Charles
Journal
Charles
 The Hudson River is frozen at night in, New York, near the Beacon Metro-North Station. It is frustrating to miss the train back to Peekskill in the cold. The next train arrives in Beacon at 9:07, an hour away. To pass the time, you walk to see the frozen ice as time ticks by for the next train to Grand Central Station. A frozen Hudson River glistens under the moonlight, its surface a patchwork of ice and rippling water. Snow crunches beneath your feet as you walk along the path, with trees adorned in a delicate layer of frost that sparkles in the chilly night air. The distant lights of Newburgh shimmer across the frozen landscape, creating a serene and magical atmosphere. There is much passion between us, more than I ever anticipated. We've had fewer fights this week. However, in terms of drama and conflict, I have met my match. We've found ourselves more willing to listen and communicate openly, bridging the gaps that once caused tension. Small gestures, like sharing a warm cup of coffee at dawn or exchanging knowing glances, have become our silent agreements. These moments of understanding and compromise have brought us closer, allowing our growing friendship to flourish amidst the winter chill. In the early morning hours, we made a commitment to cease our arguments. Subsequently, he disclosed that he had previously been a gang member of the Latin Crips during his time in Pennsylvania. I chose to contemplate this revelation and then went back to sleep. The subsequent narrative following Painted People had already unfolded in my mind.    Warming booths on the platform are particularly useful when the weather is extremely cold in Beacon,.
0 Comments
 The subway in New York City. It is indeed possible to engage in conflict with someone you are not in love with beyond the confines of the bedroom, as there is no emotional connection beyond the moment of physical intimacy, allowing for a dispassionate departure and the pursuit of other interests. This can be beneficial as it allows both parties to move on and seek out more meaningful relationships...after a weekend of too much sex. And you tell yourself you never want to do it again--ever! At least not on a Sunday after church. It also allows for honest communication and a clear understanding between both parties, which can be beneficial for both parties. This can help to avoid misunderstandings and conflict in the future. It also gives both parties the opportunity to learn and grow from the situation. In New York, Abel visited Rockefeller Center and observed the festive atmosphere. The lights on the Christmas tree and the activities at the rink were elements that highlighted the significance of everyday experiences. In addition, his decision in New York to appoint Elis Egeon as CEO of his business enterprise—which included retail stores, technology firms, a manufacturing company, service providers, and healthcare organizations—allowed him to focus on promoting Zeno’s artworks that represented Abel's own heritage and childhood memories. Supporting Zeno's art was a way to recognize his past and contribute to a creative legacy for the future.
He smiled broadly, confident that his efforts in New York would lead to new connections and the successful sale of several more pieces of Zeno’s artwork, yielding $500,000 and more in profits. This financial success was gratifying; however, it primarily reinforced his belief in the value and impact of Zeno's creations, renewing his motivation to advocate for this personally significant art. After watching several skaters fall and rise, he thought about Zeno’s art show at Fong Gallery and whether Police Inspector Samuel Kruse, a disclosed owner of one of Zeno's portraits, had attended. Kruse's attendance would symbolize a bridge between art and law enforcement, showing a universal appreciation for Zeno's talent. He hoped Kruse's presence would bring a fresh perspective, demonstrating art's power to connect people from diverse backgrounds. After leaving bustling Rockefeller Center, he took the subway to the East Village and dined at a lively Indian restaurant on First Avenue. The vibrant tapestries, colorful murals, and soft sitar music created an inviting atmosphere. The dim lighting added warmth, encouraging leisurely conversations that reminded him of his home in San Francisco. He asked the waiter for a phone to contact Maynard about their return to San Francisco. Happy to be heading home for Christmas, he looked forward to reuniting with Zeno and creating new memories. After his call with Maynard, he tried to contact Zeno at both the studio and home but got no answer. This puzzled and worried him. Maybe Zeno was immersed in his latest project or out for an inspiration walk. Abel reminded himself that Zeno often needed solitude for creativity, and he'd likely hear from him soon. But what if Zeno was with someone else? Jealousy gnawed at him, mingling with insecurity. The thought of Zeno with another man troubled him deeply. Trusting in their bond, he reminded himself of their shared fidelity and hoped his fears were baseless. As the waiter approached to retrieve the phone, he pulled himself back to the present. "Can I get you anything else, Mr. Erikson?" the waiter inquired with an Anglo-Indian accent. "Just the check, please," he replied with a polite smile, appreciating the ambiance but eager to return to his hotel room and perhaps try calling Zeno again. As the waiter nodded and walked away, he took a deep breath, hoping his next attempt at reaching Zeno would bring reassurance and the comforting sound of his partner's voice. Setting aside his worries for now, he concentrated on the meal he had just finished and enjoyed alone in New York.  As I compose this entry, the precise day eludes me; I believe it to be Saturday. My awareness of time is often obscured unless I consult a calendar, as my existence frequently blurs the line between reality and the elaborate narratives I construct. These scenarios, born from my imagination, transcend the boundaries of mere fiction, immersing me in a perpetual state of dramatic tension and uncertainty. He, the Latino Man, has stepped out for the night after I encouraged it. I cannot say I am unhappy about it, as I needed some alone time to reflect and gather my thoughts. This solitude provides a necessary respite from the constant interplay between the fabricated worlds I create and the tangible reality I inhabit. In these moments of solitude, I am able to confront the complexities of my own psyche and the intricate web of emotions that define my experiences. CHAPTER 23
Rosa found herself in a predicament after encountering Ahab Erikson in the Mission. That scoundrel, Ahab, threatened to turn her over to ICE if she didn't help him access Abel's wall safe. Alone in the library, she stared at the safe on the wall in a corner, terrified and unsure of what to do. She knew she had to act quickly, or else Ahab would have her deported to Nicaragua for not having a green card—something Abel had promised to resolve but never did. Curiosity got the best of her; she took a deep breath and decided to attempt opening the safe, even though she did not know the combination or where it was kept. After failing to open the safe, she tried Abel's desk to find the combination. The desk was locked, much to her dismay, and only Abel had the key. She looked behind the family portraits hanging on the walls, thinking Abel might have hidden it in plain sight. Another possibility was the bookshelf, where a favorite book could secretly hold the key. Finally, she checked the drawers of the old wooden cabinet, where Abel often kept significant documents. She found no combination but discovered Abel's Luger pistol and picked it up. Her heart raced as she held the cold metal in her hands, the weight of it both frightening and strangely reassuring. Panic surged through her veins, knowing the danger she faced, yet the presence of the weapon offered a fleeting sense of protection. She hurriedly put the pistol back, torn between fear and a plan, when Zeno entered the library. His eyes widened in shock, and he took a cautious step back, startled by the unexpected sight. "Rosa, what were you doing with that?" he inquired, his tone a blend of concern and incredulity. She promptly explained the situation, aiming to secure his assistance before Ahab's threat materialized. "Oh, Rosa," Zeno responded, cradling a weeping Rosa. "You will not be deported. Ahab has overstepped his bounds by distressing you and attempting to blackmail me." "Blackmail? What do you mean, senor?" "Do not worry," Zeno reassured her as he retrieved the pistol. "It is time we responded in kind." Rosa had never witnessed this facet of Senor Zeno. Initially, it left her feeling unsettled and perplexed, as she had always perceived him as calm and composed. However, upon closer observation, she began to discern the intricacies and depth of his character. This newfound perspective evoked a blend of curiosity and admiration within her, as she prayed that the enemy would be eliminated.  The Hudson River, frozen at Peekskill, NY. I never anticipated enjoying living with another person and engaging in activities together, such as cooking and having dinner without a novel in my face. However, I have discovered a whole new side of myself that I did not know existed. I told my friend Rosa at Latin Deli about the situation and was not surprised to find out that she knew the individual in this small town. The name we call each other is silly boy but I didn't tell her that because she wouldn't understand it. Instead, I begged her not to mention it to him or to anyone not even Danny, her husband. This person is in the closet and has a girlfriend who would murder me if she knew I existed. She cautioned me not to sleep with him, but when she looked into my eyes, I couldn't lie. Right then she realized her advice was futile because it had already happened more than once in every room and corner. Everywhere except the ceiling, the refrigerator and the stove. Not yet, she said, which made us both laugh wildly. She then advised me not to fall in love. I replied that I couldn't, that I wouldn't, as I am not in love with him because I am in love with someone else... Moreover, I reminded her that he is heterosexual, which is perfectly fine with me. That I could not less about his orientation similar, I supposed to Precious May, in my fictional world, who desires to be with Ahab Erikson and others, man or woman, without care... (Heartbeat City) The noise electric Never stops And all you need Is what you got And there's a place For everyone Under Heartbeat City's Golden sun --THE CARS INSPECTOR SAMUEL KRUSE "We have an understanding," Ahab replied, sitting on the sofa close to the bar. "Now fix me a drink," he continued, putting both the blade and gun aside. "Scotch on the rocks." Zeno got his pants on, grabbed a glass, added ice, and poured Ahab's Scotch, wondering what was taking Travis so long. No, he was not expecting Travis to help him out of this with Abel's lookalike brother. However, he could use his support, he thought, stirring the drink. Then, upon noticing the stirrer in his hand, he had an idea. He knew it was not much, but the stirrer was all he had in that moment. He formulated a plan to catch Ahab off guard by distracting Ahab with conversation and, in a moment of surprise, use the stirrer to jab at Ahab's hand to disarm him. It was a risky move, but it was the only chance Zeno saw to regain control of the situation without escalating the violence. Placing the stirrer in his pocket, he approached Ahab who took a deep breath, leaned forward, and directed the switchblade towards his lower torso. Zeno swallowed and stated, "I had no intention of causing any harm." Ahab gestured to the stirrer in his pocket. "Give me that." Zeno handed it over to him without a fight. Ahab accepted the drink Zeno had prepared for him and smiled. "Please, have a seat," he said. Zeno sat beside him gingerly. "Don't fret,” Ahab said sipping his drink. “I'll be gone by the time your boyfriend gets here. Just do as I say, keep calm and I won’t cut your balls off. I swear on my father’s grave…” Zeno's was torn between an overwhelming fear of Ahab's threats and his own flickering courage desperately trying to surface. He felt the weight of his own inadequacy, yet the thought of succumbing to Ahab's control fueled a simmering defiance within him. It was a battle between his instinct to survive and the urge to fight back, even if it meant losing his testicles. "I’ll feel better if you put your weapons away…" he said. "Not visible, right?" "Yes." "When something is not visible, it is easy to forget about it, right?" "That's true." “Do you swear?” “I swear on my grandmother’s grave.” “Why not?" Ahab replied, hiding his weapons in his coat. As he relaxed and sipped his drink, he glanced at a copy of the Final Edition of the Examiner on the coffee table. It featured an article with Terry Bono's picture and the headline, ‘Third Body in Several Months Identified in Same Tenderloin Alley.' Zeno noticed the newspaper in Ahab's hand. He read the headline in the upper right corner and asked, "What is it?" Ahab shook his head silently while at the same time Precious May lit another cigarette during her interrogation by Inspector Kruse and Lieutenant Harris in her apartment near United Nations Plaza at the foot of Leavenworth Street. Even though she was quite comfortable around men, police investigation was a different story. She suspected they knew she was not being completely honest. As much as she wanted to leave or throw them out, she knew that she could not. The only thing she could do was stay and face whatever came her way. She took a deep breath and waited for their next move. "What was the exact time you and Mr. Bono shared cocktails?" Inspector Kruse asked. "Around 9 p.m.," Precious said. "I wasn't expecting him that evening." "He showed up unannounced then?" "Yes, he just came by out of the blue." "Except, you said that he owed you money," Kruse continued, glancing at Lt. Harris and then at his own notes before continuing, "Was returning a loan you told him to keep and pay back later." "Yes." "What made you do that?" "Considering it was nearly Christmas; I figured he would still need it." "So, what was the amount of money he owed you?" Lt. Harris asked, closely watching her. Precious shifted nervously in her seat, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. She hesitated for a moment before answering, a faint tremor in her voice betraying her unease. "It was just a couple hundred dollars," she finally replied, avoiding eye contact. Lt. Harris raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical of Precious's claim. Her evasive demeanor and reluctance to make eye contact only fueled his suspicions. He exchanged a quick glance with Inspector Kruse, silently communicating his doubts about the veracity of her story since there was far more money and drugs they found on Terry’s body. "Did he often borrow that amount of money from you each time?" Kruse asked. As she cleared her throat, Precious replied, "Yes, he was always running short. From what I know, he only received one check per month for his disability." Inspector Kruse noticed Precious's diamond ankle bracelet and deduced she was a high-class hooker. "Was he meeting anyone after leaving your apartment?" "No one that I am aware of," Precious stated, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the air while using her free hand to toss back her hair. "And you were more than mere acquaintances?" "Are you hinting at my escort service?" “Why yes.” "Our relationship never included such perks, Inspector. Terry couldn't afford them, and my business doesn't offer discounts." The Lieutenant shifted on his feet in response to Precious May's gaze fixed on his inexpensive shoes, then glanced at Inspector Kruse before giving Precious May, who remained calm and composed, a thorough examination. Her eyes finally embraced them without a hint of hesitation, and her voice carried a steady, unapologetic tone. Despite their questions, she appeared unfazed and asserted that she had nothing to hide. Kruse spoke, his voice stern. "What do you mean by that?" he asked. Precious May took a deep breath and said, "We were just friends, nothing more." The silence that followed was heavy, almost tangible, as if the air itself held its breath. Precious could feel the weight of their gazes, searching for cracks in her composure. The tension in the room was palpable, each second stretching longer than the last. She no longer heard the clock echoing like her own heartbeat. She wanted this interrogation to end sooner and not later. She had to stay strong. She had to keep it together. She would not give them what they wanted. "Why did you think it necessary to hide your friendship?" Kruse asked, his tone probing but not unkind. He hoped to catch a glimpse of hesitation or uncertainty in her eyes, anything that might hint at a deeper truth. Precious replied, "I'm not hiding anything. Terry was here, but I don't know how he died." "That night, you didn't leave your apartment?" "I stayed at home. I went to bed soon after Terry left." “In other words, you stayed at home alone without anyone to give you an alibi?" asked Lt. Harris. "A girl needs a break every now and then,” Precious said. "Well, there was no reason for you to kill him over two hundred dollars, over something you're not telling us?" Precious answered, "I didn’t kill Terry Bono, Lieutenant Harris.". "You know he valued you as more than just a friend," Kruse told Precious, handing her a business card. A red heart had been drawn around Precious' name on the card she had given Terry. "We found your card on him; it seems you meant a lot to him." "Where?" "In his wallet. Your fingerprints were on the card and all over him in that alley," Lt. Harris said. "I never touched him." "Fingerprints don't lie," said Inspector Kruse. "You're in our database, Ms. May." "I was young and inexperienced then," Precious May said, standing. She glanced out the window at the lit-up United Nations Plaza and the night fountain. "Inspector, am I being arrested on the suspicion of murder?" "Ms. May, you're not under arrest," Inspector Kruse said. “I'm not?" Precious asked, turning around. Lt. Harris silently considered, "Not yet," and clenched his hand into a fist. He wanted so much to be forthright with Precious May and yet knew he had to maintain professionalism. He understood the importance of keeping his thoughts to himself and upholding the investigation's integrity. Despite his instincts, he knew that working alongside strict Inspector Samuel Kruse required discretion and restraint. Thus, he kept quiet. "Is it possible to explain the ketamine theft you committed at Davis Medical Center to supply Mr. Bono?" Inspector Kruse asked, catching Precious completely off guard. The ketamine theft was a critical piece of the puzzle, as it linked Precious to an underground network involved in distributing the drug illegally. Kruse believed that she had gone as far as placing ketamine on Terry’s body and sought to understand her reasons for doing so. Precious' eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape. She felt trapped like a cornered mouse. When the silence grew unbearable, she finally muttered, "I want a lawyer."  United Nations Plaza Fountain, San Francisco.   Life in Bernal Heights, San Francisco in the past with my first bicycle . The Detroit Lions loss means there will be nothing noteworthy about the Super Bowl, with the same tired winners competing again. One wonders why people bother watching the Super Bowl with its same-old cast. Perhaps I'm just upset because the 49ers aren't in it, so I don't care about Super Bowl 59. I might change my mind if the Buffalo Bills, the only true team from New York State, reaches the Super Bowl. The same could probably be said of DC, a turbulent city born out of a swamp, a city I find uninteresting with enough red tape and political bickering to turn off even a sex worker. Like whom wants a MAGA client anyway. How many grocery lists can one prepare in the middle of the night simply out of boredom? Just how high can a MAGA person jump if Donald Trump demands it, and he will because he can. Who wouldn't cherish such power? There is six inches of snow everywhere, and it is beautiful. It's Monday and the air feels arctic, so I slept in instead of going to Manhattan early. As for the weather outside, it is nothing like the Arctic Monkeys, not that the Arctic Monkeys have anything to do with it. In my head, it's always 505 even though my street address is 305, not 505. Little man has gone out for a while. I can't believe he enjoys my company when I can be such a bitch in a blink of an eye, a selfish pain in the a$$ sometimes. As a little man, he reminds me of a little person since he is short, skinny and full of fire and spirit, with a mouth that never ceases because he believes what he says is important. When he isn't heard, he cries and I crumble holding him. Bisexual men are difficult to understand. For me to tolerate all that means something has changed in me that I am not able to comprehend. As I struggle in fiction to save Zeno from being emasculated by Ahad threatening to remove his balls, my mood is low. Little Man worries, however, that I really have him in mind, but naturally, I don't, I assure him...  Little Man shoveling snow, a task I am longer do in Peekskill, NY.  Chapter 19 Excerpt: Precious May “See you soon,” Zeno said, feeling relief and excitement as he hung up the phone, knowing his time with Travis would be uninterrupted and cherished very soon at the Palace Hotel with Abel away in New York until after Christmas. This, however, was not the case for Precious May in her dimly lit living room on Leavenworth Street, with the heavy curtains drawn tightly against the afternoon sun, casting long shadows across the room. As though there were no tomorrow, she smoked a 4th cigarette and poured herself another whiskey. Her hands trembled slightly, betraying the storm of emotions raging inside her. With each sip, she felt a momentary escape from the weight of her worries, yet an undeniable sadness lingered in her eyes. A clock on the mantle ticked steadily, the only sound in the otherwise silent room. The air was thick with the scent of stale smoke and the faint aroma of the whiskey she had just poured as she put the morning Chronicle aside, crossed her legs, and picked up the afternoon Examiner. She scanned the headlines for any mention of Terry but found none, as if nothing had happened. She took another sip of whiskey and was startled by a loud bang at the door, ending her solitude. She knew it would not be Ahab who had other plans. She would have to confront whatever or whoever awaited on the other side. Despite her anxiety, a small part of her hoped for some unexpected relief from her burdens. She rose, opened the door slightly, and observed two men. The well-dressed Black man wore an olive-colored trench coat, while the white man’s was tan. They appeared official, with guns visible inside their grey suits. After presenting their police badges, she confirmed her identity as Precious May and invited both Inspector Kruse and Lieutenant Harris into the living room. At the same time, she fantasized that this handsome pair were new clients. Inspector Kruse with his caramel-colored skin had bushy eyebrows, a thin mustache, and was taller than Lt. Harris, who had black hair, freckles and blue eyes. Kruse's energy was intense and commanding, with a noticeable strength that drew her towards him. She imagined herself doing almost anything Inspector Kruse wanted and offered them a drink, knowing they would politely decline. The mention of alcohol broke the ice. They smiled kindly staring at her cleavage. This made her laugh out loud as she pulled the top of her blouse gently to cover one breast a little. Yes, she was nervous, her heart racing beneath her calm exterior. Precious knew the stakes were high; the consequences of her actions loomed large in her mind. Despite her outward composure, a knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach as she wondered just how much these officers knew of her involvement with Terry’s demise and whether her carefully constructed façade would hold.  Fort Hill, Peekskill, NY After investigating the ghost situation in my apartment further, I discovered that my neighbor also encountered ghosts in her house on our street below Fort Hill. She was informed that some of these restless spirits come from the fort at the top of the hill used as a military fort during the Revolution of the American Colonies against the British. In the Battle of Peekskill, which lasted three days, starting on March 23, 1777, more than 500 British soldiers attacked Fort Hill, which was defended by about 250 soldiers. Retreating, the Continental troops burned their workshops, mills and warehouses to escape the British who won the Battle of Peekskill, capturing Fort Clinton and Fort Montgomery, and dismantled the first iteration of New York's Hudson River Chains. More than half the Continental defenders were killed, wounded, or captured After the battle, the area was left in ruins, with smoldering remains and scattered debris marking the once-bustling fort. The local community faced a long and difficult recovery, as they worked to rebuild their homes and livelihoods amidst the lingering scars of war. The memory of the conflict, along with the tales of restless spirits, became an enduring part of Peekskill's history. Residents have reported seeing apparitions of soldiers in tattered uniforms, wandering aimlessly around the area. Some have heard the distant sounds of marching footsteps and faint echoes of battle cries, as if the past is replaying itself. Others have experienced cold spots and sudden chills, along with unexplained flickering lights and objects moving on their own. All in all, it is clear that Peekskill's past is still a powerful presence in the present. Some future day shall crown us the masters of the main Our fleet shall speak in thunder to England, France, and Spain! And nations o'er the ocean spread shall tremble and obey The sons, the sons, the sons, the sons, of free Americay!   Within Persephone's Pearl, a spiritual center and retail shop on Main at Bank Street is where the items for sale are locally made with intention and authenticity. You can also find candles and sage to help banish a ghost. Last night in our apartment below Fort Hill was strange. I believe the place is haunted. A poltergeist or a ghost played havoc with our minds. When a friend was about to leave for home, he could only find one sock. We searched everywhere for the other and for two hours couldn't find it. Then he told me about the shadow he had seen. I had seen it earlier but figured it was just a figment of my imagination from the cannabis and rum effect and dismissed it. The missing sock eventually appeared. For some bizarre reason, it was hidden in my friend's pants after we checked his pants and everything else a dozen times. We decided that the ghost was just trying to cause mischief and laughed it off. This experience made me reconsider my skepticism about the supernatural. The inexplicable events and the eerie shadow suggested that there might be more to the world than I had previously acknowledged. While I still lean towards rational explanations, I'm now open to the possibility that some things might be beyond our understanding
 |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON
Archives
July 2025
Categories |
RSS Feed