Christina and Douglas

NOTE: The RD intranet police have now added a 150 character limit to the caption posts. That's characters, not words. This has pretty much killed the story postings on the intranet. I'll try to continue it here. And don't forget the book is coming out soon, which includes the controversial new story "The Butler." If they wanted to cut me off before, wait till they read this one. Why would they cut off As the Pegasus Flies from the intranet? Probably because it's better than anything RD actually publishes. Stay tuned.

UPDATE 12:09: OK, I followed their rules and broke Part 4 down into 150 character chunks. I began to post as 4a, 4b, etc. I got up to part H, and they began to delete these sections almost as fast as I could post them. I followed THEIR rules, and they still censored me. Stay tuned.

UPDATE 2:10: They've deleted Parts 1-3 now. Stay tuned.

(Part 1) [This week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] "There you are," said Christina. They were on deadline and Douglas was shirking his responsibilities and running off to the company library to waste time. Again. Shirk. Shirk shirk shirk. She'd used it so often when thinking of Douglas, it didn't even sound like a real word anymore. It was nearly the Christmas week break, and they needed to get their project out before then. She had plans, gifts to buy, family waiting, cooking to help out with. Working with Douglas was so frustrating. It was a love/hate thing for her. He was a talented little bastard--and he knew it--but he was living in his own world, on his own schedule. He was a dreamer. Which was all well and good, but not when it infringed on Christina's personal life. She had to drive back home to Connecticut with a clear mind so she could enjoy the holidays without thinking about work for nine days. Or Douglas for nine days. She wasn't a babysitter. Christina tapped a fingernail on the face of her watch. "Time's a wasting," she said. He looked up and around, as if surprised to find where he was sitting. "Sorry," he said, "deep in thought writing." "That's nice, Doug, but you should be EDITING, not writing. Those books aren't going to condense themselves." "I'm tired of doing that," he said. "I want to write my own novels, not chop up the work of others. I'm an artist!" Christina grabbed him by the hand and pulled him up. "Condensing novels IS an art," she said, "And no one does it as well as you." She turned and walked back toward her office; he reluctantly followed. "And what about you?" he asked. "Surely you must have dreams bigger than this. I know you do. Didn't you want to be a —?" "Douglas..." She stopped and turned back toward him. "My dream is to finish this volume and get to my family house for Christmas." He nodded his head, said, "Okay. And while we're on the subject, can I hitch a ride to Connecticut with you? My clutch went, and they can't get the part until after the holidays." Christina sighed and shook her head. Douglas pushed the glasses up on his nose and gave her his puppy dog look. "Saturday morning, 9 a.m. Don't forget, and don't be late," she said.

(Part 2) Douglas took the train home after work, walked the five blocks to his apartment, and gave his broken down Woodie a dirty look before going inside. He was anxious. Christina was SO frustrating! Couldn't she see that he was in love with her? Or, more importantly, that SHE was in love with him? Women! She was always so serious, all business, breezy in the way she moved about the office so efficiently. Not a minute wasted. Always multi-tasking. She was hard to keep up with! Well, one day she would see the obvious. He knew he was a bumbling fool in front of her, though. Self-conscious and nervous, always saying the wrong thing, not coming off confident enough. He knew he should get pointers from Lorenzo--like Hank did--but frankly, Lorenzo made him a little nervous. With his open shirt and no tie, his money-scented cologne, his prowess with women. That was NOT what Douglas was striving for. Not the image he wanted to portray. He had to go with HIS strengths, not Lorenzo's. He could write, could impress her with words the way other men would impress her with their handyman skills, or their way around an engine. Or, as in the case of Lorenzo, his way around the kitchen--not to mention the bedroom. No, Douglas would write her a letter, or a poem, or a story, or a novel. Something. Anything. Words were his strength. And he would not condense his work. He wanted Christina to see him whole, not abridged and shortened. He had three days before they left for Connecticut, time enough to write her something good. He sat down at his typewriter, cracked his knuckles, and began to pound away at the keys, the words coming into his head faster they he could type them. Wow! This was good, he was getting it all down. And without any typos! This was a hot streak for the ages. What's the opposite of writer's block? This was it! Everything he had ever felt about Christina, had ever wanted to tell her, was just flowing out. He loved it! This was a masterpiece. He worked till midnight, completely forgetting to eat. He awoke at 6:30 in the morning, arms thrown over the typewriter. He felt rumpled (because he was), and his mouth was dry. Dehydrated. He saw the huge stack of paper next to him and got excited when he remembered his hot streak. He picked up the first page and began to read. Oh, no! It was horrible! How could he have thought this was any good? He began to doubt himself. Maybe condensing WAS easier. Doug sighed. He needed coffee. He needed to work on this more. Only two days left.

(Part 3) Christina parked in front of Douglas's apartment on Saturday morning at 9:00 precisely. Doug always had a way of saying the wrong thing. Or maybe it was the right thing, and that's what made it so irritating. Plus it was always done so innocently. Dreams. What did he know about her dreams? Yes, she had always wanted to be a——. But how did he know that? Christina shook her head and beeped the horn. Of course he was late. And it was starting to snow. She turned the wipers on and tapped the horn again. They needed to get on the road as soon as possible before the snow became a problem. She worried about her tires, how she hadn't yet put the snow tires on the rear wheels. She sighed. Was she going to have to get out of the car and drag him out of the house? Probably inside shirking off again. Just as she was about to beep once more, he emerged holding a small suitcase. She didn't even know where he was going. To visit relatives? He never spoke of them. He got in the car, nodded toward his own broken down automobile. "My old '46 Mercury Woodie," he said, as if that explained everything. Christina shook her head. "Cars should not be partially made out of wood. It's like driving a tree." Doug leaned into the back and carefully placed his suitcase on the seat. The suitcase contained the full "manuscript of love," as he thought of it. The only copy. His ode to Christina. This time he had gotten every word right. He'd give it to her when she dropped him off at his aunt's house, and she'd have plenty of time to read it over the holiday, plenty of time to realize her love for him. She'd pick him up the following Sunday, and they would return to New York as lovers (or, maybe not lovers yet, because, you know, nothing would have been consummated). Christina was talking, and it snapped him back from his thoughts. "Doug? So where am I taking you?" "Oh, right. My Aunt Lucy in Bethel. I'll tell you how to go once we get close," he said. Christina headed for Route 22, with plans to take that up to Route 6. But the roads got bad quick; they were driving into the snowstorm. They lowered the windows to keep the windshield from fogging up. Route 22 was rough going. Only two thin tire lines on each side where cars where clearing a path for others behind them. No plows were out yet. The wind was blowing strong, the snow dancing and swirling in front of Christina's headlights. Occasionally she would hit a pothole hidden by the snow, rattling the car and jarring her and Douglas. On one of these occasions the suitcase--which hadn't been latched properly in Doug's haste--popped open. A moment later, the sheets of paper found their escape through the open windows. "Stop the car!" Doug yelled, his arms flying in circles in a desperate, useless attempt to catch the paper. He was frantic. "No! My words! Stop the car!" Christina--frightened, as well as blinded by the sheets of paper, not to mention the near white-out conditions outside--jammed on the brakes, sending the car into a slow-motion slide toward the shoulder...

(Part 4) Christina held onto the steering wheel, not knowing whether to steer into the slide or away from the slide. Not that it mattered anyway; it was like driving on a skating rink. Time seemed to slow down. There was nothing to do but wait and see. Strangely, she remembered ice skating as a little girl on a frozen pond with her father and sister. Paper was flying around the inside of the car while Douglas tried to snatch the sheets out of the air. What the hell was all that paper doing in a suitcase? She could see the path they were headed, could see the bank of snow leftover from the last storm on the shoulder getting closer and closer as the car accelerated on the slick road. She knew they were going to crash, it was just a matter of what side of the car would get damaged. She felt sad for her car, in these precious last moments before it was wrecked. She braced herself. She caught Douglas's eye then, and he looked so frightened, so vulnerable, so...guilty. But this wasn't his fault. Then everything sped up and they slammed into the hard, frozen snowbank. She felt her head bang off of something--the steering wheel? the dashboard?--biting her tongue in the process, filling her mouth with the iron taste of blood. She wasn't sure of the passage of time, or if she had been knocked out, but when she opened her eyes, the car was still rocking and settling into position. Steam rose from under the hood. Besides the hissing sound of the radiator, it was eerily quiet. She looked at Douglas. His eyes were closed and blood streamed from his mouth. A deep gash was above his right eyebrow. He had a scrap of paper clutched in his hand. She could see some of the words "...and it was apparent from the start, we were meant..." "Douglas!" she cried. "DOUGLAS! NOOOO!"

(Part 5) [The conclusion to this week's "As the Pegasus Flies"] In the ambulance, Douglas mumbled, "Manuscript of Love..." "He's awake," a paramedic said. "What did he say?" asked Greg, a second paramedic. "I think he said 'Marmalade'," said John, the first paramedic. "Marmalade? What does that mean?" The roads were still bad, and the ambulance was going slow. Christina stood up and leaned over Doug's stretcher. "Miss, please, you should be sitting down," said Greg. "Doug," she said, ignoring Greg. "Doug! Please be okay!" She had retrieved a few pages of the manuscript, including the title page, which she clutched in her hand now. She knew he hadn't mumbled the word marmalade. She hadn't read much, but had gotten the gist of the text. He looked so different without his glasses, which had been broken in the crash. His eyelids fluttered open briefly, and it struck her how she had never really noticed before how green his eyes were. John leaned over the other side of Doug and asked him simple questions. His name, the year, the president. Doug answered these successfully, satisfying John's concerns. Doug said, "Christina..." "Doug, I'm here!" He continued, "My manuscript..." "I saw it. Well, some of it," she said, nodding. "Where is it?" he asked. "It's gone, Doug." "No!...Only copy. We must go back for it." Christina said, "Doug, forget words on paper. Tell me now how you feel, now, in person, from the heart." She put a hand on his face, pushed his hair back, then tenderly kissed his forehead. Her hopes, her dreams, her fears, all were rolled into one confusing ball of emotions. She could have found her love, and then lost him all in the same day. He pulled her close so he could whisper in her ear. She felt her heart begin to beat faster. Then he began to talk, the words coming slowly, but assuredly, telling her how he really felt, saying it better than he ever could on paper...