11-24-04

In that peculiar way of his which for him would become so characteristic, Louis Easaw Tharrio may have loved Jacqueline Raquel Colby but marriage was the farthest thing from his mind . farther from his mind than the rings of saturn were from the moons of jupiter. farther than either of those celestial objects from each other at their most distant orbital points .

she was attractive enough when she did her hair . when she put on one of her few dresses. when she wore shoes rather than her usual athletic shoes. if she properly applied her war paint .she looked as good as many and better than most who would put her down for not being 'feminine' enough.

it was odd because her body despite its size possessed quite voluptuous contours. contours and curves of which she was at first ashamed .

the loose and comfortable clothing she favored hid her shapliness well. her breasts were large and very soft . fleshy and full of sweet ripeness . louis loved their taste. the feel of her warm nipples in his mouth . their shy recoil beneath the rolling pressure of his anxious tongue tip delighted him .

he loved also the springy feel of her hips as they refused to be restrained in their steep arcing outwards from her sturdy waist and taut belly . he loved her buttocks that had no choice for stability's sake except to bell largely outwards to counterbalance the wideness of those hips . her large buttocks were needed to rudder the unusual power contained within both her pelvis and the thick muscles of her thighs.

down further , each of her calf muscles bunched and gathered into smooth swellings pleasantly bulging outward from the lengths beneath her knees reinforcing her shins that altogether combined with the strength of her thighs, hips , glutes and pelvis, as if in explanation of her strong , easy , quick performances at track and field .

with useful neck and shoulders , with stout arms gradually culminating in hands tapered into agile fingers ...all matched with with steady hips , sculpted thighs ,knees , and balanced legs , she possessed the body of a born athlete .

thought her hands were attractive , she rarely attended to them other than to apply an obligatory coating of moisturizing lotion after exposure to soap and water . oddly though , she regularly enjoyed coloring brightly the nails of her admittedly "less than dainty" feet ... yet even her track team mates would often playfully tease her for sabotaging her own efforts by usually hiding those decorated feet in sneakers.

lou tharrio found it easy to fall in love with her body . he adored every square inch of it. but loving the woman that went with the body was unfortunately quite another story. and for him , throughout his life , was always a problem.

chpt 1...part 3

what else was there to do? before the army ,he had found most of life incredibly boring. he enlisted after a year of pumping gasoline for minium wage after graduating highschool . it was a no brainer decision. handwriting on the wall type of thing . the town in general held slim prospects . his future there held even fewer. the army was a way out . an exit from the dna of littletown nothingness .an escape from the double helix spirals of the congenic 'rubedom' of 'smallville' .

he found the gas station work dirty and unchallenging , but not hard to put up with . his nostrils grew to tolerate the constant smell of gasoline . the burns to his hands from servicing hot engines .the demands of overheated customers spewing out frustrated fumes .

the difficult thing was simply passing the time . it was the envy he found hard to swallow . his envy of people in a hurry . travellers briefly venturing down the highway off-ramp . just passing through .going places he would never see. while he was stuck there . forced to grin and greet them. and then to watch them leave. taking with them the smile he was made to give . forced to eat their dust. wash it down with another coke . drunk more out of boredom than summer's thirst .tied like a backyard dog. chained down in nowhere .going nowhere. a no one in the midst of nobodies. not really even able to say he was going nowhere. because he was already there.

he had had one girl back then .already her hips were beginning to slowly spread . a warning of the danger contained within her nacent fertility. as if the extra pounds growing slowly on her already plump frame were eating away and eroding with each new ounce at his chances for escape. it wasn't much of a relationship to him . she was serious , he wasn't. it was more convenience for him than anything else. there wasn't much available . she was big boned, a healthy type . she played basketball her junior and senior years mainly for the fun of it . made the track team throwing discus and javelin . she was ok at it, he thought . but not good enough for it to take her anywhere .and he had to go somewhere. for him going somewhere was everything . she worked at seven eleven, saved her checks. bought a used ford mustang . took a course at night at the nearby junior college . hoped to learn data entry .or maybe she would switch to dental assistant . or maybe even veterinarian science .she felt comfortable enough with him to broach the subject of marriage. everyone figured they would one day . afterall , what else was there for them to do ? "highschool was through", she had reminded .

chpt 1 part 2

in the night's moonless gloom it took a moment to familiarize himself with the door's outside lock , while his eyes would require only a minor readjustment to the partial light inside , once he had re-entered the motel room .

the muffled sound of a canned laugh track of a studio audience almost forcing itself to into humor to the point of inane hysteria suddenly met him as he had turned the lock cylinder and opened the door- abruptly reminding him that he had left the television on -- idling at some anonymous channel to give any passersby -curious or larcenous- the illusion of life inside .

He quickly closed the thin wooden door behind him , locked it and from habit then twisted and pulled on the brass colored metal knob to make sure that it was secured . He tossed the key onto the nightstand and fell on to the empty bed unable to contain the loud sigh of air that the descent forced from his lungs .

he felt a great trapped and restless numbness gnawing its way outwards from within the center of his being --something that he knew sleep would not help. he also knew that the coffee he had consumed while waiting at the diner would not permit him to sleep even if sleep could cure the deep weariness that ate at him from the core like a migraine , but without the sharpness of the head pain's cranial bite .it was more like a dull inner nagging , lacking the intensity to cause any real overt pain , but whose strength lay within its persistence . a constant presence that he could not shake during his waking hours that effectively siphoned away his peace.

he had grown over the years into the conclusion that no remedy could be found , that there was nothing he could do that would provide more than momentary relief -distraction of only a temporary nature .

he sat up abruptly and reached once again for what he often jokingly called his therapist ...the black leather carrying case that contained the old laptop .

After unzipping the casing with one hand and impatiently removing the computer with the other , he allowed the case to drop to the "made in thailand" tagged , plum brown bedspread that covered each bed in gravel-colored motel .

he instinctively narrowed his mouth as if whistling and blew out a long breath of air as if the room were a rubber raft he was inflating to carry him downstream to some safer and alternative destination . as the laptop warmed up and displayed its start page he knew almost exactly where he would continue with his story.

fiction was something he knew he did not do well but to him it made no difference because to him the novel was a form of sorts ,of an author's own biographical statement ,but this novel was for his eyes only.

he felt and believed somewhere within the deeper regions of the back of his mind that somehow putting his life , experiences and thoughts on`floppy discs would reveal some coherent patterns of hidden logic to the skewed mess that he had through the years steadily made of living...writing about it , perhaps , could help him make sense of it all ...something he had sought to do but had proven unable up till that moment to efectively do so to his own satisfaction .

he felt a strange eagerness to get at it . to once again give life through actors of his own creation to his own morbid dramas being constantly battled out within his mind against struggling portions of his own self . this he felt was his harmless and rare opportunity to play a real life zeus working out from olympus his own whims ,jealousies and personal angst though not through flesh marionettes, but instead through dark characters breathed life on an electronic page .

His fingers , needing only the blended half light provided by HP screen and the motel's bolted down tv , raced quickly across the keyboard .

'Memoirs of a No one'- chapter 9 ...at times , Louis Tharrio had over the years confided to his shrinks that he partially suspected that it really had begun during his military years , particularly the months he spent on assignment in europe , strictly in civilian garb , quietly prowling jazz clubs in germany and france ,casually bedding the local girls whenever he felt like it and occasionally performing decent enough solos on various open mics to plausibly cover his pretense of being an aspiring jazz guitarist.

of course this cover allowed him to get close enough to his preselected targets in order to gather and piece together any tiny bits of information innocuously dropped when alcohol , lust and the festive night moods relaxed the normally guarded personas of minor foreign embassy personnel seeking entertainment in the exotic .

he could spot them as quickly as american cops spot donuts. he was well trained . he followed the script . he played the songs...brooded over gentle ballads on his seductive guitar .he made them each feel special and that he was performing only for them. And afterwards , he made them laugh ...teared their eyes with the tragedy of the misunderstood artist . he embellished and shared his story of 'tortured genius'. he aroused their maternal instincts while at the same time subtly keying in and working up their female lusts . he screwed them . convinced them each that he'd payback their small loans after the next gig . promised he'd pay them back when his recording deal went through. he took their money . he made fools of them in front of others of his victims. he played the gigalo-troubador , the wandering minstrel-lothario with an adolescent glee . he played his given role with a gusto rooted in something deeper than any sense of 'duty' . he neither showed or felt any shred of remorse .he played the full fledged scoundrel. he enjoyed himself .

chapter one

11-01-04 935 words

Framed in the smokey dim azure light cast upon him unfiltered through the large screen , dr. william spheren rodwell glanced coldly , unintentionally at the banal antics of the obscure television program's performers . grade b actors willing to endure the silliest of public humiliations for a slight glimpse of fame , a modicum of fortune and even much less of a swallow of dignity .

more weary than scornful , will took another very deep breath and quickly blew it out along with a loud gust of noise as if in the process , casting a net into a mythical sea in hope of capturing some vestige of hope , some fragment resemblant of inspiration . in the mist of what was now almost his fiftieth autumn he had slowly grown to hate what his life offered.

Not so much his own living was it that he actually hated , but the gradual enveloping lack of true promise he believed that life for him held . so long had he endured this lacking that he felt as the years went past the growing suffocation of a steady tightening of a relentless thick cord around his neck.


From the television , especially at this late Sunday night/monday morning hour , he expected neither enjoyment or stimulation , but instead sought only the reassurance of the mundane prattle of the sounds of other humans to serve not as company, but simply as confirmation of existence or perhaps more correctly , a distraction from it .

the lowered volume of strangers voices in perfunctory ritual of conversation provided him nothing more than backdrop soundtracks of other beings lives... lives like the common images of tired commuters trodden over the years step by step onto the retinas of his eyes. sad victims eaten up daily , shrivelled and shivered by the chill of the prospect of endless daybreaks wasted on the early morning train forced from the shelter of warm beds and lukewarm spouses by the jarring crack of the alarmclock's whip.

their lives probably no more meaningful than his own ... or those of the occasional stray souls in their haunting of the night ...other frustrateds... the dark circles of futility deeply tattooed and worn by time into the skin beneath the eyes, like badges of defeat for people whose thoughts or words lived totally disconnected from any logic or serious meaning for him to recognize .

the dull noise of the tv was no different from the hushed conversations witnessed from the melancholy of cold avocado green vinyl mock-leather boothseat of the mostly empty midnite diner that he had not too long ago vacated .

the taste of the diner's throat-scorching oily , brackish coffee with its drab, unapologetic bitterness that no amounts of artificial cream or sweetners could improve , still annoyingly lingered upon his scalded palate as plainly as the memory in mind's eye of the yellow bile colored paint which had in places , simply given up and revealed , walls as cracked and scaly as a reptile's aged skin .

Will sat alone under the faint hum of the long, cloudy horizontal pillars-- white tubes of glowing neon lighting , unsymphatetically glaring down from the ceiling on sallow faces below .

"one fine day my ship will come ...
bright and clean in the noon day sun ...
but why should i sing , if the ship i see...
doesn't also bring , my one true love to me ? "

the generic style of a lounge singer of 40's era standards whimpered her lament recorded for posterity on the old jukebox placed at the front corner of the diner near the cash register .


He had dutifully waited at the rundown "all-nite" eatery for more than 40 minutes , but no "blue sari" , no "tanned coloured pretty hindu woman" , no "Inu" had shown her face as promised .

When the raspy voiced , makeup-caked, post-menopausal, 11 to 7 shift waitress began her third trip to refill his coffee cup , her eyes instinctively fixed upon him with unbroken contact.

she quickly smoothed her high pile of tinted hair , smiled with lips normally smeared with too much lipstick and pleasantly asked , if Will would like another piece of two day old apple pie , but he politely declined .

the short drive back down the road to the jug handled on-ramp that led to the highway and the brief trip to his motel room seemed to take forever. when he arrived he did not bother to remove from the car the plastic bag containing the fifth of imported finnish vodka he had paid twenty-five dollars for , or the half gallon bottle of sweetened lime juice that he had bought to go with it . he also left in the car the red heart-shaped box of godiva chocolates , the 'talking birthday card' that accompanied it , and the novelty gift shop's handcrafted large brown teddy bear with the crimson ribbon neatly tied into a bow around the stuffed animal's neck .

"stood me up" , he thought , " musta got cold feet" , the racing stream of the words within his head paused as if momentarily dammed , "or maybe she was just being a evil little bitch, toying with me ... never intended to show all along " , the thought broke free as the dam quickly burst.