Trulie Scrumptious

Subspace: Day 1

The brandy-wine brown Tesla sedan was partly hidden behind its driver. With my left I handed my keys to Bart who was presently dancing around me trying to get a clear view of the strawberry blond Amazon in the hunter green Victorian coachman’s uniform. I hand her the invitation card, it came with the plain white box in my right hand, elaborately bound with silk cord. I excused myself past my driver to my ride waiting at the curb and let them greet. Beneath her heavy brocade coat she wore a brown leather Edwardian training corset, under her left arm she carried a matching riding crop. “Bartholomew Greenjeans, my driver for the evening, Miss Dehr White. Bart, you might consider inviting Dehr back for drinks and small talk after she’s dropped me off. Captian Dehr White, this is my gardener Bart, he’ll be watching the house while I’m out. Please no blood on the walls or carpets. Night Bart. And none of those wild ass parties in the back yard”. He stood in awe as the woman, who is nearly a full head taller walked to the car, bent to close my door and drive me away. 

Tonight I’m going to meet, for the first time, my client of nearly a year. I’ve just finished helping to rehabilitate and turn into a finishing school for young women, a beautiful Prairie style mansion near the city epicenter. I supervised the expansion and detailing of the carriage house to accommodate its new dance studio and hospitality suite. Most of the time it’s a half hour walk from my little bungalow in Porte Rouge. Navigating through the brightly lit night streets with crowds of young people walking from shop to cafes and bars, past street cars and light traffic, I shouldn’t have too much time to get anxious. We quickly move onto a quiet side street, I gaze past the glass ceiling through long rows of trees, leaves of deep fuchsia illuminated by glowing balls that hang in their branches and onto the sidewalks. We stop and Miss Dehr White opens the door. I sit thoroughly impressed with the results. Chelsey, the young woman I’d been working with throughout the project was standing at the front door. She was exceptionally handsome in navy calf length skirt, with empire waist and white on white high collar blouse. 

-”Good evening Mister Bubbles” – I bowed my head slightly, “tonight you’ll be given a short tour of the academy grounds. We think you’ll like what we’ve done. We’re very grateful”.  The house was an excellent blend of Mid Century Modern and new works by local crafts people. It was a really nice tour, never more than a few people in any room. Then I was guided into the garden, where large groups of people were breaking into smaller groups. A troop of young ladies filed quickly past. I fought not to smell the soft perfume and light funk of excitement that nearly masked the scent of flowers blooming around us. Chelsey was never out of my line of site and never closer than arm length as I was greeted by many familiar faces, most of whom I can’t remember their names, I’m just bad with that sort of thing, and introduced some of the key people on this project that I didn’t know. They meandered and mingled about the back yards a while drinking and talking, then slowly, but almost as if on cue started disappearing, some to waiting sedans in the drive, a few into the house. The last few people left the carriage house which was my destination. I spent the better part of the year working to make the addition that accommodates the new dance studio and guest suite functional and seamless with the original exterior design. I was told the first studio was little more than a gutted store room in a warehouse. I’d spent many nights cleaning and sorting, replacing and adding the white washed field stone walls, sanding and rubbing the bamboo floors and ceiling planks, leveling the heavy ceiling beams and tall narrow windows that framed their own postcard gardens and took my spirit out of the busy city, just a couple of blocks away. Chelsey ushered in to the studio and left alone in the almost empty room. The caterers were cleaning and that made me feel a little better, albeit, kind of like dawning an apron, picking up a tray or box and walking out. But I nervously meandered around, until I found myself facing a wall of mirrors and dance barre. I turned away from the mirror and around to face massive silver print photographs of young dancers, suspended from eye bolts on the frames and ceiling beams, secured with beautifully knotted red cords. There had been dancing here tonight, the air held a faint hint of sweat mixed in with the flowers sitting in glass bowls with floating candles, atop the benches that lined two walls. It was becoming a bit much for me. The last of the caterers, two old women, with Caribbean Spanish accents, climbed down the stairs, with their burdens and whispered chatter. Wished me a good night. I think what they said was something to the effect of “Good Luck”. Alone for the first time in hours, I was beginning to relax, I sipped my scotch and breathed a little deeper. Just as I was starting to enjoy my time alone with this space, where I had invested another piece of my spirit, a lot of sweat and a few drops of blood, standing in the door, a woman, with eyes said that she was in her late sixties, but her gate, beautiful statuesque posture and regal facade demanded that she could be just thirty or a ten thousand year old sylph released to enjoy the sensations of flesh for the first time in a hundred years, silent until I acknowledged her undeniable presence, with a nod.

  -”This way Please Sir. Our Head Mistress is waiting in the parlor”.  Scotch in one hand, the white box in the right. I stood amazed, she inspired respect. She was the first woman I’d made eye contact with all night. 

The path through the garden and through the house was comfortably illuminated, but everything else was dimly lit, but not dark. In the shadows I could hear laughing, talk and occasional pleased wordless expressions.  From the double doors to the room nearest the front foyer, I hear the soft thump and muted melody of very familiar Neo Romantic Dance music. My guide stopped in front of it. Raised up en pointe, pivoted, extended her hand and said softly, 

“This Sir is the key to the box inside the box. Prepare to be surprised, perhaps overwhelmed. Our Head Mistress.” My eyes were locked on her feet. I was completely undone. 

She reached back to turn the door knobs, still en pointe, she backed through the doors, leading me in, bowed deeply…

…There stood Trulie. As I stared into her face, her regal stance melted into an almost innocent blush and her lips twisted into a sweet soft smile. My best friend, the klutzy, effervescent, girl next door, my neighbor and passionate muse had fledged into the woman I dreamed, fantasized and knew is real. No meandering swan, frail crane or egret, this woman is a raptor, her stillness is a warning. Slowly, Trulie placed her left foot forward and bowed deeply. Tears welled up in my eyes. I was standing before the goddess of my imagined nation, lost and weak in my awe. Still, I knew my purpose, so I took a deep swallow of scotch. The burn brought me back to myself. 

I have watched this woman’s silhouette, dancing her out of drunken tears and knew I’d never truly get past a hug. Tonight I am to accept her full expression of love for a man, the most fucked man I know, who just happens to her biggest fan and I hope a dear and beloved friend. 

Adjust! Cancel your inner bitch… Ready posture…Clear your throat man, speak clear and strong. The doors closed with a solid thunk. Go! “Good evening Miss Scrumptious. Back straight, eyes forward, head high! Good! Nothing less will ever do.” As she stood, I examined my Trulie with a cool, critical eye, each detail, the sash of her soft green sweater tied on her left, into an eight petal rose laying lightly at the point where her waist begins to bloom into the womanly hips that at once stopped a pretty little black girl from dancing like a love starved nymph, yet marked this as woman of grace and magnitude. I stepped around to her flank, held my drink, the box and key in my left hand. When Trulie was completely at attention, tips of her fingers lightly gracing the air near, but not touching the long eggshell white pleated skirt, arms bowing out slightly, still trying to let her glance fall to her feet.  I whacked her hard on the ass and let my hand rest there until it stopped stinging. I listened for her wince, she shuddered and allowed tears to flow down her naked face, but remained perfectly silent. Ain’t this some shit! Tomorrow, I am going to hurt, but so will you, you plotting, scheming, and manipulative, beautiful, precious bitch, so will you. I promise.