The Blue Pen

By Lisa Rusczyk

Parker didn't expect to find his next great magazine story sleeping off a hangover in the back seat of his car. The homeless woman, Cleo, says she never wakes after dawn, which makes Parker curious. His intuition for finding a unique story is buzzing after meeting Cleo, and he decides to interview her to find out what drove her to live on the streets.

Cleo explains how the early death of her first love set the path for her life. She withdraws from the world after he dies, only to re-enter it by going to a strange club called the Beacon. At the underground club, the patrons channel spirits on the improv stage and share psychic readings in the room behind the beaded curtain. While Cleo describes her spiritual awakening, Parker wonders if she actually fell prey to mental illness.

Because of a first article Parker wrote about Cleo, another reporter is after the story, blackmailing Parker to give it up. Parker must decide how to keep his story and not let Cleo down in the process.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Rusczyk
• Release date: Apr 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301177196

Lisa Rusczyk

I'm a writer and editor living in North Alabama with my beloved husband and stepsons. Seven little lovers of fur and whiskers are my greatest non-human companions.

Book preview

THE BLUE PEN

By Lisa Rusczyk

Cover Art by Mikie Hazard

Copyright 2009, Lisa Rusczyk

Smashwords Edition

Everything in this book is pure fiction.

Dedicated to my wonderful readers.

CHAPTER ONE

PARKER

Were someone to have just risen from sleep and looked out over the autumn-touched 6th street, he would have noticed a gray, growing kitten sniffing at a puddle of vomit behind a light blue Nissan. Were he to look over the rest of the street, he would have seen black and brown birds fluttering on the telephone wires, fancy cars lining the sidewalks, iron waste cans every thirty feet, and city-cultured trees in between. Brick apartment buildings were lighting up with the sun, turning copper, and in that hue they looked more like ancient cliff dwellings than modern day city homes.

6th street’s first morning human inhabitant was a man standing about six feet tall, face bundled up so tightly that nothing else could be discerned. He walked with a bounce in his step and whistled a melody from a soap commercial. The gray cat ran away into a nearby alley between buildings. After the man passed, more people came out onto the sidewalks. Some got into cars and drove away. Some dropped trash into waste bins. A couple of women in thick robes sipped coffee and smoked cigarettes on the porch outside their building.

Parker didn’t have time for such leisurely activities. He came out of his brownstone with his morning gray eyes looking straight ahead, carrying a mission in his heart. He had snapped out of a dream with his first good story idea in months. He had to get down to the magazine office and do some research on the Internet right away, or he’d lose his fire. He hated it when he lost his fire; it always caused him to drop promising leads. If he didn’t get busy right away, he would become disinterested. Once when he told Missy about the misery of losing his fire, she had said, The price of genius. You make me sick.

Her face came to mind as he speed-walked towards his light blue Nissan, and he shook his head as though something were stuck to it. He nearly knocked over an elderly woman as he plucked the car key forward on his key chain. The old woman said nothing, but crushed her eyebrows together and let out a big, white cloud of cold breath.

Sorry, sorry. He didn’t bother with another look. His car windows were a bit frosted, but this didn’t daunt a Yankee. He inserted his key and popped open the door. He sat down in front of the wheel and put the key into the ignition.

He heard a scream behind him.

He jerked around to face the back seat. What the –? There was a bag lady in his car, and she looked terrified. His nose twitched with the smell of aged alcohol breath coming from the scared woman, and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed it right off.

What the hell are you doing in my car? He was yelling more out of surprise than anger, but irritation was not far off. Her white skin was dusty, as though she had been playing in a fireplace. Her clothes looked nothing more than blankets tied up around her body. Her eyes were blue, like pale gems in the moonlight, yet they were turning dark and loathsome.

It’s past dawn, she said with a scratchy voice, and she held up a curled, grubby hand and coughed. He felt his neck prickle with a familiar response to nonsense.

Lady, what are you doing in here? Get out, now. The smell of sweet vomit coming from her was making his eyes water.

She pinched up her lower lip and in a soft voice said, I never sleep past dawn. Never.

Well, you did today. Parker held the cuff of his leather jacket over his nose. He couldn’t see her hair, which was tucked into a hat, but those blue eyes flickered, making him think of a morning glory alone in the mulch of his mother’s garden. For the second time that morning, he twitched his head, trying to shake off a memory.

She leaned forward. Mister, you are one confused man.

What?

You’re just like the rest of them here on this street. Got to get going, don’t you? Where are you going?

He began breathing through his mouth. That’s none of your business. Get out.

You don’t know where you’re going. Did you ever know? Or you just going where you think you’re supposed to?

His agitation ebbed and the humor of his situation tickled him. Okay, lady. His voice lowered to normal talking tones. What’s your name?

Cleo. She sat back with a closed-lipped smile.

Okay, Cleo, I’m going to work. I’m going there because I want to, because I like to, and because I have work to do there. I have an idea for a story. I write magazine stories. Why wouldn’t I want to do that, Cleo? Maybe you should ask the voices where the handle to the door is and scat back to your alley.

She sat up again and her dirty face scrunched up like a used paper towel. You really are a mean reporter to say such nasty things to me. I was only trying to help.

I’m not a reporter. I’m a writer. And how could you help me?

Help by making you think about what you are doing.

I don’t need to think about what I’m doing. I know what I’m doing. I want to know what you’re doing in my car.

She started shaking her head back and forth and biting her lower lip. It made her look younger than he originally thought. She might be in her forties still, perhaps fifteen years older than he was. I think, maybe there’s a reason I sleep past dawn today. Maybe I should look a little closer, but you know what? That’s the way it goes in stories and television, not in real life. You of all people should know, too, painting your pretty pictures however you want them to look, telling people how to see the world. You see, reporter, I learned about that. She pointed a finger at him, and he saw chipped pink nail polish topping her fingertips. Then her eyebrows drooped over her exotic eyes like thin curtains framing a sad scene. She spoke softly. I know about you.

He watched her, forgetting the smell, as she clawed at the door handle, swinging the door open wide. In a calm, smooth voice, she said, Thanks for the lodgings. Then she was gone, walking off into the same alley that the gray cat had gone to - but Parker hadn’t noted the cat. He had been shaving the brown stubble off his sharp chin when the cat had been nearby. The gray had been in the neighborhood for almost six weeks, and Parker still hadn’t noticed it.

Parker rolled his windows down as he drove into the downtown area of the city. He was too distracted to think of turning on the radio. He muttered words like, Reporter, and, Smell, and once he called out, Lodgings! My car! He rubbed the steering wheel and decided to get his car cleaned on his lunch break. It wasn’t until a traffic light two blocks from the office that he checked to see if his four CDs and his umbrella were still under the passenger seat, which they were. He didn’t think she had been in his car to steal, but he thought that one could never tell with the mentally ill. Out loud, he said, That’s what they all are. Sorry to tell it like it is. A car honked behind him. The light was green.

At work, he surfed the Internet for about thirty minutes looking for information on his dream topic, and then scanned around for other things that occupied his mind. At last he pushed his fingers into the back of his brown hair and leaned into his chair. Damn it!

Fred Schnieder poked his head into Parker’s office. Is our most coveted writer having computer problems? Parker could almost smell the fishiness of the man’s hidden resentment towards him.

Fred, let’s go to lunch. Parker wanted to see what excuse he would make.

The rest of Fred’s body filled out the doorway. It’s only nine.

Let me buy you breakfast, then.

Can’t. Got a deadline.

The usual, nothing creative. Parker sighed. The weirdest thing happened to me this morning.

Fred walked in and leaned on the door frame. Another burning dream story wake you up at four A.M.? He smiled like he was sharing his own secrets.

Parker remembered the article written about him three years ago in which he had proudly told the reporter that he got best ideas in this way. It made his neck tingle just a little that Fred remembered it.

When I went out to my car, there was a homeless lady in the back seat.

No shit. Don’t you have a car alarm?

Yeah, yeah. But I lost the remote and I just use my key.

He nodded and looked at Parker’s computer screen. What’d you do? Call the cops?

No. I talked to her.

Really? Hmm. His eyes flicked from Parker to the computer screen, then back. I would’ve called the cops. She might do it again.

No, I don’t think so.

Can’t trust ‘em. There’s a reason she’s living on the streets. Drugs, mental illness. He stood straight. So now you’re thinking about doing a story on the homeless?

Oh, no. Not at all. The idea had burned his brain for an hour.

Why not? Could be good stuff, especially with you writing it. Remember when Colin Waries did that piece a couple of years ago on the state of the city shelters? He got some things changed, I think.

Parker felt as though he had just zipped his neglected fly as dancing gophers replaced a Web site on schizophrenia glaring out of his monitor. I don’t have much to go on.

What, you? No material? That’s tough to believe. You always make good stuff up. He looked out the doorway. Gotta do some final touches before ten. Good luck, Townes.

Parker suspected insincerity in the last wish for luck, and waited a few minutes before finishing up his own last edits on a piece he’d written for the current edition.

After getting his car cleaned, he lunched alone at a Thai restaurant across from his office, despite the gorgeous receptionist Kathy’s offer to join him. Although he ate mouthfuls of spicy curry, the food didn’t interest him. He thought to himself, why else would someone choose to live on the streets? She must be ill, or an alcoholic. He had smelled stale booze coming off her like mothballs from an attic toy chest.

He wanted to know. He thought of her dazzling blue eyes and strange words, and he had to know.

CHAPTER TWO

No, no, her name’s Cleo. Not Leo. I’m looking for a woman.

The dark, clean-skinned bum two blocks from Parker’s house squinted at him in the street lights. Leo ain’t been around here for a couple months. Went South or something.

Parker yelled, No, Cleo. Not Leo.

Not Leo? What about Leo? Have you seen him? His eyes widened at Parker. Are you his brother?

The writer paused, then laughed. The bum rubbed his ears and grinned back at him. Parker said, What can I offer you, uh...

Kindred’s my name. I like crunchy dollar bills.

How’s a twenty?

Hundred’s better.

Parker stared at him.

I know you got it. Probably how much your shoelace cost.

Parker made sounds like a picky fly at a picnic feast. I think I’ll go chat with one of your friends.

Kindred laughed and winked, rubbing his gloved hands together. What you want with Cleo anyway?

I want to talk to her.

She ain’t for sale, you know.

What do you mean?

Kindred took off his hat and held it out. Don’t make me beg.

Parker pulled a twenty out of his pocket.

Where’s your wallet? Kindred asked.

I don’t carry one. I’ve lived in cities all my life.

He tilted his head back. Ah ha. He took the twenty and folded it up, sticking it in his left glove and propping the hat back on his head. You can’t buy a piece of her for nothing. She ain’t like that.

I don’t want a piece of her. Where can I find her?

He took off his right glove and held it open for Parker.

First tell me where I can find her.

Ah, no sir. Don’t work that way.

Parker sat down on the curb of 8th Street, and after a moment of looking around, Kindred joined him. Parker said, I didn’t bring any more money.

Yeah. Okay.

They sat in silence and watched cabs drive by. Behind them, people of all different sizes, sexes and colors passed, speaking in highs and lows and thicks and thins.

Why do you live on the street, Kindred?

Who says I live on the street?

Well then, why did I find you sitting in a doorway shivering your ass off?

I like that doorway. Besides, shivering keeps me in shape.

After a moment, Parker said, I’m a writer.

Oh. And you want to write about Cleo. Poor little Cleo, living on the streets because nobody will take care of her.

Why are you making fun of me?

I’m working on another twenty.

Parker chuckled. A cab whizzed by at a dangerous speed.

Kindred said, So, will you write about me, too, if I help you out?

Not if you’re not homeless.

I am homeless. I just told you I wasn’t so you’d think I wasn’t.

You have to tell me why you live on the streets.

Kindred rubbed his gloves together again and said, I’m going to buy some smokes. When he came back, he lit his cigarette with a sulfuric match, and blew out thick, gray smoke. Okay, so I’m not homeless, but I hang out all the time. I know all the people. I like to be out here because my momma isn’t too much fun to be around.

How old are you?

Fourteen.

Parker looked away to hide his expression. He knew for sure that Kindred was older than him. He didn’t know how to respond. Kindred didn’t sound like he was making a joke or egging Parker on.

You don’t believe me? Kindred said.

You look older.

I know. It’s how I get into bars. But, yeah, Momma’s just a mess, so I get out of the apartment and cruise around, trying to find something fun to do.

Parker thought of how the man had been slumped in the doorway twenty minutes earlier with a spot of drool lingering on his lower lip.

I ain’t seen Cleo in a couple weeks, Kindred said.

Tell me about her. Are you friends?

Oh, yeah. We get along great. She and I sit in the Knockout - that’s an alley we toast up at - and get warm by the fire. Last time I saw her, Ollie got us some marshmallows and we cooked ‘em on coat hangers. That was good eating. That’s what I’m talking about when I say I want to find the fun things to do. You like marshmallows?

He didn’t know. He hadn’t had one since he was a child. Sure.

Mmmm. Me too. He puffed on his smoke, lighting up his face with orange.

So what do you two talk about?

Oh, you know, the way things are. Art, music, other people.

What type of music do you like?

Me? Oh, I like the reggae music and all the good mellow tunes. Cleo, she likes the heavy punk rock, jazz, just about anything. She’s a wild one, Cleo.

Parker looked out at the street. Is she?

Oh, yeah. I thought that’s what you liked about her.

I don’t know her at all.

Oh, well, well, well. She parties all the time. Never stops talking. Likes to dance, too. She puts on this black skirt, and, well, you just have to see it. Always writing in a trance, and everybody wants her to write about them.

Parker sighed and continued looking away.

But me, I’m not a partier. I keep to myself. I have a philosophical mind, always at work. I— He sat up straight and looked across the street. Parker tried to see what had Kindred’s gaze.

Gotta go. He was up and running before his cigarette could hit the pavement. Parker looked around but saw nothing. He stood and waited for a break in traffic, and walked toward the alley that had captured Kindred’s attention, and from which he had run in the opposite direction. He saw nothing but darkness and dirt.

Later that night, he picked up one of his lonely routines. Hello, love. It’s me. What are you doing? Me? Oh, you know. Thinking about a story. Yeah, I’ve got the fire. Parker was barely audible to the gray cat sitting outside his window on the sill. As a matter of fact, the writer had no idea there was an audience of one scrawny feline with his nose pressed against the open screen of his living room window. Parker was sitting with his back to the third story window, which, along with gray cat, displayed the alley and a wall of the building next to him. A breeze blew by and rattled the fire escape briefly, sounding like it shuddered from the chill. Parker enjoyed feeling the cold autumn night. He leaned back in the brown leather couch and stared at the only thing on his coffee table, which was a gold-framed photo of a woman.

The cat outside curled into a tighter ball, possibly wondering what type of human this was that would leave his window open on such a windy, chilly night. Perhaps the person was inviting him up.

Parker smiled at the gold-framed beauty. Yeah, I had Thai food today, actually. Pretty good, you know, that place across from the office. He paused. You made brownies? I love your brownies. I remember the last time you made them for me. He laughed. Yes, I do. It was Christmas of last year, two weeks before you moved to London. His lips relaxed and his eyes glazed, watching memories of her face rather than the picture resting on his table. I’ll let you read it when I’m done. I’ll email it to you. I promise. He focused his clear, gray eyes back on the portrait. I’m sorry about that. I should have told you about that one before it went to press. He looked at his hands folded in his lap. He hissed, That was stupid, and the cat jumped from the sound. Parker turned his head slightly when he heard paws hit the fire escape landing, wondering what the sound was, then forgot it. His hands were numb from cold. He turned around and reached out to the window, closing it and latching the lock. He sat back again and looked at the picture. Missy, Missy, Missy, I miss you. He rose, put the picture on his mantle, and walked with a shuffle to the kitchen. Stupid, he muttered, and poured whiskey, then soda into a short glass. He walked to his bedroom, claimed a novel about the Revolutionary War, and returned to the couch. It wasn’t the first time he wished he owned a computer in his home, but he didn’t want work to consume him.

As if it doesn’t anyway.

He rubbed the book’s spine and said, If you’re so sure you know me, come and tell me yourself.

The next morning Parker didn’t go to the office. He spent the daylight hours walking the streets and trying to pick up vibes from the people he saw who he thought might be homeless. He didn’t want to assume anything this time. He used his childhood trick of becoming seemingly invisible as he watched the happenings of others. He saw a little boy, about ten years old, wearing dirty jeans and a knit hat, pick-pocket an old woman who didn’t look like her purse had much to offer. Parker followed him from a distance, and watched him slide into an old apartment building. He thought the kid’s parents might be putting him up to it, seeing as he ran straight to a home. He also saw a white man with gray hair begging for money on Hickory Boulevard, but on closer investigation, he saw the man’s hair was sliding to the right, revealing underneath stragglers of red locks. A daytime street walker offered him goods, which he refused without emotion.

Parker asked a skinny woman peddling watches where the nearest shelter was. She said, You’re looking for St. Anthony’s, up two streets.

He found the shelter, which was in the basement of an ancient church. It wasn’t one of those fancy churches built by great artists in days of old, but rather a little stone square with a modern office built along side. It seemed to Parker that the only purpose this church ever had in any century was to aid the homeless.

He entered the basement from a door on the east side, with the smell of chicken pounding his nose. He opened the door at the bottom of a bright staircase, and was overwhelmed by the sound of at least fifty voices. Before he could take a good look around, a brown and white mutt came from behind the door and stuck a wet nose in his crotch. Hey, hey, watch it. He sent out a friendly laugh, though he wanted the owner to claim the pooch from its wanderings.

Kenny, boy, you are so rude to the gentleman visitor. A woman who looked as old as the church emerged from the noisy crowd of eaters and sleepers. She wore a dark rainbow-colored baja and spoke with an accent.

Parker said, Hello, ma’am.

Her voice rose higher. Why, hello! You must be one of the generous souls who come to help us. Kenny likes you. You have a way with animals.

Thanks. Parker had never owned a pet other than a toad he kept hidden under the bathroom sink when he was eight. Where are you from? I noticed your accent.

Her wrinkled hand rubbed one cheek. I am from all over. Kenny and I have traveled all around the world. She pointed a finger into the air. So kind to be interested in an old parcel like me! I am guessing this second time that you do not work here after all.

Why is that?

You aren’t looking through me. Or at least, not yet. Maybe it’s your first day?

He shook his head and rubbed Kenny’s floppy ears. He could feel dog grit settling into the lines on his fingertips. He grinned to hide his clenched teeth. I’m here to ask about something. I thought I could find someone who would help me.

Her black eyes widened and she inhaled like she was using albuterol. I would be honored. Look no further. Interest you in lunch?

He looked to the far wall at the food bar, where a few heavily clothed people picked over the contents. I would love some lunch.

As she led him to the food, she said, Do you know it’s dinner time in Europe?

Actually, I do.

She stopped walking and gazed up at him with respect. A fellow world traveler. We should talk. He smiled, but didn’t explain that he had never been to Europe.

They sat at a long cafeteria table. The chicken pot pie would have been tasty, had it not been for the salty crust. He sneezed from the overdose of pepper and wondered what it was masking.

The woman said, You have always been a picky eater, right, young man?

Yes.

A man next to him coughed so hard that he had to wipe phlegm off his face with his blue scarf.

She said, Tell me about your dog. You must have one.

No dog. Right now, I don’t have time to take good enough care of one.

I see. She stood up. Be right back. She picked up her yellow plastic cup and walked two tables over. She bent down and spoke to a man whose back was to Parker. The writer looked around the yellow room, thinking the homeless might cheer up if the walls had a few pictures on them. Actually, he realized as he watched, they didn’t look too miserable, except for the ones who were coughing or obviously sick. The man next to him hacked into the blue scarf without relief until the old woman returned. She took a deep sip from her cup and handed it to the coughing man. She said something in another language. He nodded at her and dropped the liquid into his mouth. He continued to cough after he put the cup down. Parker could smell vodka coming from him.

She sat down and leaned forward to Parker, whispering, Whiskey’s better for the cough he has, but none around.

Parker looked next to him as the man resumed eating between coughs. Why don’t you get medicine?

The man would not look at him or answer.

The woman said, They don’t have enough, kind man. Don’t have enough.

Parker nudged Kenny under the table with his knee as the mutt tried to make another move on his crotch. He hoped the woman hadn’t seen it. What is your name, Ma’am?

You can call me Sylvia. It is the closest translation to my real name.

What is your real name?

Slyvesartaria Cannon Massodanie Kallse. And you?

I’m Parker.

Nice to meet you, Parker. She held out a hand and smiled so that Parker could see she had three gold molars. She noticed his observation, and grinned with more sparkle.

He said, And you.

Okay, now, you have been a nice, patient young man, so I will answer your question.

He shifted and pecked at the nosy dog with his tennis shoe. Sylvia, I am looking for an alley called Knockout.

She smiled and looked at the table. You don’t want to go to that dirty place. What else? She gazed back at him, but her old eyelids were twitching.

Yes, I do. Why wouldn’t I?

Her eyes did not leave his face. "Oh, nothing but burned beggars there. Dangerous for a cute one like you, even