Charles
Journal
Charles
 Bruised Apple Books, Peekskill, NY Something about independent-owned used bookstores makes them more exciting and adventurous than newer chain ones. Perhaps it’s the way they smell, or their quirky decorations—like an old Victorian-style chair, a red lamp shade, or stuffed birds hanging from the ceiling corners or the old jazz music playing in the background. A bookstore becomes even more inviting when it has a resident cat, like my ex-lover Carl Eklund had at his bookstore on King Street in Charleston, SC. During my college years, I first met Carl in his store, Harpagon Books, where his playful cat Mr. Pip was always eager to charm the customers—many of whom were attractive college students from the nearby College of Charleston on George Street. Among them were plenty of cute Southern boys with curly blond hair (like popular bad-boy Luke Spencer on General Hospital at the time) and tan skin and long legs in tight white shorts. Peekskill’s Bruised Apple Books gives me the same feeling I had at Harpagon—a sense of eccentricity, warmth, and adventure. The owner, rumored to be a poet, adds to the bookstore's character. I’ve often wondered if his residence is upstairs, much like Carl’s arrangement, with the store below and living quarters on the second and third floors. Carl never fixed up the upstairs, but I loved its old-world charm—just like Charleston itself. The creaky floors and maze of rooms were perfect for wandering or curling up with the green pages of Herb Caen’s column in the San Francisco Chronicle. I could spend all day in Bruised Apple Books, browsing through every book in its treasure trove. There’s an entire section on the history of Peekskill that I adore, alongside African American writers, world history, and American historical books. I’ve fallen in love with the old dime store paperbacks, once sold for a dime but now deemed collectibles at $6 apiece by the owner. Collectibles are delightful, I suppose, but I’m no collector—I prefer pulling them off the shelf to re-read. Imagine never opening Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, my peculiar Bible of life. I own four copies that have journeyed with me from state to state, and I expect to be buried with a copy near my head. Rain or shine, you’ll find me in Bruised Apple Books at least twice a week…Bruised Apple also has an old phonograph album section with classic covers I find endlessly inspiring.😊
 Welcome to Peekskill, NY, with Amtrak rushing through the town en route to Poughkeepsie.
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 When did I start wondering why? Someday, I promised myself, I would step off the train at Fayetteville, NC, and let my curiosity lead the way. I wanted to see what life in Fayetteville was like, what stories were waiting to unfold in its streets. From the window of the train, it seemed unassuming—sleepy, even. The kind of Southern town that stretched itself out like every other place along the route once you crossed Virginia and found yourself in North Carolina, heading South from New York to Florence, SC. And yet, Fayetteville had a quiet intrigue. Even in the rain, it felt alive in a way Florence—just two hours further down the line—did not. Its character whispered promises that made me wonder what lay just beyond the fogged glass of the train window. It was peculiar how a town of over 250,000 people could seem smaller than White Plains, NY, a city of fewer than 75,000. White Plains, NY, with its bustling energy, felt like a metropolis in comparison to Fayetteville’s spread-out charm. As the rain fell, passengers climbed aboard the Amtrak, bound for destinations farther south. The hum of activity and the rhythm of the train brought a small smile to my face. I would explore Fayetteville one day. I just knew it.  Fayetteville, NC
 Florence, SC   As New York City continues to develop with taller skyscrapers, it is no longer possible to see the Empire State Building from the steps of the Public Library on 5th Avenue. When you're in love with a place, it becomes eternally magnificent. For me, that's New York. Any hour, any time, the city fills me with unshakable joy. There’s nowhere on Earth—perhaps even the entire universe—that brings a smile to my face quite like New York City. It’s in every breath I take here, in the grandeur of its towering skyscrapers, and in the unparalleled energy that pulses through its streets. Yet, there’s a small heartbreak in the city's ever-changing skyline. Walking south along Fifth Avenue, past the majestic New York Public Library at West 42nd Street, the Empire State Building used to reign supreme, clearly visible in all its glory. Now, new structures rise to challenge its dominance, overshadowing the view from the Library steps. What was once an unobstructed vista now offers only a glimpse of its spire. Nostalgia, like the city itself, finds a way to evolve. Spring teases the air, though its full embrace is still absent. The wind carries a sharp chill, rattling empty tree branches and reminding us that winter’s coat has not yet been shed. Nights in New York remain a test of resilience as the cold lingers, and layers of warmth are still needed against the biting gusts. For my soul, there is only New York City. Everywhere else feels like Cleveland or Baltimore—a pale shadow of the brilliance that defines this place. New York is, and always will be, my eternal muse.  There is a glimpse of the Empire State Building, illuminated red, across the street from the former Lord & Taylor Building on 5th Avenue.
  Certain people, regardless of gender, have a way of commanding your attention, stealing your breath with their presence. You're lost in a book, savoring the perfect sip of coffee at a cozy spot like Peekskill Coffee, when you glance up—and there they are. An unconscious sigh escapes your lips: "Ahhh, so nice." Your heart skips a beat as your eyes meet, not once, not twice, but again, as though they can hear the quiet musings of your soul.
  My junior year of High School was exceptional! During that time, these were our cheerleaders. Balancing Relationships and Writing: Can It Work? Sometimes, it feels impossible to find the time to write and maintain a relationship without driving both people to insanity. When I dive into my writing zone, distractions can be frustrating, and I'm not always sure if I want someone around all the time. However, when it works, it feels magical—especially if you find the right person who can practically live in your back pocket. That special someone who knows you as well as you know yourself, understanding what works and what doesn't. The Uplift of a Good Friend Catching up with a good friend the other day was such a boost to my spirits. He's always there to listen to everything I say, even my troubles, and often takes it upon himself to find solutions. This time, though, there's a matter I don't want him involved in, even though he's already shared his plan. The thing is...I'm not sure if I really want it. Culinary skills Down the Drain and No Eggs Recently, my culinary skills have significantly declined. In fact, a dish I prepared recently was so dreadful that it caused both of us to vomit. My distraction has likely contributed to my inability to focus on cooking, even something as simple as an egg. Additionally, Peekskill pantries are currently facing a shortage of eggs, unable to meet the demand from the increasing number of visitors. And I refuse to pay $16 for eggs at C-Town or anywhere else for that matter. Johnsonville High School As the tail end of the baby boomers begins to retire, it seems that chaos has permeated our times, reminiscent of the incident during our junior-senior prom. As juniors, many of us got drunk and attempted to burn down the gymnasium, resulting in numerous arrests. As punishment, the principal brought the issue to the school board, leading to the cancellation of the senior prom for our class the following year. It's Over by Boz Scaggs, Our class song, featuring Staci Crocker, head cheerleader, playing the piano with great enthusiasm! I was happy to be leaving Johnsonville forever.
 The sterile smell of disinfectant lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of fresh linens in Abel’s room at Davises Medical Center. The rhythmic beeping of medical equipment provided a constant background hum, occasionally interrupted by the distant murmur of voices and the soft shuffle of footsteps in the hallway. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting stripes of light and shadow across the room, giving it an oddly serene yet clinical atmosphere. Abel struggled to piece together the events that had unfolded, trying to differentiate between reality and the foggy remnants of his memory that landed him here. Each attempt to recall the details felt like grasping at smoke, leaving him frustrated and disoriented. He couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that something crucial had slipped through the cracks of his consciousness, leaving him with more questions than answers. Dr. Harry Price walked into the room with a clipboard in hand. He was of a man of medium height, with dark hair and a mustache, though he was balding slightly. Despite this, he was undeniably handsome, with an olive complexion that gave him a healthy glow. Known to be a twin, Dr. Price had a reputation for his calm demeanor and sharp medical acumen. He gave Abel a reassuring smile before speaking. "Good afternoon, Abel. How are you feeling today?" Abel shifted slightly in the bed, wincing at the dull ache in his head. "Better, I guess. Just a bit disoriented and anxious to get out of here." Dr. Price nodded, taking a seat next to Abel's bed. "That's to be expected after a concussion. It's important to take it easy and let your body recover fully. I've reviewed your latest test results, and everything looks good. I'm confident you'll make a full recovery." "That's a relief," Abel said, though his voice was tinged with unease. "What about the pain in my head?" "I'll prescribe some painkillers for that," Dr. Price replied, jotting down a note on his clipboard. "They should help manage the discomfort. Remember to follow the dosage instructions carefully." "Thank you," Abel said, then hesitated. "There's something else that's been bothering me. I haven’t heard from Zeno or Maynard, and Zaide told me that Ahab... Ahab is dead. He was shot in the house. I remember some of it, but it’s all so hazy." Dr. Price's expression turned serious. "I'm aware of the situation. It's understandable that you're feeling disoriented given the trauma you've experienced. Your memory may take some time to fully return, but try not to stress about it too much. Focus on your recovery for now." Abel nodded, though the uncertainty still gnawed at him. "What about Zelta? She hasn't woken up yet. Is she going to be alright?" Dr. Price offered a comforting smile. "Zelta is in good hands. The medical team is doing everything they can to ensure her recovery. I'll keep you updated on her condition." "I appreciate that, Harry," Abel said softly. "I just want to get home and figure this whole thing out." "In due time," Dr. Price assured him, looking at his notes. "For now, rest and heal. We'll take it step by step." He met Abel’s eyes, "By the way, Inspector Kruse and Detective Crockett from the San Francisco Police are outside with questions about last night." “What do they want?” Abel asked, a note of apprehension. “Is Zeno in trouble? Why hasn’t he been here yet?” Dr. Price’s expression was calm, yet serious. “I’m not sure of the details, but it’s best to hear them out. They might have some answers for you too.” Abel took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Alright, let them in. I need to know what’s going on.” With a final nod, Dr. Price made his way to the door, leaving Abel to brace himself for the conversation ahead, his mind a whirl of uncertainty and resolve.  SFPD Inspector Samuel Kruse leads the investigation into the murder of Abel Erikson, with Zeno Eliot an artist and painter who was in a relationship with Abel Erikson, Ahab's brother, as a person of interest the case. Zeno is also dating and in love Travis Weatherford. In the same austere interrogation room at the Hall of Justice where Travis had recently faced questioning, Zeno now sat with a cup of coffee brought by Inspector Kruse. "Thank you, Inspector," he said, taking a sip. Inspector Kruse nodded and sat down. "I've been a police inspector for nearly twenty years. I've seen a lot, but this case with so many red herrings baffle me. Let's get to the point. Why was Ahab Erikson there? My findings show he had a Trespass Warrant and wasn’t allowed on that property." Zeno hesitated before speaking. "I know." "You also know you have the right to remain silent, and that anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law." "Am I under arrest?" "No, you are not under arrest. However, you are a person of interest in the investigation of the shooting of Ahab Erikson. If you would like, we can proceed with your lawyer present. It is your right." The inspector's calm, authoritative presence put Zeno at ease, despite the gravity of the situation. "I have nothing to hide," he said, his voice steady. "I trust you, Inspector Kruse.” The words came easily, but they carried a deeper weight than mere honesty. He admired Kruse's dedication and integrity, qualities that set him apart from other men he had known. There was a subtle magnetism about the inspector—his confidence, his penetrating gaze, and the way he commanded respect. Kruse's African American heritage, combined with his professionalism, made him even more compelling in Zeno's eyes as he struggled to mask the feelings that simmered beneath the surface. His attraction to Kruse was undeniable, yet he knew that now was not the time to indulge in such thoughts. He forced himself to maintain a composed exterior, aware that any hint of his true emotions could complicate the investigation. Yet, try as he might, his eyes betrayed him. They lingered for a moment too long on Inspector Kruse's face, taking in the strong jawline, the focused expression, the subtle hints of warmth behind the stern facade. His heart raced, and he perspired, hoping Kruse wouldn't detect his attraction, though he was undeniably smitten. Inspector Kruse leaned back in his chair, studying Zeno's expression. "Trust is a fragile thing,” he said, aiming to maintain Zeno’s trust, “especially when you're staring down the barrel of your own secrets.” There was a silent recognition in Kruse's eyes, acknowledging their unspoken connection beyond Zeno’s self-portrait well-hung in Kruse’s bedroom. Zeno felt the pressure of uncertainty. He considered contacting Zaide, Abel’s attorney. Kruse, whom he mentally referred to as Sammie due to his pleasant demeanor, had assured him that he was only a person of interest. Being labeled a 'suspect' meant intense scrutiny and close monitoring of his actions and communications. He realized he must be cautious, as anything could be used against him. The possibility of a legal battle and the need for a criminal attorney defense weighed on his mind. "Thank you, Inspector," Zeno said sincerely. "I want to cooperate fully, but this situation is stressful." “I appreciate your honesty,” Kruse said, ever observant of Zeno’s fleeting glances, “but I need to make sure we're clear on everything. This is a serious matter, and I want to ensure we have all the facts straight." He paused, taking a sip of his own coffee before adding, "Now, let's go over what happened on Christmas Eve, step by step." The room was cold, the hum of the fluorescent lights echoing in the silence when Zeno began his half-truths, his voice barely above a whisper as the memory of Ahab's threats replayed in his mind. The door creaked open, and Detective Lorna Crockett stepped in, her sharp eyes scanning the room. She was known for her no-nonsense attitude and keen intuition and today was no different. |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON
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