.  Merde.  What was her brain doing?

A beverage for the early bird? chirped a young woman in large round spectacles.

Jewl blinked to focus her dry eyes.  The server was breathing loudly at her elbow, wearing a pleated grey wrapper skirt so tight Jewl involuntarily sucked in her tummy.  The server's finger tapped on her apron, reminding Jewl of Dug's first wife who had that habit...his first disaster.  Jewl made a delaying comment and then, recalling she'd gotten her stipend yesterday, ordered a cold drink, forgot she had done so, and was surprised when the Etoile Estelle—French, or Belgian?—arrived along with questions about the menu.  If Auntie had been here she would have rooted out the gal's history with polite questions and warm sounds of encouragement.

Jewl struggled conversing with strangers; she argued (with herself-the-judge), 'I just need to be familiar with strangers before my personality, my humor, if I have any charm, all those things come forth.  I'm not a light-switch to conversation!  Wit and cleverness...and that stuff needs time.'

She put off food until later, the gal swished away.  Lord.  How much would it cost to hide out at the train station restaurant during a private event?  This server's a few years younger, impatient for a few tips for...rent?  Community college?

At that point, the judge within rebutted.  She held up a warning finger that meant 'shut up' and moved her hand to the bottle—ah, okay Belgian in fact—and poured the contents into the chilled glass.  With so much local beer around, why had she ordered something from Europe?  Bon Dieu....A gulp first quenched, and then brought on more, thirst.  Her body acted like she'd run one of those obstacle races, a steeplechase afternoon over every urban barrier and jump, without training or proper hydration.  She licked her lips and took a steady sip; it fizzed along her tongue and, at last, she relaxed.

'I'm safe.'

The judge gave her no rest; immediately came the, 'Now what?'  When she wouldn't argue, further arguments came:  'Should go back.  Make sure Blaise is safe.  Make sure the emergency respondents (!) saw the blood, and...'  She blinked tears and fought back, 'No, don't want to go back.  Don't want to deal with—no, don't know how to deal with...the ugly violence.  Not safe.  Just a girl from an orchard farm.'  The back of her neck felt tight; another steady sip to drown out the judge's next accusation.

The house music was on now, muffled and distant.  The cash register chimed in, a low rumble followed.  New noises joined the restaurant:  she saw people in the foyer paying a cover charge and then hugging, a server was bringing water glasses to a table, the loud crunch of ice came from behind the bar.  Jewl watched anxiously, but no Scary Boyfriend from the apartment and no creeps from the Esplanade had come to the train station for a private party.  Slush, plunge, breathe—a woman with an oxygen tank in a backpack, crossed by a bucket of champagne, framed by sunlight slivering beneath the crimson curtains along the south wall.  Must be 95 degrees outside at least where the houseless and, perhaps, her roommate Blaise were suffering; perfect 73 or so in here.  Remorse, remorse.  Blaise:  odd name and an odd person from start to finish, never once making eye contact or responding to morning greetings or saying anything when they passed each other.

Jewl belched quietly.  No one knew her or was watching her—anonymous.  Good.  'It's over, I'm safe for the moment,' she coached herself, but she felt her body heating up despite the cool restaurant.

She wondered, is this city really where she wanted to live?  Be the well-paid Research Sci.?  Must rest.  Breathe.  Be still.  Be a...fly on the wall—she almost muttered this aloud—but crashing back came roommate's Scary Boyfriend and the smashing sounds and the sticky door frame, who got hurt? did I see anything incriminating?  Will Scary Boy come after me?  Was that last bang a door, or a gunshot?' and the heat that forced her west, and the two guys with spikes and pit-bulls on the Esplanade that had driven her north.  She clutched the cool napkin—I'm determined to feel calm among solid pillars and glassware and linen napkins.  The train station, of all places to fly to!  Fly on the wall of the 'Cabaret'.  She had seen the event announced somewhere without realizing it, maybe on the foyer desk—wasn't 'Cabaret' dirty?  Private?  Nothing sleazy about the Art Nouveau chandeliers, curved-back leather chairs, or the circular booth in the corner of the room pressing up against her back.  The old train station, been here for over a hundred years.  She pinched and rubbed the back of her neck—it felt comforting, like Issy's hand doing an impromptu massage.  Issy, Hale, Parry, the farm, shady trees, Mt. Adams and Hood and the river...home.

A loud squeal, a train pulling into view through the windows facing opposite the piano.  Imagine that, a train at a train station, she started as she heard the maître d’s voice quite near.  Faces were turned Jewl's direction—but all eyes focused on the massive engine and cars beyond.  There was a mechanical gasp.  The train was right there—she could walk a few hundred yards, buy a ticket, and just get on and it would take her one way or another...north, Seattle or B.C., south to San Fran or Los Angeles...or, no, westward to Montana, that would be better.

Another voice:  Phew-foo.

A waiter:  Don't be a hater, this fashion show is all in color.

The maître d’:  I feel pregnant in this apron.

The bartendress:  Right, you know?  Like immediately ready for labor.

Waiter:  Oh my God, honey, it's like the bolero craze, I was the muffin man.  Laughter.

'Fly on the wall'—that was Dug's phrase, and she always thought, Swat it or let it out of the house.  But here she was the fly—ignored, still, observing instead of living.  Fortunately, no one was paying attention—no makeup, dressed in sweaty jeans.  Really, she never cared for dressing elegantly, never wore a 'bolero' or anything from the Italian craze; flattering clothes, neat accessories, that was fine; dolling up was fun sometimes.  Often grubby on the fly, same long straight hair since grade school.  And now...single and stranded.  No home to go to.  Lonesome.  Or was 'lonely' grammatically correct?  She liked lonesome, it sounded more like the thing she felt.

The microphones stood ready, the people piling in, and she would see something and hear music and forget sirens and crying.

She was grateful to be interrupted by the insistent server in spectacles, asking for maybe the third time about food.  So Jewl ordered a salad and another beer; swish, and the server vanished.  Too young for Dug.  Auntie would've asked her something like, Are you in college, dear?  Do you live near here?  I like your necklace, is it Celtic?  Not Jewl, barely made eye contact.  Extroversion was like dark energy—a strange mystery beyond her introvert view.  Better to talk to herself.  Before she knew what to say next, a slow screech sounded outside...the train floated and vanished from the frame of the window...leaving empty tracks.

Most tables were occupied now, empty plates on some, full glasses.  Swish, someone else nearby got their salad, hungry!—cork popped, how did the gal remember everyone's orders when she didn't write anything down?—no one did, the wait staff was sailing through the room taking orders, carrying water, remembering dirty martinis, cheese plates, dodging man with cane and woman with big hat—ice, no ice, no dressing no onions no olives, laughing lips and tongues.  What was a dirty martini?

Around me, out of practice, lonesome.  Everyone else is so alive.  The judge accused,  'That's right, you're boring.'  She thought grimly, 'Not boring today.'

The noise increased, the beer and salad appeared with a pepper grinder poised in air, and Jewl nodded...and nodded, and the grinder swept away with a swish and voices were drowned in the piano playing a slow run.  And Jewl was content: instead of running, slouching and chewing—Caesar salad, is that what she ordered?  She was so hungry, she chewed and swallowed over and over while almost out of sight behind pillars and people standing up clapping, a voice spoke, a note sounded, can't go back now I'm eating dinner and the lights have dimmed, and a ringing voice sang out,

We met once, you and I...

It was the woman in the red dress.  Jewl's brain grooved even though the songs were new to her.  The theme of the night seemed to be women loving and learning the hard way.  After song one the singer reported she had just turned 50.  What would happen in 25 years, Jewl wondered?  Maybe it was the beer, but she allowed herself to suffer along song by song, phrase by phrase.  A lover lost but the true self found at last; money, then none, and pride given up proudly.  Years and years, she thought, blink and you'll be 50 in a red dress.  Although she admitted the woman was still pretty and vivacious and had a voice ringing like a warm bell.  Lord, Jewl prided herself on not being sentimental, but tonight...it felt so good to sigh along with her.

A comic song interrupted these thoughts and she was laughing, and it felt good.  Another singer followed, and by the middle of her ballad Jewl was full out crying, hiding her face behind her hand, forcing her legs further under the restaurant table so she could slip down and hide.  When had she last cried?  As a child, maybe, before the accident.  At times she came close without actually doing it, but this felt as if someone had burned off a layer of skin and all was bare.  Feeling the sadness-in-joy mixture, the remarkable soup that boiled in the belly out of nowhere and ended in hot flesh and wet cheeks and the memory of her parents' wedding photo.

Jewl wished she had a handkerchief.  After a while, she used the linen napkin—rough.  The glass was empty, no respite there.  The next song sounded new and old at the same time—new because of the keyboard arrangement and old (probably) because the simple lyrics were based on an old Irish song.  Damn if it didn't cause the question:  Would she find a partner for the next 25 years?  She let that Irish song repeat over and over in her head:

Believe your charms

Will never fade away...

A true heart's ever true,

A true heart always owns

The true heart it has known.

And, what about your career the next 25 years?  That stopped the music.  That made for a big friction inside her head.  What had she lost today?  Her dignity, yes, but had she gone off into some side channel in her working life?  She had never quit anything, 'always finish' was her uncle's injunction.  Despite the shame of quitting, she considered running away from everything.  The word 'home' popped into her head—she wanted to go home, home, home.  Without piano or vocal in the room, friction inside seemed to dig outwards against her skull.  She clenched her fist and stared at it, opened it, the blue-green veins blotched by pinkness from the pressure.  And whose blood had been on her hand?

What a noisy commute home!  James asked himself (again) why the frag hadn't he ridden his bike?  He transferred the double-chocolate cookies to the tin and then shook his hands, hoping to throw away the lingering exasperation—not from the traffic, he couldn't lie to himself.  Crammed in at home in his narrow kitchen, the oven was off, he'd caught up for the time lost to the tardy train, the cookies were baked, he was packed and ready to go, so....In truth, he knew, the frustration came from that crinkled rejection email teetering on the counter.  Asshole letter.  He had printed it so he could wad it up and then slap it away like rejecting a bully ball-player's dunk shot.  But instead, he had kept it in his pocket and, at some point, wondered what was in his pocket and pulled it out and left it there on the counter, dancing to the waves of oven heat among the sugar granules.  Now it taunted him with an imaginary tinny voice:

Dear Mr. Jones, we regret your short story does not meet our requirements at this time.

His heart was in that story!  The message played over and over while his molars compressed.  He slammed his hand on the distorted wad to stop its motion, pressed it down heavily and re-wadded up those annoying words and slapped them to the floor, smack!  Done!  Made a victorious flourish shaking his long hair back and forth, swiped up the sugar with a finger...but his empty stomach seized at the sweet threat.  If cookies wouldn't cure disappointment, then...well, then he didn't know what to do.

He wiped his hands on a damp hand-towel, rummaged the junk drawer but couldn't find any gum, just empty mint wrappers and a beer cap.  He rammed the drawer shut.  His hand tingled and his head felt hot.  Not disappointed, he thought, grumpy.  Sweat stung his pits—the oven had really made the miniature apartment hellish.  Admit defeat.  His muscles relaxed...no, they went limp.  He blew out a long sigh that ended in a vexation-deflating, Shiiiiit, collapsed at the waist, and hung over between the narrow counters, fingertips just brushing stray crumbs on the vinyl floor, mouth slack, neck long.  Never want to stand up ever again, the posture so liberating.  It felt a degree cooler down here.

'There, it's fine, I'm fine.  Shit-wired-bit-tired.  The cookie smell is grumbling the old hunger but otherwise fine.  And not going to re-...I won't...no, could I?  Re-write that short story?  Rip my heart out of my chest again?  No!  Well, I could, sure.  I can, Meet their needs.  I'm a writer.  No!  No, no, the thing took all of my nineteenth year to hell, and all my juice, plus a whole printer cartridge!  Writing got no game payoff.  Suck it, run up the weekend, that's just the meritorious.'

He pressed his fingertips against the underside of his brow and rubbed his eyes, bobbing his head back and forth at the question he hated, 'Should I forget day-jobbing and night-writing and living Shitty Urb-y Life and move back in with dad and dose on slack...?'  Rejection letters always made him feel like subbing out, didn't they?  It was a pattern.  Like this cheap, ugly, greasy, crumby, checked vinyl floor.

The rejection letter was in reach of one dangling hand and he batted until it bounced off the cabinet, a sneerier-y voice than before echoing, Oh-oh Mr. Jones, your short story does not meet our puny requirements...!  As if by submitting a single page writing sample James had tortured this 'rejector'!  He liked the edited voice better than the tin robot he'd conjured earlier.  He started to visualize this holier-than-thou publisher who signed his name Dixon Bickerton.  What kind of name was that?  Not his given name, a fake name?  Whoa-whoo, a fake name!

James rolled back up, invigorated, and nodded, visualizing a sour-faced sardonian in his only chair and adding glasses with thick lenses.  Pleased, he paced two and a half steps back and forth in the kitchen and addressed the dull apparition very calmly in his best formal American accent:

Not So, Mr. Bickerton.  You, sir, can't cloud-up this writer's sunny disposition.  He clasped his hands behind his back, made the pacing jauntier and the tone more demeaning.  You reject me, Mr. B.?  Well I reject you.  This was classic!  He jabbed a finger at the imaginary bastard, Yes, you!  And why, you ask?  He upgraded to shaking two fingers and pacing more deliberately, stepping out the syllables, "The issue, you prize-worthy sour-sucking addict, is not my writing but your literary myopia, yoked to a tendency toward—!"

The foghorn sound announcing Del's gig stopped James' snob fantasy mid-stride.  His whole body twitched and he hopped forward with excitement, shutting the window, sealing the lid on the cookie tin and shoving it into his pack, grabbing key ring and pocketing silicone, wrapping a bandana around his neck, penalty-kicking the rejection email wad—"Au revoir, Lemonhead!"—and leaping out the river-side door, whooping loudly in full Friday night satisfaction.

Down the steps, escaping the tiny hot apartment for the cool river!  Del's gig was knocking against the pier, twin motors alternating chug/whine.  James checked the Slough traffic—there was a narrow lane open.  Del's face was expressionless—he simply held up a hand in greeting.  High-kneeing past the crowded slips, James shimmied his broad skinny shoulders—Del simultaneously did a subtler rendition—James took up the line and, powered by bike-hardened thighs, sprang aboard.

Skood!  There's a lane outbound— as James pointed excitedly from the bow, Del squeezed the throttle.  James grabbed wood and held on and his pack clunked to the deck.  Del did not like navigators.  Ah-owwwww.  You're toe un-swell, James griped.

The gig's prow wriggled west along the Columbia River Slough, often passing other craft close enough to touch.  James suppressed many flinches.  Rushing water craft passed near but they proceeded without incident.  He spotted his neighbor's red grundler, piled high with produce from the farmer's market and waved.  Concerned about the wake, he begged, Skood, don't kill my neighbor.

Make it plain / don't drive my swain, Del's deep loud voice topped the whine of other boat engines and an even louder plane screaming for the airport.

James waggled a finger.  "He's my nice neighbor.  Nice, as in, you know—"

VanPorters are-n't gent.

Not nice but slobs to vice. / Long as there ain't...genital lice...?  Del didn't smile, merely shook his head, slightly.  I know, it's Friday:  buckle up / and chuckle up!  Del inclined more